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Title: How the Other Half Lives: Studies Among the Tenements of
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Author: Jacob A. Riis

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW THE
OTHER HALF LIVES: STUDIES AMONG THE TENEMENTS OF NEW
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Transcriber’s Note

Footnotes have been renumbered consecutively and gathered at the end of this text, and
can be referred to using the in-line numbered links.
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HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES

GOTHAM COURT.

HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES

STUDIES AMONG THE TENEMENTS OF NEW YORK

BY

JACOB A. RIIS

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS CHIEFLY FROM PHOTOGRAPHS TAKEN BY THE AUTHOR

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

1890

Copyright, 1890, by

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

TROW’S

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
NEW YORK.

PREFACE.

The belief that every man’s experience ought to be worth something to the
community from which he drew it, no matter what that experience may be,
so long as it was gleaned along the line of some decent, honest work, made
me begin this book. With the result before him, the reader can judge for
himself now whether or not I was right. Right or wrong, the many and
exacting duties of a newspaper man’s life would hardly have allowed me to
bring it to an end but for frequent friendly lifts given me by willing hands.
To the President of the Board of Health, Mr. Charles G. Wilson, and to
Chief Inspector Byrnes of the Police Force I am indebted for much
kindness. The patient friendship of Dr. Roger S. Tracy, the Registrar of Vital
Statistics, has done for me what I never could have done for myself; for I
know nothing of tables, statistics and percentages, while there is nothing
about them that he does not know. Most of all, I owe in this, as in all things
else, to the womanly sympathy and the loving companionship of my dear
wife, ever my chief helper, my wisest counsellor, and my gentlest critic.
J. A. R.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Introduction, 1

CHAPTER I.
Genesis of the Tenement, 7

CHAPTER II.
The Awakening, 15

CHAPTER III.
The Mixed Crowd, 21

CHAPTER IV.
The Down Town Back-alleys, 28

CHAPTER V.
The Italian in New York, 48

CHAPTER VI.
The Bend, 55

CHAPTER VII.

A Raid on the Stale-beer Dives, 71

CHAPTER VIII.
The Cheap Lodging-houses, 82

CHAPTER IX.
Chinatown, 92

CHAPTER X.
Jewtown, 104

CHAPTER XI.
The Sweaters of Jewtown, 120

CHAPTER XII.
The Bohemians—Tenement-house Cigarmaking, 136

CHAPTER XIII.
The Color Line in New York, 148

CHAPTER XIV.
The Common Herd, 159

CHAPTER XV.
The Problem of the Children, 179

CHAPTER XVI.
Waifs of the City’s Slums, 187

CHAPTER XVII.
The Street Arab, 196

CHAPTER XVIII.
The Reign of Rum, 210

CHAPTER XIX.
The Harvest of Tares 217

CHAPTER XX.
The Working Girls of New York, 234

CHAPTER XXI.
Pauperism in the Tenements, 243

CHAPTER XXII.
The Wrecks and the Waste, 255

CHAPTER XXIII.
The Man with the Knife, 263

CHAPTER XXIV.

What Has Been Done, 268

CHAPTER XXV.
How the Case Stands, 282

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Gotham Court, Frontispiece
PAGE

Hell’s Kitchen and Sebastopol, 6
Tenement of 1863, for Twelve Families on
Each Flat, 12
Tenement of the Old Style. Birth of the Air-
shaft 18
At the Cradle of the Tenement.—Doorway
of an Old-fashioned Dwelling on Cherry
Hill, 30
Upstairs in Blindman’s Alley, 34
An Old Rear-tenement in Roosevelt Street, 45
In the Home of an Italian Rag-picker, Jersey
Street, 51
The Bend, 59
Bandits’ Roost, 63
Bottle Alley, 66
Lodgers in a Crowded Bayard Street
Tenement—“Five Cents a Spot,” 69
An All-night Two-cent Restaurant, in “The
Bend,” 75
The Tramp, 79
Bunks in a Seven-cent Lodging-house, Pell
Street, 87
In a Chinese Joint, 98
“The Official Organ of Chinatown,” 100
A Tramp’s Nest in Ludlow Street, 106
A Market Scene in the Jewish Quarter, 111

The Old Clo’e’s Man—in the Jewish
Quarters, 117
“Knee-pants” at Forty-five Cents a Dozen—
A Ludlow Street Sweater’s Shop, 127
Bohemian Cigarmakers at Work in their
Tenement, 143
A Black-and-tan Dive in “Africa,”, 157
The Open Door, 160
Bird’s-eye View of an East Side Tenement
Block, 163
The White Badge of Mourning, 166
In Poverty Gap, West Twenty-eighth Street.
An English Coal-heaver’s Home, 169
Dispossessed, 176
The Trench in the Potter’s Field, 178
Prayer-time in the Nursery—Five Points
House of Industry, 195
“Didn’t Live Nowhere”, 200
Street Arabs in Sleeping Quarters, 202
Getting Ready for Supper in the Newsboys’
Lodging-house, 205
A Downtown “Morgue,” 214
A Growler Gang in Session, 223
Typical Toughs (from the Rogues’ Gallery), 228
Hunting River Thieves, 231
Sewing and Starving in an Elizabeth Street
Attic, 238
A Flat in the Pauper Barracks, West Thirty-
eighth Street, with all its Furniture, 245
Coffee at One Cent, 252
Evolution of the Tenement in Twenty Years, 269
General Plan of the Riverside Buildings (A.
T. White’s) in Brooklyn, 292

Floor Plan of One Division in the Riverside
Buildings, Showing Six “Apartments,” 293

“With gates of silver and bars of gold
Ye have fenced my sheep from their father’s fold;
I have heard the dropping of their tears
In heaven these eighteen hundred years.”

“O Lord and Master, not ours the guilt,
We build but as our fathers built;
Behold thine images, how they stand,
Sovereign and sole, through all our land.”

Then Christ sought out an artisan,
A low-browed, stunted, haggard man,
And a motherless girl, whose fingers thin
Pushed from her faintly want and sin.

These set he in the midst of them,
And as they drew back their garment-hem,
For fear of defilement, “Lo, here,” said he,
“The images ye have made of me!”

—James Russell Lowell.

HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES.

INTRODUCTION.

Long ago it was said that “one half of the world does not know how the
other half lives.” That was true then. It did not know because it did not care.
The half that was on top cared little for the struggles, and less for the fate of
those who were underneath, so long as it was able to hold them there and
keep its own seat. There came a time when the discomfort and crowding
below were so great, and the consequent upheavals so violent, that it was no
longer an easy thing to do, and then the upper half fell to inquiring what
was the matter. Information on the subject has been accumulating rapidly
since, and the whole world has had its hands full answering for its old
ignorance.
In New York, the youngest of the world’s great cities, that time came later
than elsewhere, because the crowding had not been so great. There were
those who believed that it would never come; but their hopes were vain.
Greed and reckless selfishness wrought like results here as in the cities of
older lands. “When the great riot occurred in 1863,” so reads the testimony
of the Secretary of the Prison Association of New York before a legislative
committee appointed to investigate causes of the increase of crime in the
State twenty-five years ago, “every hiding-place and nursery of crime
discovered itself by immediate and active participation in the operations of
the mob. Those very places and domiciles, and all that are like them, are to-
day nurseries of crime, and of the vices and disorderly courses which lead
to crime. By far the largest part—eighty per cent. at least—of crimes
against property and against the person are perpetrated by individuals who
have either lost connection with home life, or never had any, or whose
homes had ceased to be sufficiently separate, decent, and desirable to
afford what are regarded as ordinary wholesome influences of home and
family.... The younger criminals seem to come almost exclusively from the
worst tenement house districts, that is, when traced back to the very places
where they had their homes in the city here.” Of one thing New York made
sure at that early stage of the inquiry: the boundary line of the Other Half
lies through the tenements.

