conclusion of her career was, outside of the fact that the matter was
reported to the Gerry Society, I never learned. But the reasons for
her predicament struck me as obvious. Here was too much toil, too much
gloom, too much solemnity for her, the non-appreciation which the
youthful heart so much abhors. Elsewhere, perhaps, was light, warmth,
merriment, beauty--or so she thought.
She went, she and so many others, fluttering eastward like a moth, into
the heart of the great city which lay mostly to the east. When she
returned, and with singed wings, she was no longer welcome.
* * * * *
But why they saw fit to dub it Hell’s Kitchen, however, I could never
discover. It seemed to me a very ordinary slum neighborhood, poor and
commonplace, and sharply edged by poverty, but just life and very, very
human life at that.
A CERTAIN OIL REFINERY
There is a section of land very near New York, lying at the extreme
southern point of the peninsula known as Bayonne, which is given up to
a peculiar business. The peninsula is a long neck of land lying between
those two large bays which extend a goodly distance on either hand, one
toward the city of Newark, the other toward the vast and restless ocean
beyond Brooklyn. Stormy winds sweep over it at many periods of the
year. The seagull and the tern fly high over its darksome roof-tops.
Tall stacks and bare, red buildings and scores of rounded tanks spread
helter-skelter over its surface, give it a dreary, unkempt and yet
not wholly inartistic appearance which appeals, much as a grotesque
deformity appeals or a masque intended to represent pain.
This section is the seat of a most prosperous manufacturing
establishment, a single limb of a many-branched tree, and its business
is the manufacturing, or rather refining, of oil. Of an ordinary
business day you would not want a more inspiring picture of that which
is known as manufacture. Great ships, inbound and outbound, from all
ports of the world, lie anchored at its docks. Long trains of oil cars
are backed in on many spurs of tracks, which branch from main-line
arteries and stand like caravans of steel, waiting to carry new burdens
of oil to the uttermost parts of the land. There are many buildings and
outhouses of all shapes and dimensions which are continually belching
forth smoke in a solid mass, and if you stand and look in any direction
on a gloomy day you may see red fires which burn and gleam in a steady
way, giving a touch of somber richness to a scene which is otherwise
only a mass of black and gray.
This region is remarkable for the art, as for the toil of it, if
nothing more. A painter could here find a thousand contrasts in black
and gray and red and blue, which would give him ample labor for his pen
or brush. These stacks are so tall, the building from which they spring
so low. Spread out over a marshy ground which was once all seaweed and
which now shows patches of water stained with iridescent oil, broken
here and there with other patches of black earth to match the blacker
buildings which abound upon it, you have a combination in shades and
tones of one color which no artist could resist. A Whistler could make
wonderful blacks and whites of this. A Vierge or a Shinn could show
us what it means to catch the exact image of darkness at its best. A
casual visitor, if he is of a sensitive turn, shudders or turns away
with a sense of depression haunting him. It is a great world of gloom,
done in lines of splendid activity, but full of the pathos of faint
contrasts in gray and black.
At that, it is not so much the art of it that is impressive as the
solemn life situation which it represents. These people who work in
it--and there are thousands of them--are of an order which you would
call commonplace. They are not very bright intellectually, of course,
or they would not work here. They are not very attractive physically,
for nature suits body to mind in most instances, and these bodies as
a rule reflect the heaviness of the intelligence which guides them.
They are poor Swedes and Poles, Hungarians and Lithuanians, people who
in many instances do not speak our tongue as yet, and who are used to
conditions so rough and bare that those who are used to conditions of
even moderate comfort shudder at the thought of them. They live in
tumbledown shacks next to “the works” and they arrange their domestic
economies heaven only knows how. Wages are not high (a dollar or a
dollar and a half a day is good pay in most instances), and many of
them have families to support, large families, for children in all the
poorer sections are always numerous. There are dark, minute stores,
and as dark and meaner saloons, where many of them (the men) drink.
