many of the young men of the present day, to whom nothing is sacred,
to whom everything in life is levelled to the same plane of
indifference. Nothing is worth a struggle; nothing worth a sacrifice
to them. Evils, they say, must come; and, folding their hands idly,
they say--let them come. In _their_ moral garden, weeds have equal
chance with the flowers; and it is very easy to see which are in the
ascendant. To be in the blighting proximity of such a person is to
breathe the air of the bottomless pit. Every noble aspiration, every
humane and philanthropic feeling, shrivels in such an atmosphere. What
is it to them that the poor bondman points to his chains? What is it
to them that the world groans with wrong that they can and should at
least begin to redress. The mountain is steep, the top is hidden in
clouds, and they have no eye to discern that they are even now parting
that a glory may gild its summit. It is bad enough--humiliating
enough--to hear the aged express such chilling sentiments. One can
have a pitying patience with them; but when masculine youth and
vigor, born to the glorious inheritance of 1864, tricks itself out in
these old moth-eaten, time-worn garments, instead of buckling on sword
and helmet for God and the right, it is the saddest, most
disheartening sight that earth can show.
* * * * *
And speaking of young men, did you ever, when shopping in New York,
notice the different varieties of clerks one sees. There is your
zealous clerk, who thinks fuss is impressive. When you enter, he
places one hand on the counter and turns a somerset over to the other
side, with an astonishing agility equalled only at the circus; he
twitches down the desired piece of goods from the shelf and slaps it
down on the counter with a whirlwind velocity that would send your
bonnet through the door into the street were it not fastened firmly on
by the strings. You catch your breath and sneeze at the dust he has
raised, and trust that _this_ part of the performance is over. Not at
all; he repeats it with another elevation of the piece of goods in the
air, announcing the price per yard, just as its second flapping
descent makes said announcement inaudible. You sneeze again as the
dust fills your nostrils, and stoop to pick up your handkerchief which
he has sent flying to the floor. By this time, if you can recollect
what it is you came to buy, or how many yards of the same you desire,
you have more self-possession and patience than I.
Then there is your stupid clerk, who thinks you mean blue when you say
green; who thinks flannel and ribbon are one and the same article; who
gives you short measure and short change if you buy, and impresses you
with the idea that he "don't come home till morning." Then there is
your impertinent clerk, who puts his face unnecessarily close to your
bonnet; who assures you that every article he sells is "chaste," if
you know what that means in such a connexion; who inquires, before you
have even glanced at the fabric, "how many yards _you said_ you would
require?" who leans forward on both elbows and stares you in the face
as if his very soul were exhaling. _He's_ a study! Then there's your
inattentive clerk, who makes you wait for an answer while he finishes
some discussion with a brother clerk, or details to him some grievance
he has suffered with the principal of the establishment, or narrates
to him some personal affair, apart from business; meanwhile tossing
for your inspection, as one would throw a bone to a troublesome dog,
any piece of goods that comes handiest, to occupy your mind till he
gets ready to attend you. Then there's your surly clerk, who acts as
though he were afflicted with a perpetual cold in his head, that
incapacitates him from giving any information you require, save by
piecemeal, and at long intervals, but who has yet a marvellous quick
ear to catch any conversation that may be going on between you and
your companion; who, if the latter ventures to remark to you
confidentially that she has seen the article under consideration at
less cost, at such or such a place, volunteers the civil remark "that
it must have been a beauty!" Then, there's your clerk with a high and
mighty presence. What! ask _him_ the price of a ribbon, or a yard of
silk? Shade of Daniel Webster forbid! The idea is sacrilege. You pass
to another counter as fast as possible, in search of some more
ordinary mortal, capable of understanding petty human wants. Then,
there's your dandy clerk. Isn't that cherry-colored neck-tie killing?
And the sleeve-buttons on those wristbands? And the way that hair is
brushed? And the seal-ring on that little finger? And the cut of that
coat, particularly about the shoulders, and the lovely fit of the
sleeves. Don't he consider himself an ornament to the shop?