It is ten years and over, now, since that line divided New York’s population
evenly. To-day three-fourths of its people live in the tenements, and the
nineteenth century drift of the population to the cities is sending ever-
increasing multitudes to crowd them. The fifteen thousand tenant houses
that were the despair of the sanitarian in the past generation have swelled
into thirty-seven thousand, and more than twelve hundred thousand persons
call them home. The one way out he saw—rapid transit to the suburbs—has
brought no relief. We know now that there is no way out; that the ‘system’
that was the evil offspring of public neglect and private greed has come to
stay, a storm-centre forever of our civilization. Nothing is left but to make
the best of a bad bargain.
What the tenements are and how they grow to what they are, we shall see
hereafter. The story is dark enough, drawn from the plain public records, to
send a chill to any heart. If it shall appear that the sufferings and the sins of
the “other half,” and the evil they breed, are but as a just punishment upon
the community that gave it no other choice, it will be because that is the
truth. The boundary line lies there because, while the forces for good on one
side vastly outweigh the bad—it were not well otherwise—in the tenements
all the influences make for evil; because they are the hot-beds of the
epidemics that carry death to rich and poor alike; the nurseries of pauperism
and crime that fill our jails and police courts; that throw off a scum of forty
thousand human wrecks to the island asylums and workhouses year by year;
that turned out in the last eight years a round half million beggars to prey
upon our charities; that maintain a standing army of ten thousand tramps
with all that that implies; because, above all, they touch the family life with
deadly moral contagion. This is their worst crime, inseparable from the
system. That we have to own it the child of our own wrong does not excuse
it, even though it gives it claim upon our utmost patience and tenderest
charity.
What are you going to do about it? is the question of to-day. It was asked
once of our city in taunting defiance by a band of political cutthroats, the
legitimate outgrowth of life on the tenement-house level.[1] Law and order
found the answer then and prevailed. With our enormously swelling
population held in this galling bondage, will that answer always be given? It
will depend on how fully the situation that prompted the challenge is
grasped. Forty per cent. of the distress among the poor, said a recent official

report, is due to drunkenness. But the first legislative committee ever
appointed to probe this sore went deeper down and uncovered its roots. The
“conclusion forced itself upon it that certain conditions and associations of
human life and habitation are the prolific parents of corresponding habits
and morals,” and it recommended “the prevention of drunkenness by
providing for every man a clean and comfortable home.” Years after, a
sanitary inquiry brought to light the fact that“more than one-half of the
tenements with two-thirds of their population were held by owners who
made the keeping of them a business, generally a speculation. The owner
was seeking a certain percentage on his outlay, and that percentage very
rarely fell below fifteen per cent., and frequently exceeded thirty.[2]... The
complaint was universal among the tenants that they were entirely uncared
for, and that the only answer to their requests to have the place put in order
by repairs and necessary improvements was that they must pay their rent or
leave. The agent’s instructions were simple but emphatic: ‘Collect the rent
in advance, or, failing, eject the occupants.’” Upon such a stock grew this
upas-tree. Small wonder the fruit is bitter. The remedy that shall be an
effective answer to the coming appeal for justice must proceed from the
public conscience. Neither legislation nor charity can cover the ground. The
greed of capital that wrought the evil must itself undo it, as far as it can now
be undone. Homes must be built for the working masses by those who
employ their labor; but tenements must cease to be “good property” in the
old, heartless sense. “Philanthropy and five per cent.” is the penance
exacted.
If this is true from a purely economic point of view, what then of the
outlook from the Christian standpoint? Not long ago a great meeting was
held in this city, of all denominations of religious faith, to discuss the
question how to lay hold of these teeming masses in the tenements with
Christian influences, to which they are now too often strangers. Might not
the conference have found in the warning of one Brooklyn builder, who has
invested his capital on this plan and made it pay more than a money
interest, a hint worth heeding: “How shall the love of God be understood by
those who have been nurtured in sight only of the greed of man?”

HELL’S KITCHEN AND SEBASTOPOL.

CHAPTER I.
GENESIS OF THE TENEMENT.

The first tenement New York knew bore the mark of Cain from its birth,
though a generation passed before the writing was deciphered. It was the
“rear house,” infamous ever after in our city’s history. There had been
tenant-houses before, but they were not built for the purpose. Nothing
would probably have shocked their original owners more than the idea of
their harboring a promiscuous crowd; for they were the decorous homes of
the old Knickerbockers, the proud aristocracy of Manhattan in the early
days.
It was the stir and bustle of trade, together with the tremendous immigration
that followed upon the war of 1812 that dislodged them. In thirty-five years
the city of less than a hundred thousand came to harbor half a million souls,
for whom homes had to be found. Within the memory of men not yet in
their prime, Washington had moved from his house on Cherry Hill as too
far out of town to be easily reached. Now the old residents followed his
example; but they moved in a different direction and for a different reason.
Their comfortable dwellings in the once fashionable streets along the East
River front fell into the hands of real-estate agents and boarding-house
keepers; and here, says the report to the Legislature of 1857, when the evils
engendered had excited just alarm, “in its beginning, the tenant-house
became a real blessing to that class of industrious poor whose small
earnings limited their expenses, and whose employment in workshops,
stores, or about the warehouses and thoroughfares, render a near residence
of much importance.” Not for long, however. As business increased, and the
city grew with rapid strides, the necessities of the poor became the
opportunity of their wealthier neighbors, and the stamp was set upon the old
houses, suddenly become valuable, which the best thought and effort of a
later age has vainly struggled to efface. Their “large rooms were partitioned
into several smaller ones, without regard to light or ventilation, the rate of
rent being lower in proportion to space or height from the street; and they

soon became filled from cellar to garret with a class of tenantry living from
hand to mouth, loose in morals, improvident in habits, degraded, and
squalid as beggary itself.” It was thus the dark bedroom, prolific of untold
depravities, came into the world. It was destined to survive the old houses.
In their new rôle, says the old report, eloquent in its indignant denunciation
of “evils more destructive than wars,” “they were not intended to last. Rents
were fixed high enough to cover damage and abuse from this class, from
whom nothing was expected, and the most was made of them while they
lasted. Neatness, order, cleanliness, were never dreamed of in connection
with the tenant-house system, as it spread its localities from year to year;
while reckless slovenliness, discontent, privation, and ignorance were left to
work out their invariable results, until the entire premises reached the level
of tenant-house dilapidation, containing, but sheltering not, the miserable
hordes that crowded beneath smouldering, water-rotted roofs or burrowed
among the rats of clammy cellars.” Yet so illogical is human greed that, at a
later day, when called to account, “the proprietors frequently urged the
filthy habits of the tenants as an excuse for the condition of their property,
utterly losing sight of the fact that it was the tolerance of those habits which
was the real evil, and that for this they themselves were alone responsible.”
Still the pressure of the crowds did not abate, and in the old garden where
the stolid Dutch burgher grew his tulips or early cabbages a rear house was
built, generally of wood, two stories high at first. Presently it was carried up
another story, and another. Where two families had lived ten moved in. The
front house followed suit, if the brick walls were strong enough. The
question was not always asked, judging from complaints made by a
contemporary witness, that the old buildings were “often carried up to a
great height without regard to the strength of the foundation walls.” It was
rent the owner was after; nothing was said in the contract about either the
safety or the comfort of the tenants. The garden gate no longer swung on its
rusty hinges. The shell-paved walk had become an alley; what the rear
house had left of the garden, a “court.” Plenty such are yet to be found in
the Fourth Ward, with here and there one of the original rear tenements.
Worse was to follow. It was “soon perceived by estate owners and agents of
property that a greater percentage of profits could be realized by the
conversion of houses and blocks into barracks, and dividing their space into
smaller proportions capable of containing human life within four walls....

Blocks were rented of real estate owners, or ‘purchased on time,’ or taken in
charge at a percentage, and held for under-letting.” With the appearance of
the middleman, wholly irresponsible, and utterly reckless and unrestrained,
began the era of tenement building which turned out such blocks as Gotham
Court, where, in one cholera epidemic that scarcely touched the clean
wards, the tenants died at the rate of one hundred and ninety-five to the
thousand of population; which forced the general mortality of the city up
from 1 in 41.83 in 1815, to 1 in 27.33 in 1855, a year of unusual freedom
from epidemic disease, and which wrung from the early organizers of the
Health Department this wail: “There are numerous examples of tenement-
houses in which are lodged several hundred people that have a pro rata
allotment of ground area scarcely equal to two square yards upon the city
lot, court-yards and all included.” The tenement-house population had
swelled to half a million souls by that time, and on the East Side, in what is
still the most densely populated district in all the world, China not
excluded, it was packed at the rate of 290,000 to the square mile, a state of
affairs wholly unexampled. The utmost cupidity of other lands and other
days had never contrived to herd much more than half that number within
the same space. The greatest crowding of Old London was at the rate of
175,816. Swine roamed the streets and gutters as their principal scavengers.
[3] The death of a child in a tenement was registered at the Bureau of Vital
Statistics as “plainly due to suffocation in the foul air of an unventilated
apartment,” and the Senators, who had come down from Albany to find out
what was the matter with New York, reported that “there are annually cut
off from the population by disease and death enough human beings to
people a city, and enough human labor to sustain it.” And yet experts had
testified that, as compared with uptown, rents were from twenty-five to
thirty per cent. higher in the worst slums of the lower wards, with such
accommodations as were enjoyed, for instance, by a “family with boarders”
in Cedar Street, who fed hogs in the cellar that contained eight or ten loads
of manure; or "one room 12 × 12 with five families living in it, comprising
twenty persons of both sexes and all ages, with only two beds, without
partition, screen, chair, or table." The rate of rent has been successfully
maintained to the present day, though the hog at least has been eliminated.
Lest anybody flatter himself with the notion that these were evils of a day
that is happily past and may safely be forgotten, let me mention here three

very recent instances of tenement-house life that came under my notice.
One was the burning of a rear house in Mott Street, from appearances one
of the original tenant-houses that made their owners rich. The fire made
homeless ten families, who had paid an average of $5 a month for their
mean little cubby-holes. The owner himself told me that it was fully insured
for $800, though it brought him in $600 a year rent. He evidently
considered himself especially entitled to be pitied for losing such valuable
property. Another was the case of a hard-working family of man and wife,
young people from the old country, who took poison together in a Crosby
Street tenement because they were “tired.” There was no other explanation,
and none was needed when I stood in the room in which they had lived. It
was in the attic with sloping ceiling and a single window so far out on the
roof that it seemed not to belong to the place at all. With scarcely room
enough to turn around in they had been compelled to pay five dollars and a
half a month in advance. There were four such rooms in that attic, and
together they brought in as much as many a handsome little cottage, in a
pleasant part of Brooklyn. The third instance was that of a colored family of
husband, wife, and baby in a wretched rear rookery in West Third Street.
Their rent was eight dollars and a half for a single room on the top-story, so
small that I was unable to get a photograph of it even by placing the camera
outside the open door. Three short steps across either way would have
measured its full extent.