Looking at the homes and the saloons hereabout, it would seem to you
as though any grade of intelligence ought to do better than this, as
if an all-wise, directing intelligence, which we once assumed nature
to possess, could not allow such homely, claptrap things to come into
being. And yet here they are.
Taken as a mass, however, and in extreme heat or cold, under rain
or snow, when the elements are beating about them, they achieve a
swart solemnity, rise or fall to a somber dignity or misery for which
nature might well be praised. They look so grim, so bare, so hopeless.
Artists ought to make pictures of them. Writers ought to write of
them. Musicians should get their inspiration for what is antiphonal
and contra-puntal from such things. They are of the darker moods of
nature, its meanest inspiration.
However, it is not of these houses alone that this picture is to be
made, but of the work within the plant, its nature, its grayness,
its intricacy, its rancidity, its commonplaceness, its mental
insufficiency; for it is a routine, a process, lacking from one year’s
end to another any trace of anything creative--the filling of one vat
and another, for instance, and letting the same settle; introducing
into one vat and another a given measure of chemicals which are known
to bring about separation and purifications or, in other words, the
process called refining; opening gates in tubes and funnels which drain
the partially refined oils into other vats and finally into barrels and
tanks, which are placed on cars or ships. You may find the how of it in
any encyclopedia. But the interesting thing to me is that men work and
toil here in a sickening atmosphere of blackness and shadow, of vile
odors, of vile substances, of vile surroundings. You could not enter
this yard, nor glance into one of these buildings, nor look at these
men tramping by, without feeling that they were working in shadow and
amid foul odors and gases, which decidedly are not conducive to either
health or the highest order of intelligence.
Refuse tar, oil and acids greet the nostrils and sight everywhere. The
great chimneys on either hand are either belching huge columns of black
or blue smoke, or vapory blue gases, which come in at the windows. The
ground under your feet is discolored by oil, and all the wagons, cars,
implements, machinery, buildings, and the men, of course, are splotched
and spotted with it. There seems to be no escape. The very air is full
of smoke and oil.
It is in this atmosphere that thousands of men are working. You may see
them trudging in in the morning, their buckets or baskets over their
arms, a consistent pallor overspreading their faces, an irritating
cough in some instances indicating their contact with the smoke and
fumes; and you may see them trudging out again at night, marked with
the same pallor, coughing with the same cough; a day of peculiar duties
followed by a night in the somber, gray places which they call home.
Another line of men is always coming in as they go out. It is a line of
men which straggles over all of two miles and is coming or going during
an hour, either of the morning or the night. There is no gayety in it,
no enthusiasm. You may see depicted on these faces only the mental
attitude which ensues where one is compelled to work at some thing in
which there is nothing creative. It is really, when all is said and
done, not a pleasant picture.
I will not say, however, that it is an unrelieved hardship for men
to work so. “The Lord tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb” is an
old proverb and unquestionably a true one. Indubitably these men do
not feel as keenly about these things as some of the more exalted
intellectual types in life, and it is entirely possible that a
conception of what we know as “atmosphere” may never have found
lodgment in their brains. Nevertheless, it is true that their physical
health is affected to a certain extent, and it is also true that the
home life to which they return is what it is, whether this be due to
low intelligence or low wages, or both. The one complements the
other, of course. If any attempt were made to better their condition
physically or mentally, it might well be looked upon by them as
meddling. At the same time it is true that up to this time nothing has
been done to improve their condition. Doing anything more for them than
paying them wages is not thought of.
[Illustration: An Oil Refinery]
A long trough, for instance, a single low wooden tub, in a small
boarded-off space, in the boss teamsters’ shanty, with neither soap
nor towels and only the light that comes from a low door, is all
the provision made for the host of “still-cleaners,” the men who
are engaged in the removal of the filthy refuse--tar, acids, and
vile residuums from the stills and agitators. In connection with the
boiler-room, where over three hundred men congregate at noontime and
at night, there is to be found nothing better. You may see rows of
grimy men congregate at noontime and at night, to eat their lunch or
dinner, there is to be found nothing better. You may see rows of grimy
men in various departments attempting to clean themselves under such
circumstances, and still others walking away without any attempt at
cleaning themselves before leaving. It takes too long. The idea of
furnishing a clean dining-room in which to eat or a place to hang coats
has never occurred to any one. They bring their food in buckets.