Last, not least, there's your sensible, self-respecting, gentlemanly
clerk--young or old, married or single, as the case may be--incapable
alike of officiousness or inattention; who gives you time silently to
look at that which you desire to see; who answers you civilly and
respectfully when you speak to him; who counts your change carefully
for you, and sends you off with the desire to make another purchase at
that shop the very first opportunity.
As to the _female_ clerks, my pen is fettered there; as I always make
it a rule to stand by my own sex in any and every attempt to earn
their own livelihood innocently and honestly, no matter how many
blunders they make in doing it. Suffice it to say that there is quite
as much variety in their deportment as in that of the males. I think
if I were about to join them, I should be sadly puzzled whether to
choose a male or female shop-proprietor. When a man _is_ a brute, he
is _such_ a brute! And when one's bread and butter depends on him,
heaven help the dependent. Now, one could call a _woman_-proprietor a
"nasty thing," and then she'd say, "you are another," and there'd be
an end of it. But a man-brute would "know the law," as he calls it;
and swear that he'd "paid you your salary, and didn't owe you a cent;"
and scare you, if you were not up to such rascality, with what he
_could_ say if you made him any trouble. Or, if you were young and
pretty, you might have to choose between the endurance of his
condescending attentions or the loss of your place. That much I can
say on the subject. Also that I have seen some of the prettiest and
most lady-like women I ever saw, employed as clerks in New York; also
there are some so ill-mannered that they pretend not to hear what you
inquire for, and keep you standing till they have taken a minute
inventory of the dry-goods on your back. Then there are some who look
so utterly weary and homesick and heartsick, that you long to
say--"Poor thing! come cry it all out on my shoulder."
* * * * *
A MORNING AT STEWART'S.
It is not often that I treat myself to a stroll into Stewart's great
shop. Mortal woman cannot behold such perfection _too_ often and
live. It is like a view of the vast ocean, so humiliating and
depressing by its immensity and sublimity that little atoms of
humanity are glad to creep away from it, to some locally-big elevation
of their own. Once in a while, when I feel strong enough to bear it,
when the day is very bright, and the atmosphere propitious, I put on a
bold face and plunge in with the throng. When I say "throng" I don't
wish to be understood as meaning anything like a mob. It is a very
curious circumstance that how objectionably soever "throngs" may
behave elsewhere, even that most disorderly of all throngs, a
_woman_-throng--yet at Stewart's so suggestive of order and system is
the place, that immediately on entering, they involuntarily "fall into
line," like proper little Sunday scholars in a procession, and never
shuffle or elbow the least bit. Perhaps they are astonished into good
behavior by the sight of those well-behaved statuesque clerks--I don't
know. Perhaps with the artistic manner in which yonder silky-inky
bearded Italian-looking, red-neck-tied gentleman, has arranged the
different shades of silk on yonder counter; so that, as the light
falls on it from the window, it looks like a splendid display of
folded tulips and roses. Perhaps it is the imposing well-to-do portly
individual who walks up and down between the rows of counters,
snapping his eyes about, as if to say--"Ladies, if this don't suit
you, what in heaven's name _will_?" Perhaps it is the eel-like manner
in which little "Cash" winds in and out, with his neatly-tied parcels,
and bank-bills and change. Perhaps it is the astounding sight of
yonder fur-cape, as displayed to advantage on one of those revolving
lay-figures. Perhaps it is the cloak room up-stairs, where the ladies
sigh as they tumble over heaps of beautiful garments, unable to choose
from such a superfluity. "How happy could I be with either, were the
other dear charmer away!" Perhaps 'tis the thought of the money that
must have been expended in this wonderful Juniper store, inside and
out, first and last, and "if _they_ only had it," how many diamonds,
and laces, and silks it would buy, _all at once_; instead of taking it
in disgraceful little installments from their stingy husbands, so that
they positively blush when Stewart's factotum inquires, "Any thing
more this morning, ma'am?" to be obliged to answer "No." I don't
pretend to comprehend the talismanic spell; but I know that at other
than Stewart's I see those very women, snub and brow-beat clerks, and
put on astounding airs generally, as women will when let out on a
shopping spree.--I see none of it there. Indeed, I sometimes think
that if the great Stewart himself were bodily to order them out, they
would neither mutter, nor peep mutinously; but turn about, like a
flock of sheep, and obediently leap over the threshold. The amount of
it is, Stewart is a sort of dry-goods "Rarey." Perhaps husbands wink
at the thing and give the little dears coppers to spend there on
purpose--I don't know.