TENEMENT OF 1863, FOR TWELVE FAMILIES ON EACH FLAT.[4]
D, dark. L, light. H, halls.

There was just one excuse for the early tenement-house builders, and their
successors may plead it with nearly as good right for what it is worth.
“Such,” says an official report, “is the lack of house-room in the city that
any kind of tenement can be immediately crowded with lodgers, if there is
space offered.” Thousands were living in cellars. There were three hundred
underground lodging-houses in the city when the Health Department was
organized. Some fifteen years before that the old Baptist Church in
Mulberry Street, just off Chatham Street, had been sold, and the rear half of
the frame structure had been converted into tenements that with their
swarming population became the scandal even of that reckless age. The
wretched pile harbored no less than forty families, and the annual rate of
deaths to the population was officially stated to be 75 in 1,000. These
tenements were an extreme type of very many, for the big barracks had by
this time spread east and west and far up the island into the sparsely settled
wards. Whether or not the title was clear to the land upon which they were
built was of less account than that the rents were collected. If there were
damages to pay, the tenant had to foot them. Cases were “very frequent
when property was in litigation, and two or three different parties were
collecting rents.” Of course under such circumstances “no repairs were ever
made.”
The climax had been reached. The situation was summed up by the Society
for the Improvement of the Condition of the Poor in these words: “Crazy
old buildings, crowded rear tenements in filthy yards, dark, damp
basements, leaking garrets, shops, outhouses, and stables[5] converted into
dwellings, though scarcely fit to shelter brutes, are habitations of thousands
of our fellow-beings in this wealthy, Christian city.” “The city,” says its
historian, Mrs. Martha Lamb, commenting on the era of aqueduct building
between 1835 and 1845, “was a general asylum for vagrants.” Young
vagabonds, the natural offspring of such “home” conditions, overran the
streets. Juvenile crime increased fearfully year by year. The Children’s Aid
Society and kindred philanthropic organizations were yet unborn, but in the
city directory was to be found the address of the “American Society for the
Promotion of Education in Africa.”

CHAPTER II.
THE AWAKENING.

The dread of advancing cholera, with the guilty knowledge of the harvest
field that awaited the plague in New York’s slums, pricked the conscience
of the community into action soon after the close of the war. A citizens’
movement resulted in the organization of a Board of Health and the
adoption of the “Tenement-House Act” of 1867, the first step toward
remedial legislation. A thorough canvass of the tenements had been begun
already in the previous year; but the cholera first, and next a scourge of
small-pox, delayed the work, while emphasizing the need of it, so that it
was 1869 before it got fairly under way and began to tell. The dark
bedroom fell under the ban first. In that year the Board ordered the cutting
of more than forty-six thousand windows in interior rooms, chiefly for
ventilation—for little or no light was to be had from the dark hallways. Air-
shafts were unknown. The saw had a job all that summer; by early fall
nearly all the orders had been carried out. Not without opposition; obstacles
were thrown in the way of the officials on the one side by the owners of the
tenements, who saw in every order to repair or clean up only an item of
added expense to diminish their income from the rent; on the other side by
the tenants themselves, who had sunk, after a generation of unavailing
protest, to the level of their surroundings, and were at last content to remain
there. The tenements had bred their Nemesis, a proletariat ready and able to
avenge the wrongs of their crowds. Already it taxed the city heavily for the
support of its jails and charities. The basis of opposition, curiously enough,
was the same at both extremes; owner and tenant alike considered official
interference an infringement of personal rights, and a hardship. It took long
years of weary labor to make good the claim of the sunlight to such corners
of the dens as it could reach at all. Not until five years after did the
department succeed at last in ousting the “cave-dwellers” and closing some
five hundred and fifty cellars south of Houston Street, many of them below
tide-water, that had been used as living apartments. In many instances the
police had to drag the tenants out by force.

The work went on; but the need of it only grew with the effort. The
Sanitarians were following up an evil that grew faster than they went; like a
fire, it could only be headed off, not chased, with success. Official reports,
read in the churches in 1879, characterized the younger criminals as victims
of low social conditions of life and unhealthy, overcrowded lodgings,
brought up in “an atmosphere of actual darkness, moral and physical.” This
after the saw had been busy in the dark corners ten years! “If we could see
the air breathed by these poor creatures in their tenements,” said a well-
known physician, “it would show itself to be fouler than the mud of the
gutters.” Little improvement was apparent despite all that had been done.
“The new tenements, that have been recently built, have been usually as
badly planned as the old, with dark and unhealthy rooms, often over wet
cellars, where extreme overcrowding is permitted,” was the verdict of one
authority. These are the houses that to-day perpetuate the worst traditions of
the past, and they are counted by thousands. The Five Points had been
cleansed, as far as the immediate neighborhood was concerned, but the
Mulberry Street Bend was fast outdoing it in foulness not a stone’s throw
away, and new centres of corruption were continually springing up and
getting the upper hand whenever vigilance was relaxed for ever so short a
time. It is one of the curses of the tenement-house system that the worst
houses exercise a levelling influence upon all the rest, just as one bad boy in
a schoolroom will spoil the whole class. It is one of the ways the evil that
was “the result of forgetfulness of the poor,” as the Council of Hygiene
mildly put it, has of avenging itself.
The determined effort to head it off by laying a strong hand upon the
tenement builders that has been the chief business of the Health Board of
recent years, dates from this period. The era of the air-shaft has not solved
the problem of housing the poor, but it has made good use of limited
opportunities. Over the new houses sanitary law exercises full control. But
the old remain. They cannot be summarily torn down, though in extreme
cases the authorities can order them cleared. The outrageous overcrowding,
too, remains. It is characteristic of the tenements. Poverty, their badge and
typical condition, invites—compels it. All efforts to abate it result only in
temporary relief. As long as they exist it will exist with them. And the
tenements will exist in New York forever.

To-day, what is a tenement? The law defines it as a
house “occupied by three or more families, living
independently and doing their cooking on the
premises; or by more than two families on a floor, so
living and cooking and having a common right in the
halls, stairways, yards, etc.” That is the legal
meaning, and includes flats and apartment-houses,
with which we have nothing to
do. In its narrower sense the
typical tenement was thus
described when last arraigned
before the bar of public justice:
“It is generally a brick building
from four to six stories high on
the street, frequently with a
store on the first floor which,
when used for the sale of liquor,
has a side opening for the
benefit of the inmates and to
evade the Sunday law; four
families occupy each floor, and
a set of rooms consists of one or
two dark closets, used as
bedrooms, with a living room
TENEMENT OF THE OLD STYLE. BIRTH OF THE AIR-SHAFT.
twelve feet by ten. The staircase
is too often a dark well in the centre of the house, and no direct through
ventilation is possible, each family being separated from the other by
partitions. Frequently the rear of the lot is occupied by another building of
three stories, high with two families on a floor.” The picture is nearly as true
to-day as ten years ago, and will be for a long time to come. The dim light
admitted by the air-shaft shines upon greater crowds than ever. Tenements
are still “good property,” and the poverty of the poor man his destruction. A
barrack down town where he has to live because he is poor brings in a third
more rent than a decent flat house in Harlem. The statement once made a
sensation that between seventy and eighty children had been found in one
tenement. It no longer excites even passing attention, when the sanitary
police report counting 101 adults and 91 children in a Crosby Street house,

one of twins, built together. The children in the other, if I am not mistaken,
numbered 89, a total of 180 for two tenements! Or when a midnight
inspection in Mulberry Street unearths a hundred and fifty “lodgers”
sleeping on filthy floors in two buildings. Spite of brown-stone trimmings,
plate-glass and mosaic vestibule floors, the water does not rise in summer to
the second story, while the beer flows unchecked to the all-night picnics on
the roof. The saloon with the side-door and the landlord divide the
prosperity of the place between them, and the tenant, in sullen submission,
foots the bills.
Where are the tenements of to-day? Say rather: where are they not? In fifty
years they have crept up from the Fourth Ward slums and the Five Points
the whole length of the island, and have polluted the Annexed District to the
Westchester line. Crowding all the lower wards, wherever business leaves a
foot of ground unclaimed; strung along both rivers, like ball and chain tied
to the foot of every street, and filling up Harlem with their restless, pent-up
multitudes, they hold within their clutch the wealth and business of New
York, hold them at their mercy in the day of mob-rule and wrath. The
bullet-proof shutters, the stacks of hand-grenades, and the Gatling guns of
the Sub-Treasury are tacit admissions of the fact and of the quality of the
mercy expected. The tenements to-day are New York, harboring three-
fourths of its population. When another generation shall have doubled the
census of our city, and to that vast army of workers, held captive by
poverty, the very name of home shall be as a bitter mockery, what will the
harvest be?

