Life under Difficulties—drawbacks of a Public-school Training—Hints on
Emigration—Pneumonia—Unemployment in Chicago, 1893.
Do not imagine from what I have just written that I stepped from one of
these positions into another. Far from it; there are successive gaps
between filled with fruitless searching after work. In one thing I was
very lucky: two of my wife’s brothers came to Chicago at the same time
she and I did, and we all helped one another. When in need, one could
always get meals from the others, if they had work; and for this reason
none of us starved, though we ate slim meals occasionally. I remember,
one evening, one of the boys came up to our room to go out and sup with
us (we ate at a restaurant), whereas my wife and I had been waiting for
him to come home, so that we could get him to take _us_ out! I had a
little bank in which I had been putting pennies for a rainy day, and we
decided to break it open, as the rainy day had arrived. It had, if I
remember right, 78 cents in it; and there came the rub—none of us wanted
to hand the waiter 78 copper cents for the supper, so it had to be
changed into silver, and none of us wanted to do the changing. At last
we put the job on my wife, as we were two to one against her.
My wife was the life of the whole lot of us boys, for boys we all were.
She it was who cheered us and kept heart in us during bad times, and
during one very bad time she tided me over by getting a position as
cashier at a soda-fountain, till I was on my feet again.
We had our amusements too, and occasionally went to the theatre, in the
peanut gallery, and sometimes I got passes from an actor friend of mine.
There was a piano in our boarding-house, where a mob of about a dozen of
us would congregate in the evenings and have music, singing, and
story-telling. It was quite a conglomeration. There were two old-maid
sisters, teachers in the Chicago High School, who could recite; a young
fellow who was singing tenor in the “chorus” of Kiralfy’s America
Company at the Auditorium (he could parody anything, had a very fine
voice, and was a natural comedian); then there was an engraver in Lyon
and Healy’s piano factory, who played well; also an elderly man, who
taught music on the guitar and banjo, and played divinely on the latter;
a stockbroker’s clerk, my wife, her two brothers, and myself, who were
all strong on choruses; and others whom I forget. When times were good,
and we could buy a jug of beer and had plenty of tobacco, that house
used to be a scene of much revelry.
Chicago, however, is not like London, where you can find so many places
to see and amuse yourself without cost. Excepting the parks one has to
pay to go anywhere, either to the museum or picture gallery, and even
the parks cost car-fare. For, as I have said before, Chicago is a huge
city. When I worked at the fair-grounds I lived on the west side, and
went eight miles to my work and back every day.
I have said that an English public-school education was a poor training
for a man who had to make a living in the United States—at least, at the
start. I do not mean, of course, a man who has a finished education and
could enter one of the professions, but I mean for a lad who comes of
good family, who has failed for the army or navy, who is not studious,
but who is not necessarily an idiot. Such a lad gets ideas in an English
public school—at least, it was so in my school—both from the masters and
from his comrades, that when he grows up there are only a few things a
gentleman can do and not lose caste. He must not be a “counter-jumper”
or take any menial position. A farmer or rancher is correct form, and
even “help” on either is within the pale. But it is better to live as a
gentleman supported by relatives than to “disgrace” them by earning
one’s own support in any “low” position. Then, again, the education one
receives is not practical for the necessities of life here. Here one
needs book-keeping instead of Greek, shorthand and typewriting instead
of Latin, and the study of modern business methods instead of ancient
history. All these things, of course, are good in their place, but I am
speaking solely of the boy who finally has to come to the States to make
his way in competition with men who are thoroughly up-to-date in all
these things.
Once in Chicago I saw an advertisement for a coachman at $60 per month
and cottage. It was a bonanza. I was in great need of work at the time,
and so applied for the position; but, unfortunately, all the letters of
recommendation I could show were from the president of the Agricultural
College at Guelph, the rector of my church there, and my certificate of
the Simla Veterinary Course, all of which told the tale of my being
gentle-born and not of the coachman class. The advertiser was an
Englishman and a large broker on the Stock Exchange, and though he
acknowledged that I could fill the place, and from my veterinary
knowledge would be of more value to him than an ordinary coachman, he
refused me the job solely on the ground that I was a gentleman, and he
could not employ such in a menial position. I explained that I was
married and badly needed work, and that I was not likely to presume, but
would give him good and honest work. He said he was sorry, but it would
make him uncomfortable to have a gentleman working for him in a “menial
position”; and that was all I could get out of him.