_THE WORKING-GIRLS OF NEW YORK._
Nowhere more than in New York does the contest between squalor and
splendor so sharply present itself. This is the first reflection of
the observing stranger who walks its streets. Particularly is this
noticeable with regard to its women. Jostling on the same pavement
with the dainty fashionist is the care-worn working-girl. Looking at
both these women, the question arises, which lives the more miserable
life--she whom the world styles "fortunate," whose husband belongs to
three clubs, and whose only meal with his family is an occasional
breakfast, from year's end to year's end; who is as much a stranger to
his own children as to the reader; whose young son of seventeen has
already a detective on his track employed by his father to ascertain
where and how he spends his nights and his father's money; swift
retribution for that father who finds food, raiment, shelter,
equipages for his household; but love, sympathy, companionship--never?
Or she--this other woman--with a heart quite as hungry and unappeased,
who also faces day by day the same appalling question: _Is this all
life has for me?_
A great book is yet unwritten about women. Michelet has aired his
wax-doll theories regarding them. The defender of "woman's rights"
has given us her views. Authors and authoresses of little, and big
repute, have expressed themselves on this subject, and none of them as
yet have begun to grasp it: men--because they lack spirituality,
rightly and justly to interpret women; women--because they dare not,
or will not, tell us that which most interests us to know. Who shall
write this bold, frank, truthful book remains to be seen. Meanwhile
woman's millennium is yet a great way off; and while it slowly
progresses, conservatism and indifference gaze through their
spectacles at the seething elements of to-day, and wonder "what ails
all our women?"
Let me tell you what ails the working-girls. While yet your breakfast
is progressing, and your toilet unmade, comes forth through Chatham
Street and the Bowery, a long procession of them by twos and threes to
their daily labor. Their breakfast, so called, has been hastily
swallowed in a tenement house, where two of them share, in a small
room, the same miserable bed. Of its quality you may better judge,
when you know that each of these girls pays but three dollars a week
for board, to the working man and his wife where they lodge.
The room they occupy is close and unventilated, with no accommodations
for personal cleanliness, and so near to the little Flinegans that
their Celtic night-cries are distinctly heard. They have risen
unrefreshed, as a matter of course, and their ill-cooked breakfast
does not mend the matter. They emerge from the doorway where their
passage is obstructed by "nanny goats" and ragged children rooting
together in the dirt, and pass out into the street. They shiver as the
sharp wind of early morning strikes their temples. There is no look of
youth on their faces; hard lines appear there. Their brows are knit;
their eyes are sunken; their dress is flimsy, and foolish, and tawdry;
always a hat, and feather or soiled artificial flower upon it; the
hair dressed with an abortive attempt at style; a soiled petticoat; a
greasy dress, a well-worn sacque or shawl, and a gilt breast-pin and
earrings.
Now follow them to the large, black-looking building, where several
hundred of them are manufacturing hoop-skirts. If you are a woman you
have worn plenty; but you little thought what passed in the heads of
these girls as their busy fingers glazed the wire, or prepared the
spools for covering them, or secured the tapes which held them in
their places. _You_ could not stay five minutes in that room, where
the noise of the machinery used is so deafening, that only by the
motion of the lips could you comprehend a person speaking.
Five minutes! Why, these young creatures bear it, from seven in the
morning till six in the evening; week after week, month after month,
with only half an hour at midday to eat their dinner of a slice of
bread and butter or an apple, which they usually eat in the building,
some of them having come a long distance. As I said, the roar of
machinery in that room is like the roar of Niagara. Observe them as
you enter. Not one lifts her head. They might as well be machines,
for any interest or curiosity they show, save always to know _what
o'clock it is_. Pitiful! pitiful, you almost sob to yourself, as you
look at these young girls. _Young?_ Alas! it is only in years that
they are young.