CHAPTER III.
THE MIXED CROWD.

When once I asked the agent of a notorious Fourth Ward alley how many
people might be living in it I was told: One hundred and forty families, one
hundred Irish, thirty-eight Italian, and two that spoke the German tongue.
Barring the agent herself, there was not a native-born individual in the
court. The answer was characteristic of the cosmopolitan character of lower
New York, very nearly so of the whole of it, wherever it runs to alleys and
courts. One may find for the asking an Italian, a German, a French, African,
Spanish, Bohemian, Russian, Scandinavian, Jewish, and Chinese colony.
Even the Arab, who peddles “holy earth” from the Battery as a direct
importation from Jerusalem, has his exclusive preserves at the lower end of
Washington Street. The one thing you shall vainly ask for in the chief city
of America is a distinctively American community. There is none; certainly
not among the tenements. Where have they gone to, the old inhabitants? I
put the question to one who might fairly be presumed to be of the number,
since I had found him sighing for the “good old days” when the legend “no
Irish need apply” was familiar in the advertising columns of the
newspapers. He looked at me with a puzzled air. “I don’t know,” he said. “I
wish I did. Some went to California in ’49, some to the war and never came
back. The rest, I expect, have gone to heaven, or somewhere. I don’t see
them ’round here.”
Whatever the merit of the good man’s conjectures, his eyes did not deceive
him. They are not here. In their place has come this queer conglomerate
mass of heterogeneous elements, ever striving and working like whiskey
and water in one glass, and with the like result: final union and a prevailing
taint of whiskey. The once unwelcome Irishman has been followed in his
turn by the Italian, the Russian Jew, and the Chinaman, and has himself
taken a hand at opposition, quite as bitter and quite as ineffectual, against
these later hordes. Wherever these have gone they have crowded him out,
possessing the block, the street, the ward with their denser swarms. But the

Irishman’s revenge is complete. Victorious in defeat over his recent as over
his more ancient foe, the one who opposed his coming no less than the one
who drove him out, he dictates to both their politics, and, secure in
possession of the offices, returns the native his greeting with interest, while
collecting the rents of the Italian whose house he has bought with the profits
of his saloon. As a landlord he is picturesquely autocratic. An amusing
instance of his methods came under my notice while writing these lines. An
inspector of the Health Department found an Italian family paying a man
with a Celtic name twenty-five dollars a month for three small rooms in a
ramshackle rear tenement—more than twice what they were worth—and
expressed his astonishment to the tenant, an ignorant Sicilian laborer. He
replied that he had once asked the landlord to reduce the rent, but he would
not do it.
“Well! What did he say?” asked the inspector.
“‘Damma, man!’ he said; ‘if you speaka thata way to me, I fira you and
your things in the streeta.’” And the frightened Italian paid the rent.
In justice to the Irish landlord it must be said that like an apt pupil he was
merely showing forth the result of the schooling he had received, re-
enacting, in his own way, the scheme of the tenements. It is only his
frankness that shocks. The Irishman does not naturally take kindly to
tenement life, though with characteristic versatility he adapts himself to its
conditions at once. It does violence, nevertheless, to the best that is in him,
and for that very reason of all who come within its sphere soonest corrupts
him. The result is a sediment, the product of more than a generation in the
city’s slums, that, as distinguished from the larger body of his class, justly
ranks at the foot of tenement dwellers, the so-called “low Irish.”
It is not to be assumed, of course, that the whole body of the population
living in the tenements, of which New Yorkers are in the habit of speaking
vaguely as “the poor,” or even the larger part of it, is to be classed as
vicious or as poor in the sense of verging on beggary.
New York’s wage-earners have no other place to live, more is the pity. They
are truly poor for having no better homes; waxing poorer in purse as the
exorbitant rents to which they are tied, as ever was serf to soil, keep rising.
The wonder is that they are not all corrupted, and speedily, by their

surroundings. If, on the contrary, there be a steady working up, if not out of
the slough, the fact is a powerful argument for the optimist’s belief that the
world is, after all, growing better, not worse, and would go far toward
disarming apprehension, were it not for the steadier growth of the sediment
of the slums and its constant menace. Such an impulse toward better things
there certainly is. The German rag-picker of thirty years ago, quite as low in
the scale as his Italian successor, is the thrifty tradesman or prosperous
farmer of to-day.[6]
The Italian scavenger of our time is fast graduating into exclusive control of
the corner fruit-stands, while his black-eyed boy monopolizes the boot-
blacking industry in which a few years ago he was an intruder. The Irish
hod-carrier in the second generation has become a brick-layer, if not the
Alderman of his ward, while the Chinese coolie is in almost exclusive
possession of the laundry business. The reason is obvious. The poorest
immigrant comes here with the purpose and ambition to better himself and,
given half a chance, might be reasonably expected to make the most of it.
To the false plea that he prefers the squalid homes in which his kind are
housed there could be no better answer. The truth is, his half chance has too
long been wanting, and for the bad result he has been unjustly blamed.
As emigration from east to west follows the latitude, so does the foreign
influx in New York distribute itself along certain well-defined lines that
waver and break only under the stronger pressure of a more gregarious race
or the encroachments of inexorable business. A feeling of dependence upon
mutual effort, natural to strangers in a strange land, unacquainted with its
language and customs, sufficiently accounts for this.
The Irishman is the true cosmopolitan immigrant. All-pervading, he shares
his lodging with perfect impartiality with the Italian, the Greek, and the
“Dutchman,” yielding only to sheer force of numbers, and objects equally
to them all. A map of the city, colored to designate nationalities, would
show more stripes than on the skin of a zebra, and more colors than any
rainbow. The city on such a map would fall into two great halves, green for
the Irish prevailing in the West Side tenement districts, and blue for the
Germans on the East Side. But intermingled with these ground colors would
be an odd variety of tints that would give the whole the appearance of an
extraordinary crazy-quilt. From down in the Sixth Ward, upon the site of the

old Collect Pond that in the days of the fathers drained the hills which are
no more, the red of the Italian would be seen forcing its way northward
along the line of Mulberry Street to the quarter of the French purple on
Bleecker Street and South Fifth Avenue, to lose itself and reappear, after a
lapse of miles, in the “Little Italy” of Harlem, east of Second Avenue.
Dashes of red, sharply defined, would be seen strung through the Annexed
District, northward to the city line. On the West Side the red would be seen
overrunning the old Africa of Thompson Street, pushing the black of the
negro rapidly uptown, against querulous but unavailing protests, occupying
his home, his church, his trade and all, with merciless impartiality. There is
a church in Mulberry Street that has stood for two generations as a sort of
milestone of these migrations. Built originally for the worship of staid New
Yorkers of the “old stock,” it was engulfed by the colored tide, when the
draft-riots drove the negroes out of reach of Cherry Street and the Five
Points. Within the past decade the advance wave of the Italian onset reached
it, and to-day the arms of United Italy adorn its front. The negroes have
made a stand at several points along Seventh and Eighth Avenues; but their
main body, still pursued by the Italian foe, is on the march yet, and the
black mark will be found overshadowing to-day many blocks on the East
Side, with One Hundredth Street as the centre, where colonies of them have
settled recently.
Hardly less aggressive than the Italian, the Russian and Polish Jew, having
overrun the district between Rivington and Division Streets, east of the
Bowery, to the point of suffocation, is filling the tenements of the old
Seventh Ward to the river front, and disputing with the Italian every foot of
available space in the back alleys of Mulberry Street. The two races,
differing hopelessly in much, have this in common: they carry their slums
with them wherever they go, if allowed to do it. Little Italy already rivals its
parent, the “Bend,” in foulness. Other nationalities that begin at the bottom
make a fresh start when crowded up the ladder. Happily both are
manageable, the one by rabbinical, the other by the civil law. Between the
dull gray of the Jew, his favorite color, and the Italian red, would be seen
squeezed in on the map a sharp streak of yellow, marking the narrow
boundaries of Chinatown. Dovetailed in with the German population, the
poor but thrifty Bohemian might be picked out by the sombre hue of his life
as of his philosophy, struggling against heavy odds in the big human bee-