However, that vast problem, the ethics of employment, is not up for
discussion in this instance: only the picture which this industry
presents. On a gray day or a stormy one, if you have a taste for the
somber, you have here all the elements of a gloomy labor picture which
may not long endure, so steadily is the world changing. On the one
hand, masters of great force and wealth, penurious to a degree, on the
other the victims of this same penuriousness and indifference, dumbly
accepting it, and over all this smoke and gas and these foul odors
about all these miserable chambers. Truly, I doubt if one could wish a
better hell for one’s enemies than some of the wretched chambers here,
where men rove about like troubled spirits in a purgatory of man’s
devising; nor any mental state worse than that in which most of these
victims of Mother Nature find themselves. At the bottom nothing but
darkness and thickness of wit, and dullness of feeling, let us say, and
at the top the great brilliant blooms known to the world as the palaces
and the office buildings and the private cars and the art collections
of the principal owners of the stock of this concern. For those at the
top, the brilliancy of the mansions of Fifth Avenue, the gorgeousness
of the resorts of Newport and Palm Beach, the delights of intelligence
and freedom; for those beneath, the dark chamber, the hanging smoke,
pallor, foul odors, wretched homes. Yet who shall say that this is not
the foreordained order of life? Can it be changed? Will it ever be,
permanently? Who is to say?
THE BOWERY MISSION
In the lower stretches of the Bowery, in New York, that street
once famous for a tawdry sprightliness but now run to humdrum and
commonplace, stands the Bowery Mission. It is really a pretentious
affair of its kind, the most showy and successful of any religious
effort directed toward reclaiming the bum, the sot, the crook and the
failure. As a matter of fact, the three former, and not always the
latter, are not easily reclaimed by religion or anything else. It is
only when the three former degenerate into the latter that the thought
of religion seems at all enticing, and then only on the side that
leans toward help for themselves. The Bowery Mission as an institution
gathers its full quota of these failures, and its double row of stately
old English benches, paid for by earnest Christians who have heard of
it through much newspaper heralding of its services, are nightly filled
and overflowing.
The spirit of this organization is peculiar. It really does not ask
anything of its adherents or attendants, or whatever they might be
called, except that they come in. No dues are collected, no services
exacted. There is even a free lunchroom and an employment bureau run
in connection with it, where the hungry can get a cup of coffee and a
roll at midnight and the jobless can sometimes hear of something to
their advantage during the day. The whole spirit of the place is one of
helpfulness, though the task is of necessity dispiriting and in some
of its aspects gruesome.
For these individuals who frequent this place of worship are surely, of
all the flotsam of the city, the most helpless and woebegone. There is
something about the type of soul which turns to religion _in extremis_
which is not pleasing. It appears to turn to religion about as a
drowning man turns to a raft. There is the taint of personal advantage
about it and not a little of the cant and whine of one who would curry
favor with life or the Lord. Granting this, yet here they are, and here
they come, out of the Bowery and the side streets of the Bowery, that
wonderful ganglia of lodging houses; and in this place, and I presume
others of its stripe, listen to presumably inspiring sermons. In all
fairness, the speakers seem to realize that they have a difficult
task to perform in awakening these men to a consciousness of their
condition. They know that there is, if not cant, at least mental and
physical lethargy to overcome. These bodies are poisoned by their own
inactivity and sense of defeat. When one looks at them collectively the
idea instinctively forces itself forward: “What is there to save?”
And yet, shabby and depressing as are these facts, there is a
collective, coherent charm and color about the effort itself which to
one who views it entirely disinterestedly is not to be scoffed at.
The hall itself, a long deep store turned to a semblance of Gothic
beauty by a series of colored windows set in the store-front facing
the Bowery, and by a gallery of high-backed benches of Gothic design
at the back, and by mottoes and traceries in dark blue and gold which
harmonize fittingly with the walnut stain of the woodwork, is inviting.
