THE BUMMERS.
From a recent number of the _New York Times_, we take the following
excellent description of this class, which is peculiar to the
Metropolis:--
Like the Western Army and Army of the Potomac during the war, the City
of New York possesses its troop of bummers--men who hate the discipline
of life, detest marching in the ranks of workers, and hold industry in
abomination. They consist of two classes, the temporary, made so by
misfortune, or their own fault, and the permanent, who are so from
their own deliberate choice. The first deserve what they seldom
receive--our pity and sympathy, while the second equally rarely obtain
their just deserts of contempt and disgust. The regular bummer is a
mixture of the thief and beggar, usually possessing more of the
characteristics of the latter than the former, as his cowardice and
indolence prevent him from rising high in the ranks of criminals. His
strongest feeling is a horror of all regular employment; his chief
happiness is to lie with a well-filled stomach on the Battery, in the
sun, and sleep; his hell, or 'infinite dread,' is to be arrested by the
police and be sent to the Island as a vagrant.
All that a man, whether rich or poor, can require, is food, clothing,
lodging, and money for amusement or luxury. More than this the
wealthiest can never obtain--less than this the bummer seldom
possesses. His first principle is never to pay for food, even if he has
the money. In a city like this, where plenty of good food is thrown
away every day, it is a shame for any man to go hungry,' remarked one
of this tribe, 'and I won't go with an empty belly; I ask until I have
enough.' This is the feeling of all, and is acted upon by all. He begs
bread from the bakers, and broken victuals from restaurants and private
houses. In summer he strolls around the market to pick up or steal what
he can find. His money he will spend for liquor for himself and
friends, but considers it wasted if used to buy food. He will treat a
brother in distress to five-cent whiskey as long as his money holds
out, but his comrade might starve before he would buy him a loaf of
bread. He has his regular routes and customers whom he visits, and some
of these _chevaliers d'industrie_ keep regular lists of the charitable,
their residences, what is the proper time to call, and the probable
result of such visit. 'Mr.----, No.--street, coffee and bread, 7 and 8
A.M.; Mr.----, No.--street, 9 A.M., bread, cold meat, or cheese; brown
stone house corner of----street, 8 P.M., Irish girl, dinner; bakery,--
street, bread; cracker bakery,----, street; house four doors from----
street, lady, lots to eat and money; sisters in----street, soup;
hotel,----street, soup meat, 12.30 P.M.,' etc., etc. This is a partial
copy of a list seen by the writer. As a rule he does not go to the same
place two days in succession, but having a number, can levy toll at
intervals and still keep supplied. Woe to the charitable restaurant-
keeper who expresses sympathy--he will be overrun. The keeper of a
certain eating-house not far from the City Hall, in reply to the thanks
for the meal that he had given to our cormorant, said: 'You are
heartily welcome. I never send any man hungry from my door.' This
expression was spread, and he was almost overwhelmed. On one day, in
less than a week from this unfortunate remark, he had thirty-two
callers within twenty-four hours, and was compelled to refuse all in
order to obtain peace.
The clothing of a bummer, while, of course, rarely of the latest
fashion, is still generally sound and whole, except when on an
expedition in pursuit of a wardrobe. This he obtains by 'asking,'
though sometimes he will buy cast-off garments in Baxter street, but in
general he prefers to beg for it. Some keep dilapidated clothing
expressly to wear when begging, and even lend it to others to use for
the purpose. Some also make a list of the places where they will be apt
to procure what they require. This list they obtain from the daily
papers. Every morning they examine the obituary notices, and enter the
date of the deaths, of persons of about their own age, on paper; about
a week or two thereafter, they call on the afflicted family, and very
frequently obtain a supply. What they cannot use they exchange at some
of the numerous second-hand dealers for what they can, or sell it
outright.