hives of the East Side. Colonies of his people extend northward, with long
lapses of space, from below the Cooper Institute more than three miles. The
Bohemian is the only foreigner with any considerable representation in the
city who counts no wealthy man of his race, none who has not to work hard
for a living, or has got beyond the reach of the tenement.
Down near the Battery the West Side emerald would be soiled by a dirty
stain, spreading rapidly like a splash of ink on a sheet of blotting paper,
headquarters of the Arab tribe, that in a single year has swelled from the
original dozen to twelve hundred, intent, every mother’s son, on trade and
barter. Dots and dashes of color here and there would show where the
Finnish sailors worship their djumala (God), the Greek pedlars the ancient
name of their race, and the Swiss the goddess of thrift. And so on to the end
of the long register, all toiling together in the galling fetters of the tenement.
Were the question raised who makes the most of life thus mortgaged, who
resists most stubbornly its levelling tendency—knows how to drag even the
barracks upward a part of the way at least toward the ideal plane of the
home—the palm must be unhesitatingly awarded the Teuton. The Italian
and the poor Jew rise only by compulsion. The Chinaman does not rise at
all; here, as at home, he simply remains stationary. The Irishman’s genius
runs to public affairs rather than domestic life; wherever he is mustered in
force the saloon is the gorgeous centre of political activity. The German
struggles vainly to learn his trick; his Teutonic wit is too heavy, and the
political ladder he raises from his saloon usually too short or too clumsy to
reach the desired goal. The best part of his life is lived at home, and he
makes himself a home independent of the surroundings, giving the lie to the
saying, unhappily become a maxim of social truth, that pauperism and
drunkenness naturally grow in the tenements. He makes the most of his
tenement, and it should be added that whenever and as soon as he can save
up money enough, he gets out and never crosses the threshold of one again.

CHAPTER IV.
THE DOWN TOWN BACK-ALLEYS.

Down below Chatham Square, in the old Fourth Ward, where the cradle of
the tenement stood, we shall find New York’s Other Half at home, receiving
such as care to call and are not afraid. Not all of it, to be sure, there is not
room for that; but a fairly representative gathering, representative of its
earliest and worst traditions. There is nothing to be afraid of. In this
metropolis, let it be understood, there is no public street where the stranger
may not go safely by day and by night, provided he knows how to mind his
own business and is sober. His coming and going will excite little interest,
unless he is suspected of being a truant officer, in which case he will be
impressed with the truth of the observation that the American stock is dying
out for want of children. If he escapes this suspicion and the risk of
trampling upon, or being himself run down by the bewildering swarms of
youngsters that are everywhere or nowhere as the exigency and their quick
scent of danger direct, he will see no reason for dissenting from that
observation. Glimpses caught of the parents watching the youngsters play
from windows or open doorways will soon convince him that the native
stock is in no way involved.
Leaving the Elevated Railroad where it dives under the Brooklyn Bridge at
Franklin Square, scarce a dozen steps will take us where we wish to go.
With its rush and roar echoing yet in our ears, we have turned the corner
from prosperity to poverty. We stand upon the domain of the tenement. In
the shadow of the great stone abutments the old Knickerbocker houses
linger like ghosts of a departed day. Down the winding slope of Cherry
Street—proud and fashionable Cherry Hill that was—their broad steps,
sloping roofs, and dormer windows are easily made out; all the more easily
for the contrast with the ugly barracks that elbow them right and left. These
never had other design than to shelter, at as little outlay as possible, the
greatest crowds out of which rent could be wrung. They were the bad after-
thought of a heedless day. The years have brought to the old houses

unhonored age, a querulous second childhood that is out of tune with the
time, their tenants, the neighbors, and cries out against them and against
you in fretful protest in every step on their rotten floors or squeaky stairs.
Good cause have they for their fretting. This one, with its shabby front and
poorly patched roof, what glowing firesides, what happy children may it
once have owned? Heavy feet, too often with unsteady step, for the pot-
house is next door—where is it not next door in these slums?—have worn
away the brown-stone steps since; the broken columns at the door have
rotted away at the base. Of the handsome cornice barely a trace is left. Dirt
and desolation reign in the wide hallway, and danger lurks on the stairs.
Rough pine boards fence off the roomy fire-places—where coal is bought
by the pail at the rate of twelve dollars a ton these have no place. The
arched gateway leads no longer to a shady bower on the banks of the
rushing stream, inviting to day-dreams with its gentle repose, but to a dark
and nameless alley, shut in by high brick walls, cheerless as the lives of
those they shelter. The wolf knocks loudly at the gate in the troubled dreams
that come to this alley, echoes of the day’s cares. A horde of dirty children
play about the dripping hydrant, the only thing in the alley that thinks
enough of its chance to make the most of it: it is the best it can do. These
are the children of the tenements, the growing generation of the slums; this
their home. From the great highway overhead, along which throbs the life-
tide of two great cities, one might drop a pebble into half a dozen such
alleys.

AT THE CRADLE OF THE TENEMENT.—DOORWAY OF AN OLD-
FASHIONED DWELLING ON CHERRY HILL.

One yawns just across the street; not very broadly, but it is not to blame.
The builder of the old gateway had no thought of its ever becoming a public
thoroughfare. Once inside it widens, but only to make room for a big box-
like building with the worn and greasy look of the slum tenement that is
stamped alike on the houses and their tenants down here, even on the
homeless cur that romps with the children in yonder building lot, with an air
of expectant interest plainly betraying the forlorn hope that at some stage of
the game a meat-bone may show up in the role of “It.” Vain hope, truly!
Nothing more appetizing than a bare-legged ragamuffin appears. Meat-
bones, not long since picked clean, are as scarce in Blind Man’s Alley as
elbow-room in any Fourth Ward back-yard. The shouts of the children come
hushed over the house-tops, as if apologizing for the intrusion. Few glad
noises make this old alley ring. Morning and evening it echoes with the
gentle, groping tap of the blind man’s staff as he feels his way to the street.
Blind Man’s Alley bears its name for a reason. Until little more than a year

ago its dark burrows harbored a colony of blind beggars, tenants of a blind
landlord, old Daniel Murphy, whom every child in the ward knows, if he
never heard of the President of the United States. “Old Dan” made a big
fortune—he told me once four hundred thousand dollars—out of his alley
and the surrounding tenements, only to grow blind himself in extreme old
age, sharing in the end the chief hardship of the wretched beings whose lot
he had stubbornly refused to better that he might increase his wealth. Even
when the Board of Health at last compelled him to repair and clean up the
worst of the old buildings, under threat of driving out the tenants and
locking the doors behind them, the work was accomplished against the old
man’s angry protests. He appeared in person before the Board to argue his
case, and his argument was characteristic.
“I have made my will,” he said. “My monument stands waiting for me in
Calvary. I stand on the very brink of the grave, blind and helpless, and now
(here the pathos of the appeal was swept under in a burst of angry
indignation) do you want me to build and get skinned, skinned? These
people are not fit to live in a nice house. Let them go where they can, and
let my house stand.”
In spite of the genuine anguish of the appeal, it was downright amusing to
find that his anger was provoked less by the anticipated waste of luxury on
his tenants than by distrust of his own kind, the builder. He knew intuitively
what to expect. The result showed that Mr. Murphy had gauged his tenants
correctly. The cleaning up process apparently destroyed the home-feeling of
the alley; many of the blind people moved away and did not return. Some
remained, however, and the name has clung to the place.
Some idea of what is meant by a sanitary “cleaning up” in these slums may
be gained from the account of a mishap I met with once, in taking a flash-
light picture of a group of blind beggars in one of the tenements down here.
With unpractised hands I managed to set fire to the house. When the
blinding effect of the flash had passed away and I could see once more, I
discovered that a lot of paper and rags that hung on the wall were ablaze.
There were six of us, five blind men and women who knew nothing of their
danger, and myself, in an attic room with a dozen crooked, rickety stairs
between us and the street, and as many households as helpless as the one
whose guest I was all about us. The thought: how were they ever to be got

out? made my blood run cold as I saw the flames creeping up the wall, and
my first impulse was to bolt for the street and shout for help. The next was
to smother the fire myself, and I did, with a vast deal of trouble. Afterward,
when I came down to the street I told a friendly policeman of my trouble.
For some reason he thought it rather a good joke, and laughed
immoderately at my concern lest even then sparks should be burrowing in
the rotten wall that might yet break out in flame and destroy the house with
all that were in it. He told me why, when he found time to draw breath.
“Why, don’t you know,” he said, “that house is the Dirty Spoon? It caught
fire six times last winter, but it wouldn’t burn. The dirt was so thick on the
walls, it smothered the fire!” Which, if true, shows that water and dirt, not
usually held to be harmonious elements, work together for the good of those
who insure houses.
Sunless and joyless though it be, Blind Man’s Alley has that which its
compeers of the slums vainly yearn for. It has a pay-day. Once a year
sunlight shines into the lives of its forlorn crew, past and present. In June,
when the Superintendent of Out-door Poor distributes the twenty thousand
dollars annually allowed the poor blind by the city, in half-hearted
recognition of its failure to otherwise provide for them, Blindman’s Alley
takes a day off and goes to “see” Mr. Blake. That night it is noisy with
unwonted merriment. There is scraping of squeaky fiddles in the dark
rooms, and cracked old voices sing long-forgotten songs. Even the blind
landlord rejoices, for much of the money goes into his coffers.