In those days I was ashamed to write and tell my friends what I was
doing for a living; but as I grew older and got a broader view of
things, I got over that false pride, and now am not ashamed that I have
been able to earn an honest living by any and all kinds of work. Phil
May’s reproof of this false pride is amusing. He once, during his early
struggles, secured a job in a small second-class restaurant as waiter. A
friend one day recognised him, and said, “My heavens, Phil, have you
fallen to this?” May replied, "Why, yes, my friend, I _work_ here; but,
thank God, I haven’t fallen so far as to have to _eat_ here." Surely a
man can remain a gentleman no matter what he has to do to earn a living.
If I had a friend in England who had sons he was forced to send to the
United States to make their way, I would, by the light of my own
experience, advise him to send the boy over here when he was fourteen or
fifteen years of age, and—unless the father could also come here to
live—put him under the care of some friend or some reputable lawyer. If
the boy’s bent were agriculture, send him to the Ontario Agricultural
College at Guelph, which is about the best institution of its kind on
the continent. Pay his board, tuition, and clothing bills, but let him
earn his own spending money, which he can easily do. If his bent is
mechanical, get him in as apprentice with the Allis-Chalmers Company
(mining machinery manufacturers in Chicago), and after he has passed out
in four years of hard work, learning practically every branch of the
building of machinery, send him to Columbia University to take the
mechanical engineers’ course of three years. If the latter cannot be
afforded, the former will be sufficient for a bright lad who is willing
to study a little by himself. If his bent is mercantile, send him to a
good business college in New York or Chicago, to learn shorthand,
typewriting, book-keeping, and general business methods, and after he
has passed through, either let him start out and earn his own living—not
getting a penny from home except in the case of sickness, but not when
out of work—or else get him in as clerk or office-boy into the
particular business he is afterwards to follow. A little hard times
hurts no one, though the boy should be carefully watched and not allowed
to get into serious trouble. Of course, this kind of education does not
put on a very fine polish, but it makes a capable man; and if the boy
has been well trained till he is fourteen, there is little fear of his
going wrong, much less fear than if he has too much money. After this
course for a few years, he should be a practical business man, and well
capable of handling his own capital, either to start for himself or to
buy an interest in the business in which he has been working.
I worked as drug salesman for some time, when I had the misfortune to
catch a very bad cold, which turned into pneumonia. It was about four
weeks before I could walk again. My wife and the boys pulled me through
in spite of the doctor, who said, “Wire for his people.” Some cousins of
my wife, who farmed near Iowa City, invited us to come and stay with
them till I was strong again, and so as soon as I could toddle we went
to them.
I had never written home what my life in Chicago was, as, having married
so young contrary to my people’s wishes, I was determined to make my
living, if possible, without aid. But when the doctor told my wife that
my days were over, she wired Mr. Bole in New York to cable home, and he
sent her funds to meet expenses and to take us both to Iowa City.
Chicago is, I believe, the coldest city in America in the winter, and
the hottest in summer, but a splendid business town, with large
opportunities for a young man. And when I hear men tell me that they
can’t get a job and have to beg, it makes me hostile; for I know that a
healthy single man need never go hungry if he is willing to work, though
he may not always get the kind of job he fancies. This is, of course,
during ordinary times. The fall and winter of 1893 were exceptional, for
when I left Chicago in November of that year it was estimated that there
were 200,000 men out of employment in a city which had a normal
population of about one million and a quarter, though it was much
inflated at the time. The churches were opened for them to sleep in, and
soup kitchens established all over the city that winter, and the police
and railroad men bothered no one who chose to leave town in a “side-door
Pullman” (baggage wagon), as they were only too glad to see the last of
them. There was some little rioting, but, on the whole, they were all
honest labourers out of a job, and only seeking food. For this they were
willing to work, and the city put enormous gangs to work cleaning snow
off the streets, so that the feeding, &c., should not look like charity.
Of course this attitude of the railway was exceptional. Stowaways, when
discovered, are generally thrown out promptly. They are accustomed to
it, so seldom come to harm. Out West, freight trainsmen are sometimes
very civil in picking up persons who “flag” them on the prairie. They
will not, however, always stop to “set-down,” but at ordinary “freight”
pace on the prairie lines it is possible to jump without affording the
trainsmen the fun of somersaults.