Their lodging-place is vast, consisting of the whole city. They are
regular nomads, having no fixed abiding place, driven by the police or
weather from one spot to the other. The City Hall Park is their usual
headquarters by day. Many also visit the criminal courts to pass away
the time, but the neighborhood of the City Hall appears to be their
favorite resort. Whenever the sky is clear they can be seen sitting on
the benches, vainly endeavoring to keep awake. If their gyrations
become too violent, or they tumble from their seats, the watchful
police are upon them, and, with sundry pokes of the club, compel them
to banish Morpheus by walking--outside of the Park. Those who have not
rested well during the night, at early dawn wend their way thither,
and, stretching themselves on the benches, endeavor to snatch a nap,
but, if seen, are always bastinadoed; for the only method our
Metropolitans understand of arousing a man is by beating a reveille on
his feet with a club. On the Battery, near the water's edge during the
summer, was a large pile of gravel. This, in dry weather, was a
favorite resort. Here, every night from nine o'clock, eighteen or
twenty figures could be seen stretched out in every shape. Most had old
newspapers under them; some had a brick or stone for a pillow, but all
were hatless. Hats were dangerous pieces of property to possess, as if
one was ever left exposed it was sure to be stolen. The police rarely
disturbed them; their greatest enemies were the mosquitoes. Many of
these night birds sleep in hallways, or on stoops. Some creep into
empty wagons, while others visit the hay barges in the North River. The
farmers who bring their produce to the Washington Market, arrive there
early in the morning, and they and the carriers who assist them to
unload, generally sleep in the doorways opposite their teams. Among
these the bummers frequently creep to rest, and as the police have
neither the time nor inclination to pick them out, the black sheep
remain with the white until the morning breaks, when they crawl away or
skulk around the huckster-stalls to gather refuse fruit. When the
weather is cold or rainy, the station-house is taken as a last resort.
A description of the lodgings there would lead us away from our
subject; it is sufficient to say that only a regular bummer can enjoy a
rest in such a place. The life of such a creature is, necessarily,
merely an animal existence, and, as a rule, he does not care for any
amusement beyond listening to trials in the criminal courts. If with a
full stomach he can doze away his time, he is satisfied, and asks
nothing more. When, however, he desires any recreation, he patronizes
Tony Pastor's Bowery Theatre. At the latter place he is often seen
standing near the door, with the hope of having a check given to him by
some one who leaves early. Some money he requires to try his luck in
policy shops, and especially to pay for his drinks. His methods of
'raising the wind' are only limited by his ingenuity. Simple begging,
without an excuse, he seldom tries, as, being able-bodied, his requests
would be roughly refused. He frequently sells hats, boots, and articles
of clothing that he has begged. When on such a collecting tour, he
carefully hides his hat or gives it to a comrade, and then calls in
some wholesale hat-store. There he tells a pitiable story of having
been compelled to sleep in the street and of having his hat stolen. He
goes from place to place and frequently succeeds in collecting quite a
number. One of these gentry has been heard to brag that he obtained
fifteen different hats, all good, in one day. Boots and shoes he
collects by showing his feet bursting out of the covering he has put on
them for the occasion. The most singular manner of making money is
practiced by a German, who told of it with great pride. Every morning
he examines the obituary notices in the German newspapers. He then
writes a few lines of something he calls poetry concerning each
deceased. This he takes to the afflicted family, and tells them that
seeing the death of a 'dear one' in the paper, the following thoughts
were suggested, and then gives them his manuscript. On being asked if
there is anything to pay, he replies that he is poor and will take
anything they choose to give. Most give ten cents, some twenty-five,
and he has even received a dollar, probably where the sorrow was very
deep. When all other means fail, our subject visits the different
ferries, and there asks the persons about to cross for enough to pay
his ferriage. In this way he collects a small amount during the day,
but as it is tedious and slow work he never undertakes it except as a
last resort. With half the trouble that he takes to beg he could earn a
decent livelihood, but detesting regularity he never undertakes it. One
sense of shame, however, yet remains to him. He hides his begging under
a euphemism; he never says he "begs," but always "asks." The Germans
call it _fechten_, to fight. They are the most successful, for two
reasons--first, because the German nation is peculiarly hospitable and
charitable to their own countrymen. Those speaking the same language
and coming from the same country are always received kindly and are
assisted. A Prussian helps a Prussian, a Saxon a Saxon, etc., etc.;
secondly, they have less hesitancy in asking for what they need, being
accustomed to it from their own country. There, when a mechanic has
learned his trade he goes on his travels, and seldom having money, must
beg his way. He is seldom refused his _reisepfennig_, travelling penny,
and never his food and lodging. When he arrives at a place where there
is a boss in his trade, if there is no work for him, each journeyman
gives him something, and the boss twice as much. This is the custom,
and when he obtains work he must do the same to those who come after
him. Here he has little shame in asking for money, victuals or clothes.
The German druggists have a singular custom of giving two cents to all
beggars of their own nationality. Why they give that exact sum is a
mystery, but it seems to be their habit.
Such are the bummers of New York, hastily sketched. Much more could be
told did the space allow, but it is enough to show the nature of those
excrescences on the body politic; men who, by their indolence and
impudence, curdle the milk of human kindness and dishearten the
charitable, taking the help that would make happy more deserving
objects.