UPSTAIRS IN BLINDMAN’S ALLEY.

From their perch up among the rafters Mrs. Gallagher’s blind boarders
might hear, did they listen, the tramp of the policeman always on duty in
Gotham Court, half a stone’s throw away. His beat, though it takes in but a
small portion of a single block, is quite as lively as most larger patrol
rounds. A double row of five-story tenements, back to back under a
common roof, extending back from the street two hundred and thirty-four
feet, with barred openings in the dividing wall, so that the tenants may see
but cannot get at each other from the stairs, makes the “court.” Alleys—one
wider by a couple of feet than the other, whence the distinction Single and
Double Alley—skirt the barracks on either side. Such, briefly, is the
tenement that has challenged public attention more than any other in the
whole city and tested the power of sanitary law and rule for forty years. The
name of the pile is not down in the City Directory, but in the public records
it holds an unenviable place. It was here the mortality rose during the last

great cholera epidemic to the unprecedented rate of 195 in 1,000
inhabitants. In its worst days a full thousand could not be packed into the
court, though the number did probably not fall far short of it. Even now,
under the management of men of conscience, and an agent, a King’s
Daughter, whose practical energy, kindliness and good sense have done
much to redeem its foul reputation, the swarms it shelters would make more
than one fair-sized country village. The mixed character of the population,
by this time about equally divided between the Celtic and the Italian stock,
accounts for the iron bars and the policeman. It was an eminently Irish
suggestion that the latter was to be credited to the presence of two German
families in the court, who “made trouble all the time.” A Chinaman whom I
questioned as he hurried past the iron gate of the alley, put the matter in a
different light. “Lem Ilish velly bad,” he said. Gotham Court has been the
entering wedge for the Italian element, who until recently had not attained a
foothold in the Fourth Ward, but are now trailing across Chatham Street
from their stronghold in “the Bend” in ever increasing numbers, seeking,
according to their wont, the lowest level.
It is curious to find that this notorious block, whose name was so long
synonymous with all that was desperately bad, was originally built (in
1851) by a benevolent Quaker for the express purpose of rescuing the poor
people from the dreadful rookeries they were then living in. How long it
continued a model tenement is not on record. It could not have been very
long, for already in 1862, ten years after it was finished, a sanitary official
counted 146 cases of sickness in the court, including “all kinds of infectious
disease,” from small-pox down, and reported that of 138 children born in it
in less than three years 61 had died, mostly before they were one year old.
Seven years later the inspector of the district reported to the Board of
Health that “nearly ten per cent. of the population is sent to the public
hospitals each year.” When the alley was finally taken in hand by the
authorities, and, as a first step toward its reclamation, the entire population
was driven out by the police, experience dictated, as one of the first
improvements to be made, the putting in of a kind of sewer-grating, so
constructed, as the official report patiently puts it, “as to prevent the ingress
of persons disposed to make a hiding-place” of the sewer and the cellars
into which they opened. The fact was that the big vaulted sewers had long
been a runway for thieves—the Swamp Angels—who through them easily

escaped when chased by the police, as well as a storehouse for their
plunder. The sewers are there to-day; in fact the two alleys are nothing but
the roofs of these enormous tunnels in which a man may walk upright the
full distance of the block and into the Cherry Street sewer—if he likes the
fun and is not afraid of rats. Could their grimy walls speak, the big canals
might tell many a startling tale. But they are silent enough, and so are most
of those whose secrets they might betray. The flood-gates connecting with
the Cherry Street main are closed now, except when the water is drained
off. Then there were no gates, and it is on record that the sewers were
chosen as a short cut habitually by residents of the court whose business lay
on the line of them, near a manhole, perhaps, in Cherry Street, or at the
river mouth of the big pipe when it was clear at low tide. “Me Jimmy,” said
one wrinkled old dame, who looked in while we were nosing about under
Double Alley, “he used to go to his work along down Cherry Street that way
every morning and come back at night.” The associations must have been
congenial. Probably “Jimmy” himself fitted into the landscape.
Half-way back from the street in this latter alley is a tenement, facing the
main building, on the west side of the way, that was not originally part of
the court proper. It stands there a curious monument to a Quaker’s revenge,
a living illustration of the power of hate to perpetuate its bitter fruit beyond
the grave. The lot upon which it is built was the property of John Wood,
brother of Silas, the builder of Gotham Court. He sold the Cherry Street
front to a man who built upon it a tenement with entrance only from the
street. Mr. Wood afterward quarrelled about the partition line with his
neighbor, Alderman Mullins, who had put up a long tenement barrack on
his lot after the style of the Court, and the Alderman knocked him down.
Tradition records that the Quaker picked himself up with the quiet remark,
“I will pay thee for that, friend Alderman,” and went his way. His manner of
paying was to put up the big building in the rear of 34 Cherry Street with an
immense blank wall right in front of the windows of Alderman Mullins’s
tenements, shutting out effectually light and air from them. But as he had no
access to the street from his building for many years it could not be let or
used for anything, and remained vacant until it passed under the
management of the Gotham Court property. Mullins’s Court is there yet,
and so is the Quaker’s vengeful wall that has cursed the lives of thousands
of innocent people since. At its farther end the alley between the two that

begins inside the Cherry Street tenement, six or seven feet wide, narrows
down to less than two feet. It is barely possible to squeeze through; but few
care to do it, for the rift leads to the jail of the Oak Street police station, and
therefore is not popular with the growing youth of the district.
There is crape on the door of the Alderman’s court as we pass out, and
upstairs in one of the tenements preparations are making for a wake. A man
lies dead in the hospital who was cut to pieces in a “can racket” in the alley
on Sunday. The sway of the excise law is not extended to these back alleys.
It would matter little if it were. There are secret by-ways, and some it is not
held worth while to keep secret, along which the “growler” wanders at all
hours and all seasons unmolested. It climbed the stairs so long and so often
that day that murder resulted. It is nothing unusual on Cherry Street,
nothing to “make a fuss” about. Not a week before, two or three blocks up
the street, the police felt called upon to interfere in one of these can rackets
at two o’clock in the morning, to secure peace for the neighborhood. The
interference took the form of a general fusillade, during which one of the
disturbers fell off the roof and was killed. There was the usual wake and
nothing more was heard of it. What, indeed, was there to say?
The “Rock of Ages” is the name over the door of a low saloon that blocks
the entrance to another alley, if possible more forlorn and dreary than the
rest, as we pass out of the Alderman’s court. It sounds like a jeer from the
days, happily past, when the “wickedest man in New York” lived around the
corner a little way and boasted of his title. One cannot take many steps in
Cherry Street without encountering some relic of past or present
prominence in the ways of crime, scarce one that does not turn up specimen
bricks of the coming thief. The Cherry Street tough is all-pervading. Ask
Superintendent Murray, who, as captain of the Oak Street squad, in seven
months secured convictions for theft, robbery, and murder aggregating no
less than five hundred and thirty years of penal servitude, and he will tell
you his opinion that the Fourth Ward, even in the last twenty years, has
turned out more criminals than all the rest of the city together.
But though the “Swamp Angels” have gone to their reward, their successors
carry on business at the old stand as successfully, if not as boldly. There
goes one who was once a shining light in thiefdom. He has reformed since,
they say. The policeman on the corner, who is addicted to a professional

unbelief in reform of any kind, will tell you that while on the Island once he
sailed away on a shutter, paddling along until he was picked up in Hell Gate
by a schooner’s crew, whom he persuaded that he was a fanatic performing
some sort of religious penance by his singular expedition. Over yonder,
Tweed, the arch-thief, worked in a brush-shop and earned an honest living
before he took to politics. As we stroll from one narrow street to another the
odd contrast between the low, old-looking houses in front and the towering
tenements in the back yards grows even more striking, perhaps because we
expect and are looking for it. Nobody who was not would suspect the
presence of the rear houses, though they have been there long enough. Here
is one seven stories high behind one with only three floors. Take a look into
this Roosevelt Street alley; just about one step wide, with a five-story house
on one side that gets its light and air—God help us for pitiful mockery!—
from this slit between brick walls. There are no windows in the wall on the
other side; it is perfectly blank. The fire-escapes of the long tenement fairly
touch it; but the rays of the sun, rising, setting, or at high noon, never do. It
never shone into the alley from the day the devil planned and man built it.
There was once an English doctor who experimented with the sunlight in
the soldiers’ barracks, and found that on the side that was shut off altogether
from the sun the mortality was one hundred per cent. greater than on the
light side, where its rays had free access. But then soldiers are of some
account, have a fixed value, if not a very high one. The people who live
here have not. The horse that pulls the dirt-cart one of these laborers loads
and unloads is of ever so much more account to the employer of his labor
than he and all that belongs to him. Ask the owner; he will not attempt to
deny it, if the horse is worth anything. The man too knows it. It is the one
thought that occasionally troubles the owner of the horse in the enjoyment
of his prosperity, built of and upon the successful assertion of the truth that
all men are created equal.
With what a shock did the story of yonder Madison Street alley come home
to New Yorkers one morning, eight or ten years ago, when a fire that broke
out after the men had gone to their work swept up those narrow stairs and
burned up women and children to the number of a full half score. There
were fire-escapes, yes! but so placed that they could not be reached. The
firemen had to look twice before they could find the opening that passes for
a thoroughfare; a stout man would never venture in. Some wonderfully