* * * * *
"Only three dollars a week do they earn," said I to a brawny woman in
a tenement house near where some of them boarded. "Only three dollars
a week, and all of that goes for their board. How, then, do they
clothe themselves?" Hell has nothing more horrible than the cold,
sneering indifference of her reply: "_Ask the dry-goods men._"
Perhaps you ask, why do not these girls go out to service? Surely it
were better to live in a clean, nice house, in a healthy atmosphere,
with respectable people, who might take other interest in them than to
wring out the last particle of their available bodily strength. It
were better surely to live in a house cheerful and bright, where merry
voices were sometimes heard, and clean, wholesome food was given them.
Why do they not? First, because, unhappily, they look down upon the
position of a servant, even from _their_ miserable stand-point. But
chiefly, and mainly, because when six o'clock in the evening comes
they are their own mistresses, without hinderance or questioning, till
another day of labor begins. They do not sit in an under-ground
kitchen, watching the bell-wire, and longing to see what is going on
out of doors. More's the pity, that the street is their only refuge
from the squalor and quarrelling and confusion of their tenement-house
home. More's the pity, that as yet there are no sufficiently decent,
cleanly boarding-houses, within their means, where their self-respect
would not inevitably wither and die.
As it is, they stroll the streets; and who can blame them? _There_ are
gay lights, and fine shop-windows. It costs nothing to _wish_ they
could have all those fine things. They look longingly into the
theatres, through whose doors happier girls of their own age pass,
radiant and smiling, with their lovers. Glimpses of Paradise come
through those doors as they gaze. Back comes the old torturing
question: Must my young life _always_ be toil? _nothing_ but toil?
They stroll on. Music and bright lights from the underground "Concert
Saloons," where girls like themselves get fine dresses and good wages,
and flattering words and smiles beside. Alas! the future is far away;
the present only is tangible. Is it a wonder if they never go back to
the dark, cheerless tenement-house, or to the "manufactory" which sets
their poor, weary bodies aching, till they feel forsaken of God and
man? Talk of virtue! Live this life of toil, and starvation, and
friendlessness, and "unwomanly rags," and learn charity. Sometimes
they rush for escape into ill-sorted marriages, with coarse rough
fellows, and go back to the old tenement-house life again, with this
difference, that their toil does _not_ end at six o'clock, and that
from _this_ bargain there is no release but death.
But there are other establishments than those factories where
working-girls are employed. There is "Madame ----, Modiste." Surely
the girls working there must fare better. Madame pays six thousand
dollars rent for the elegant mansion in that fashionable street, in
the basement or attic of which they work. Madame cuts and makes
dresses, but she takes in none of the materials for that purpose. Not
she. She coolly tells you that she will make you a very nice _plain_
black silk dress, and find everything, for two hundred dollars. This
is modest, at a clear profit to herself of one hundred dollars on
every such dress, particularly as she buys all her material by the
wholesale, and pays her girls, at the highest rate of compensation,
not more than six dollars a week. At this rate of small wages and big
profits, you can well understand how she can afford not only to keep
up this splendid establishment, but another still more magnificent for
her own _private_ residence in quite as fashionable a neighborhood.
Another "modiste" who _did_ "take in material for dresses,"
and--ladies also! was in the habit of telling the latter that
thirty-two yards of any material was required where sixteen would have
answered. The remaining yards were then in all cases thrown into a
rag-pen; from which, through contract with a man in her employ, she
furnished herself with all the crockery, china, glass, tin and iron
ware needed in her household. This same modiste employed twenty-five
girls at the starvation price of three dollars and a half a week. The
room in which they worked was about nine feet square, with only one
window in it, and whoso came early enough to secure a seat by that
window saved her eyesight by the process. Three sewing-machines
whirred constantly by day in this little room, which at night was used
as a sleeping apartment. As the twenty-five working-girls were ushered
in to their day's labor in the morning before that room was
ventilated, you would not wonder that by four in the afternoon dark
circles appeared under their eyes, and they stopped occasionally to
press their hands upon their aching temples. Not often, but
_sometimes_, when the pain and exhaustion became intolerable.