Even the shabby greenish-brown and dusty gray coats of the audience
blend well with the woodwork, and even the pale colorless faces of gray
or ivory hue somehow add to what is unquestionably an artistic and
ornamental effect.
The gospel of God the All-Forgiving is the only doctrine here
thoroughly insisted upon. It is, in a way, a doctrine of inspiration.
That it is really never too late to change, to come back and begin all
over, is the basic idea. God, once appealed to, can do anything to
restore the contrite heart to power and efficiency. Believe in God,
believe that He really loves you, believe that He desires to make you
all you should be, and you will be. Your fortunes will change. You will
come into peace and decency and be respected once more. God will help
you.
It is interesting to watch the effect of this inspirational doctrine,
driven home as it is by imaginative address, oratorical fire, and
sometimes physical vehemence. The speakers, the ordinary religionists
of an inspirational and moral turn, not infrequently possess real
magnetism, the power to attract and sway their hearers. These dismal
wanderers, living largely in doubt and despair, can actually be seen
to take on a pseudo-courage as they listen. You can see them stir and
shift, the idea that possibly something can be done for them if only
they can get this belief into their minds, actually influencing their
bodies. And now and then some one who has got a soft job, a place,
through the ministrations of the mission workers, or who has been
pulled out of a state of absolute despair--or at least claims to have
been--will arise and testify that such has been the case. His long
wanderings in the dark will actually fascinate him by contrast and
he will expatiate with shabby eloquence upon his present decency and
comfort as contrasted with what he was. I remember one night hearing
an old man tell what a curse he had been to a kind-hearted sister,
and how he wanted but one thing, now that he was coming out of his
dream of evil, and that was to let her see some day that he had really
reformed. It was a pathetic wish, so little to hope for, but the wish
was seemingly sincere and the speaker fairly recovered.
And they claim to recover a percentage, small though it is, to actual
service and usefulness. The service may not be great, the usefulness
not very important, but such as it is, there it is. And if one could
but believe them, so dubious is all so-called reformation of this
sort, there is something pleasing in the thought that out of the muck
and waste of the slough of despond some of these might actually be
brought to health and decency, a worthwhile living, say. Yet are they?
Dirty, grimy, like flies immersed in glue, can they be--have they ever
been--dragged to safety and set on their feet again, clean, hopeful, or
even weakly so?
I remember listening one night to the story of the son of the man who
founded the mission. It appears that the father was rich and the boy
indulgently fostered, until at last he turned out to be a drunkard,
rake and what not--all the nouns usually applied to those who do evil.
His father had tried to retain a responsible position for him among
his affairs but was finally compelled to cut him off. He ordered him
out of his house, his business, had his will remade, cutting him off
without a dollar, and declared vehemently and determinedly that he
would never look upon him again.
[Illustration: The Bowery Mission]
The boy disappeared. Some five years later a thin, shabby, down-hearted
wastrel strolled into the mission and sat down, contenting himself with
occupying a far corner and listening wearily to what was being said.
After the services were over he came to the director in charge and
confessed that he was the son of the man who had founded the mission,
that he was actually at the end of his rope, hungry, and with no place
to sleep--your prodigal son. The director, of course, at once took him
in charge, gave him a meal and a bed, and set about considering whether
anything could be done for him.
It appears that the youth, like his prototype of the parable, had
actually had his fill of the husks, but in addition he was sick and
dispirited and willing to die. The director encouraged him to hope. He
was young yet. There was still a chance for him. He first gave him odd
jobs about the mission, then secured him a place as waiter in a small
restaurant, and finally, figuring out a notable idea, took him to the
foreman of the father’s own printing establishment and asked a place
for him as a printer’s devil. The character of the mission director was
sufficient guarantee and the place was given, though no one knew who
the rundown assistant really was. Finally, after over eleven months
of service, the director went to the owner of the business and said:
“Would you like to know where your boy is?”