heroic rescues were made at that fire by people living in the adjoining
tenements. Danger and trouble—of the imminent kind, not the everyday
sort that excites neither interest nor commiseration—run even this common
clay into heroic moulds on occasion; occasions that help us to remember
that the gap that separates the man with the patched coat from his wealthy
neighbor is, after all, perhaps but a tenement. Yet, what a gap! and of whose
making? Here, as we stroll along Madison Street, workmen are busy putting
the finishing touches to the brown-stone front of a tall new tenement. This
one will probably be called an apartment house. They are carving satyrs’
heads in the stone, with a crowd of gaping youngsters looking on in
admiring wonder. Next door are two other tenements, likewise with brown-
stone fronts, fair to look at. The youngest of the children in the group is not
too young to remember how their army of tenants was turned out by the
health officers because the houses had been condemned as unfit for human
beings to live in. The owner was a wealthy builder who “stood high in the
community.” Is it only in our fancy that the sardonic leer on the stone faces
seems to list that way? Or is it an introspective grin? We will not ask if the
new house belongs to the same builder. He too may have reformed.
We have crossed the boundary of the Seventh Ward. Penitentiary Row,
suggestive name for a block of Cherry Street tenements, is behind us.
Within recent days it has become peopled wholly with Hebrews, the
overflow from Jewtown adjoining, pedlars and tailors, all of them. It is odd
to read this legend from other days over the door: “No pedlars allowed in
this house.” These thrifty people are not only crowding into the tenements
of this once exclusive district—they are buying them. The Jew runs to real
estate as soon as he can save up enough for a deposit to clinch the bargain.
As fast as the old houses are torn down, towering structures go up in their
place, and Hebrews are found to be the builders. Here is a whole alley
nicknamed after the intruder, Jews’ Alley. But abuse and ridicule are not
weapons to fight the Israelite with. He pockets them quietly with the rent
and bides his time. He knows from experience, both sweet and bitter, that
all things come to those who wait, including the houses and lands of their
persecutors.
Here comes a pleasure party, as gay as any on the avenue, though the carry-
all is an ash-cart. The father is the driver and he has taken his brown-legged
boy for a ride. How proud and happy they both look up there on their perch!

The queer old building they have halted in front of is “The Ship,” famous
for fifty years as a ramshackle tenement filled with the oddest crowd. No
one knows why it is called “The Ship,” though there is a tradition that once
the river came clear up here to Hamilton Street, and boats were moored
along-side it. More likely it is because it is as bewildering inside as a crazy
old ship, with its ups and downs of ladders parading as stairs, and its
unexpected pitfalls. But Hamilton Street, like Water Street, is not what it
was. The missions drove from the latter the worst of its dives. A sailors’
mission has lately made its appearance in Hamilton Street, but there are no
dives there, nothing worse than the ubiquitous saloon and tough tenements.
Enough of them everywhere. Suppose we look into one? No. — Cherry
Street. Be a little careful, please! The hall is dark and you might stumble
over the children pitching pennies back there. Not that it would hurt them;
kicks and cuffs are their daily diet. They have little else. Here where the hall
turns and dives into utter darkness is a step, and another, another. A flight of
stairs. You can feel your way, if you cannot see it. Close? Yes! What would
you have? All the fresh air that ever enters these stairs comes from the hall-
door that is forever slamming, and from the windows of dark bedrooms that
in turn receive from the stairs their sole supply of the elements God meant
to be free, but man deals out with such niggardly hand. That was a woman
filling her pail by the hydrant you just bumped against. The sinks are in the
hallway, that all the tenants may have access—and all be poisoned alike by
their summer stenches. Hear the pump squeak! It is the lullaby of tenement-
house babes. In summer, when a thousand thirsty throats pant for a cooling
drink in this block, it is worked in vain. But the saloon, whose open door
you passed in the hall, is always there. The smell of it has followed you up.
Here is a door. Listen! That short hacking cough, that tiny, helpless wail—
what do they mean? They mean that the soiled bow of white you saw on the
door downstairs will have another story to tell—Oh! a sadly familiar story
—before the day is at an end. The child is dying with measles. With half a
chance it might have lived; but it had none. That dark bedroom killed it.
“It was took all of a suddint,” says the mother, smoothing the throbbing
little body with trembling hands. There is no unkindness in the rough voice
of the man in the jumper, who sits by the window grimly smoking a clay
pipe, with the little life ebbing out in his sight, bitter as his words sound:
“Hush, Mary! If we cannot keep the baby, need we complain—such as we?”

AN OLD REAR-TENEMENT IN ROOSEVELT STREET.

Such as we! What if the words ring in your ears as we grope our way up the
stairs and down from floor to floor, listening to the sounds behind the
closed doors—some of quarrelling, some of coarse songs, more of
profanity. They are true. When the summer heats come with their suffering
they have meaning more terrible than words can tell. Come over here. Step
carefully over this baby—it is a baby, spite of its rags and dirt—under these
iron bridges called fire-escapes, but loaded down, despite the incessant
watchfulness of the firemen, with broken household goods, with wash-tubs
and barrels, over which no man could climb from a fire. This gap between
dingy brick-walls is the yard. That strip of smoke-colored sky up there is
the heaven of these people. Do you wonder the name does not attract them
to the churches? That baby’s parents live in the rear tenement here. She is at
least as clean as the steps we are now climbing. There are plenty of houses
with half a hundred such in. The tenement is much like the one in front we

just left, only fouler, closer, darker—we will not say more cheerless. The
word is a mockery. A hundred thousand people lived in rear tenements in
New York last year. Here is a room neater than the rest. The woman, a stout
matron with hard lines of care in her face, is at the wash-tub. “I try to keep
the childer clean,” she says, apologetically, but with a hopeless glance
around. The spice of hot soap-suds is added to the air already tainted with
the smell of boiling cabbage, of rags and uncleanliness all about. It makes
an overpowering compound. It is Thursday, but patched linen is hung upon
the pulley-line from the window. There is no Monday cleaning in the
tenements. It is washday all the week round, for a change of clothing is
scarce among the poor. They are poverty’s honest badge, these perennial
lines of rags hung out to dry, those that are not the washerwoman’s
professional shingle. The true line to be drawn between pauperism and
honest poverty is the clothes-line. With it begins the effort to be clean that is
the first and the best evidence of a desire to be honest.
What sort of an answer, think you, would come from these tenements to the
question “Is life worth living?” were they heard at all in the discussion? It
may be that this, cut from the last report but one of the Association for the
Improvement of the Condition of the Poor, a long name for a weary task,
has a suggestion of it: “In the depth of winter the attention of the
Association was called to a Protestant family living in a garret in a
miserable tenement in Cherry Street. The family’s condition was most
deplorable. The man, his wife, and three small children shivering in one
room through the roof of which the pitiless winds of winter whistled. The
room was almost barren of furniture; the parents slept on the floor, the elder
children in boxes, and the baby was swung in an old shawl attached to the
rafters by cords by way of a hammock. The father, a seaman, had been
obliged to give up that calling because he was in consumption, and was
unable to provide either bread or fire for his little ones.”
Perhaps this may be put down as an exceptional case, but one that came to
my notice some months ago in a Seventh Ward tenement was typical
enough to escape that reproach. There were nine in the family: husband,
wife, an aged grandmother, and six children; honest, hard-working
Germans, scrupulously neat, but poor. All nine lived in two rooms, one
about ten feet square that served as parlor, bedroom, and eating-room, the
other a small hall-room made into a kitchen. The rent was seven dollars and

a half a month, more than a week’s wages for the husband and father, who
was the only bread-winner in the family. That day the mother had thrown
herself out of the window, and was carried up from the street dead. She was
“discouraged,” said some of the other women from the tenement, who had
come in to look after the children while a messenger carried the news to the
father at the shop. They went stolidly about their task, although they were
evidently not without feeling for the dead woman. No doubt she was wrong
in not taking life philosophically, as did the four families a city missionary
found housekeeping in the four corners of one room. They got along well
enough together until one of the families took a boarder and made trouble.
Philosophy, according to my optimistic friend, naturally inhabits the
tenements. The people who live there come to look upon death in a different
way from the rest of us—do not take it as hard. He has never found time to
explain how the fact fits into his general theory that life is not unbearable in
the tenements. Unhappily for the philosophy of the slums, it is too apt to be
of the kind that readily recognizes the saloon, always handy, as the refuge
from every trouble, and shapes its practice according to the discovery.