One of the twenty-five was an orphan girl named Lizzy, only fifteen
years of age. Not even this daily martyrdom had quenched her abounding
spirits, in that room where never a smile was seen on another
face--where never a jest was ventured on, not even when Madame's back
was turned. Always Lizzie's hair was nicely smoothed, and though the
clean little creature went without her breakfast--for a deduction of
wages was the penalty of being late--yet had she always on a clean
dark calico dress, smoothed by her own deft little fingers. In that
dismal, smileless room she was the only sunbeam. But one day the
twenty-five were startled; their needles dropped from their fingers.
Lizzie was worn out at last! Her pretty face blanched, and with a low
baby cry she threw her arms over her face and sobbed: "Oh, I _cannot_
bear this life--I cannot bear it any longer. George _must_ come and
take me away from this." That night she was privately married to
"George," who was an employee on the railroad. The next day while on
the train attending to his duties, he broke his arm, and neither of
the bridal pair having any money, George was taken to the hospital.
The little bride, with starvation before her, went back that day to
Madame, and concealing the fact of her marriage, begged humbly to be
taken back, apologizing for her conduct on the day before, on the plea
that she had such a violent pain in her temples that she knew not what
she said. As she was a handy little workwoman, her request was
granted, and she worked there for several weeks, during her honeymoon,
at the old rate of pay. The day George was pronounced well, she threw
down her work, clapped her little palms together, and announced to the
astonished twenty-five that they had a married woman among them, and
that she should not return the next morning. Being the middle of the
week, and not the end, she had to go without her wages for that week.
Romance was not part or parcel of Madame's establishment. Her law was
as the Medes and Persians, which changed not. Little Lizzie's future
was no more to her than her past had been--no more than that of
another young thing in that work-room, who begged a friend, each day,
to bring her ever so little ardent spirits, at the half hour allotted
to their miserable dinner, lest she should fail in strength to finish
the day's work, upon which so much depended.
Oh! if the ladies who wore the gay robes manufactured in that room
knew the tragedy of those young lives, would they not be to them like
the penance robes of which we read, piercing, burning, torturing?
There is still another class of girls, who tend in the large shops in
New York. Are they not better remunerated and lodged? We shall see.
The additional dollar or two added to their wages is offset by the
necessity of their being always nicely apparelled, and the necessity
of a better lodging-house, and consequently a higher price for board,
so that unless they are fortunate enough to have a parent's roof over
their heads, they will not, except in rare cases, where there is a
special gift as an accountant, or an artist-touch in the fingers, to
twist a ribbon or frill a lace, be able to save any more than the
class of which I have been speaking. They are allowed, however, by
their employers, to purchase any article in the store at first cost,
which is something in their favor.
But, you say, is there no bright side to this dark picture? Are there
no cases in which these girls battle bravely with penury? I have one
in my mind now; a girl, I should say a lady; one of nature's ladies,
with a face as refined and delicate as that of any lady who bends over
these pages; who has been through this harrowing experience of the
working-girl, and after years of patience, virtuous toil, has no more
at this day than when she began, _i. e._, her wages day by day. Of the
wretched places she has called "home," I will not pain you by
speaking. Of the rough words she has borne, that she was powerless,
through her poverty, to resent. Of the long walks she has taken to
obtain wages due, and failed to secure them at last. Of the weary,
wakeful nights, and heart-breaking days, borne with a heroism and
trust in God, that was truly sublime. Of the little remittances from
time to time forwarded to old age and penury, in "the old country,"
when she herself was in want of comfortable clothing; when she herself
had no shelter in case of sickness, save the hospital or the
almshouse. Surely, such virtue and integrity, will have more enduring
record than in these pages.