“No,” the father replied sharply, “I would not.”
“If you knew he had reformed and had been working for at least a year
and a half steadily in one place--wouldn’t that make any difference?”
“Well,” he replied, looking at him quizzically, “it might. Where is he?”
“Right here in your own establishment.”
The old man got up. “What’s he doing? Let me look at him.”
The two traversed the halls of a great business establishment and
finally came to the department where the youth was working. The
father, eager but cautious, scanned the room and saw his son, himself
unnoticed. He was sticking type, a green shade over his eyes.
For a moment the parent hesitated, then went over.
“Harry,” he called.
The boy jumped.
“Father!” he cried.
It was described as a moment of intense emotion. The boy broke down and
wept and the father shed tears over him. Finally he sobered himself and
said: “Now you come with me. I guess you’re all right enough to be my
son again. You can set more type to-morrow.” And he led him away.
Truth? Or Romance? I do not know.
The final answer to this form of service, however, is in the mission
itself. Nightly you may see them rise and hear them testify. One night
the speaker, pouring forth a fiery description of God’s power, stopped
in the midst of his address and said: “Is that you, Tommy Wilson, up
there in the gallery?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tommy, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you get up and sing ‘My Lord and I’?
I know there isn’t any one here who wouldn’t rather hear you sing than
me preach any time. Will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Up in the gallery, three rows back, there arose a shabby little man,
his dusty suit showing the well-worn marks of age. He was clean and
docile, however, and seemed to be some one whom the mission had
reclaimed in times past. In fact, the speaker made it clear that Tommy
was a great card, for out of the gutter he had come to contribute a
beautiful voice to the mission, a voice that was now missing because he
had a job in a faraway part of the city.
Tommy sang. He put his hands in his coat pockets, stood perfectly
erect, and with his head thrown back gave vent to such a sweet, clear
melody that it moved every heart. It was not a strong voice, not showy,
but pure and lovely, like a limpid stream. The song he sang was this:
I have a Friend so precious,
So very dear to me;
He loves me with such tender love,
He loves me faithfully.
I could not live apart from Him,
I love to feel Him nigh;
And so we dwell together,
My Lord and I.
Sometimes I’m faint and weary,
He knows that I am weak,
And as He bids me lean on Him
His help I gladly seek;
He leads me in the paths of light,
Beneath a sunny sky;
And so we walk together,
My Lord and I.
I tell Him all my sorrows,
I tell Him all my joys,
I tell Him all that pleases me,
I tell Him what annoys;
He tells me what I ought to do,
He tells me how to try;
And so we walk together,
My Lord and I.
He knows how I’m longing
Some weary soul to win,
And so He bids me go and speak
The loving word for Him;
He bids me tell His wondrous love,
And why He came to die;
And so we work together
My Lord and I.
As he sang I could not help thinking of this imaginatively personified
Lord of the Universe in all His power and wisdom taking note of this
singing, shabby ant--of the faith that it required to believe that He
would. Then I thought of the vast forces that shift and turn in their
mighty inscrutability. I thought of suns and planets that die, not
knowing why they are born. Of the vast machinery, the vast chemistry,
of things dark, ruthless, brutal, and then of love, and mercy and
tenderness that is somehow present along with cruelty and savagery.
And then I thought of this little, shabby reclaimed water-rat, this
scraping of the mud crawled to the bank, who yet could stand there
in his shabby coat and sing! What if, after all, as the Christian
Scientists believe, the Lord was not distant from things but here, now,
everywhere, divine goodness speaking in and through matter and man.
What if evil and weakness and failure were dreams only, evil dreams,
from which we wake to something different, better--Omnipotence, to
essential unity with life and love? For a moment, so mysterious a thing
is emotion and romance, the thought carried me with the singer, and I
sang with him:
“And so we walk together,
My Lord and I.”
But outside in the cold, hard street, with its trucks and cars, I
knew the informing spirit is not quite like that, neither so kind nor
helpful--at least not to all.
THE WONDER OF THE WATER