CHAPTER V.
THE ITALIAN IN NEW YORK.

Certainly a picturesque, if not very tidy, element has been added to the
population in the “assisted” Italian immigrant who claims so large a share
of public attention, partly because he keeps coming at such a tremendous
rate, but chiefly because he elects to stay in New York, or near enough for it
to serve as his base of operations, and here promptly reproduces conditions
of destitution and disorder which, set in the frame-work of Mediterranean
exuberance, are the delight of the artist, but in a matter-of-fact American
community become its danger and reproach. The reproduction is made
easier in New York because he finds the material ready to hand in the worst
of the slum tenements; but even where it is not he soon reduces what he
does find to his own level, if allowed to follow his natural bent.[7] The
Italian comes in at the bottom, and in the generation that came over the sea
he stays there. In the slums he is welcomed as a tenant who “makes less
trouble” than the contentious Irishman or the order-loving German, that is
to say: is content to live in a pig-sty and submits to robbery at the hands of
the rent-collector without murmur. Yet this very tractability makes of him in
good hands, when firmly and intelligently managed, a really desirable
tenant. But it is not his good fortune often to fall in with other hospitality
upon his coming than that which brought him here for its own profit, and
has no idea of letting go its grip upon him as long as there is a cent to be
made out of him.
Recent Congressional inquiries have shown the nature of the “assistance”
he receives from greedy steamship agents and “bankers,” who persuade him
by false promises to mortgage his home, his few belongings, and his wages
for months to come for a ticket to the land where plenty of work is to be had
at princely wages. The padrone—the “banker,” is nothing else—having
made his ten per cent. out of him en route, receives him at the landing and
turns him to double account as a wage-earner and a rent-payer. In each of
these rôles he is made to yield a profit to his unscrupulous countryman,

whom he trusts implicitly with the instinct of utter helplessness. The man is
so ignorant that, as one of the sharpers who prey upon him put it once, it
“would be downright sinful not to take him in.” His ignorance and
unconquerable suspicion of strangers dig the pit into which he falls. He not
only knows no word of English, but he does not know enough to learn.
Rarely only can he write his own language. Unlike the German, who begins
learning English the day he lands as a matter of duty, or the Polish Jew, who
takes it up as soon as he is able as an investment, the Italian learns slowly, if
at all. Even his boy, born here, often speaks his native tongue indifferently.
He is forced, therefore, to have constant recourse to the middle-man, who
makes him pay handsomely at every turn. He hires him out to the railroad
contractor, receiving a commission from the employer as well as from the
laborer, and repeats the performance monthly, or as often as he can have
him dismissed. In the city he contracts for his lodging, subletting to him
space in the vilest tenements at extortionate rents, and sets an example that
does not lack imitators. The “princely wages” have vanished with his
coming, and in their place hardships and a dollar a day, beheft with the
padrone’s merciless mortgage, confront him. Bred to even worse fare, he
takes both as a matter of course, and, applying the maxim that it is not what
one makes but what he saves that makes him rich, manages to turn the very
dirt of the streets into a hoard of gold, with which he either returns to his
Southern home, or brings over his family to join in his work and in his
fortunes the next season.

IN THE HOME OF AN ITALIAN RAG-PICKER, JERSEY STREET.

The discovery was made by earlier explorers that there is money in New
York’s ash-barrel, but it was left to the genius of the padrone to develop the
full resources of the mine that has become the exclusive preserve of the
Italian immigrant. Only a few years ago, when rag-picking was carried on
in a desultory and irresponsible sort of way, the city hired gangs of men to
trim the ash-scows before they were sent out to sea. The trimming consisted
in levelling out the dirt as it was dumped from the carts, so that the scow
might be evenly loaded. The men were paid a dollar and a half a day, kept
what they found that was worth having, and allowed the swarms of Italians
who hung about the dumps to do the heavy work for them, letting them
have their pick of the loads for their trouble. To-day Italians contract for the
work, paying large sums to be permitted to do it. The city received not less
than $80,000 last year for the sale of this privilege to the contractors, who
in addition have to pay gangs of their countrymen for sorting out the bones,
rags, tin cans and other waste that are found in the ashes and form the
staples of their trade and their sources of revenue. The effect has been
vastly to increase the power of the padrone, or his ally, the contractor, by

giving him exclusive control of the one industry in which the Italian was
formerly an independent “dealer,” and reducing him literally to the plane of
the dump. Whenever the back of the sanitary police is turned, he will make
his home in the filthy burrows where he works by day, sleeping and eating
his meals under the dump, on the edge of slimy depths and amid
surroundings full of unutterable horror. The city did not bargain to house,
though it is content to board, him so long as he can make the ash-barrels
yield the food to keep him alive, and a vigorous campaign is carried on at
intervals against these unlicensed dump settlements; but the temptation of
having to pay no rent is too strong, and they are driven from one dump only
to find lodgement under another a few blocks farther up or down the river.
The fiercest warfare is waged over the patronage of the dumps by rival
factions represented by opposing contractors, and it has happened that the
defeated party has endeavored to capture by strategy what he failed to carry
by assault. It augurs unsuspected adaptability in the Italian to our system of
self-government that these rivalries have more than once been suspected of
being behind the sharpening of city ordinances, that were apparently made
in good faith to prevent meddling with the refuse in the ash-barrels or in
transit.
Did the Italian always adapt himself as readily to the operation of the civil
law as to the manipulation of political “pull” on occasion, he would save
himself a good deal of unnecessary trouble. Ordinarily he is easily enough
governed by authority—always excepting Sunday, when he settles down to
a game of cards and lets loose all his bad passions. Like the Chinese, the
Italian is a born gambler. His soul is in the game from the moment the cards
are on the table, and very frequently his knife is in it too before the game is
ended. No Sunday has passed in New York since “the Bend” became a
suburb of Naples without one or more of these murderous affrays coming to
the notice of the police. As a rule that happens only when the man the game
went against is either dead or so badly wounded as to require instant
surgical help. As to the other, unless he be caught red-handed, the chances
that the police will ever get him are slim indeed. The wounded man can
seldom be persuaded to betray him. He wards off all inquiries with a wicked
“I fix him myself,” and there the matter rests until he either dies or
recovers. If the latter, the community hears after a while of another Italian

affray, a man stabbed in a quarrel, dead or dying, and the police know that
“he” has been fixed, and the account squared.
With all his conspicuous faults, the swarthy Italian immigrant has his
redeeming traits. He is as honest as he is hot-headed. There are no Italian
burglars in the Rogues’ Gallery; the ex-brigand toils peacefully with
pickaxe and shovel on American ground. His boy occasionally shows, as a
pick-pocket, the results of his training with the toughs of the Sixth Ward
slums. The only criminal business to which the father occasionally lends his
hand, outside of murder, is a bunco game, of which his confiding
countrymen, returning with their hoard to their native land, are the victims.
The women are faithful wives and devoted mothers. Their vivid and
picturesque costumes lend a tinge of color to the otherwise dull monotony
of the slums they inhabit. The Italian is gay, light-hearted and, if his fur is
not stroked the wrong way, inoffensive as a child. His worst offence is that
he keeps the stale-beer dives. Where his headquarters is, in the Mulberry
Street Bend, these vile dens flourish and gather about them all the wrecks,
the utterly wretched, the hopelessly lost, on the lowest slope of depraved
humanity. And out of their misery he makes a profit.

CHAPTER VI.
THE BEND.

Where Mulberry Street crooks like an elbow within hail of the old depravity
of the Five Points, is “the Bend,” foul core of New York’s slums. Long
years ago the cows coming home from the pasture trod a path over this hill.
Echoes of tinkling bells linger there still, but they do not call up memories
of green meadows and summer fields; they proclaim the home-coming of
the rag-picker’s cart. In the memory of man the old cow-path has never
been other than a vast human pig-sty. There is but one “Bend” in the world,
and it is enough. The city authorities, moved by the angry protests of ten
years of sanitary reform effort, have decided that it is too much and must
come down. Another Paradise Park will take its place and let in sunlight and
air to work such transformation as at the Five Points, around the corner of
the next block. Never was change more urgently needed. Around “the
Bend” cluster the bulk of the tenements that are stamped as altogether bad,
even by the optimists of the Health Department. Incessant raids cannot keep
down the crowds that make them their home. In the scores of back alleys, of
stable lanes and hidden byways, of which the rent collector alone can keep
track, they share such shelter as the ramshackle structures afford with every
kind of abomination rifled from the dumps and ash barrels of the city. Here,
too, shunning the light, skulks the unclean beast of dishonest idleness. “The
Bend” is the home of the tramp as well as the rag-picker.
It is not much more than twenty years since a census of “the Bend” district
returned only twenty-four of the six hundred and nine tenements as in
decent condition. Three-fourths of the population of the “Bloody Sixth”
Ward were then Irish. The army of tramps that grew up after the
disbandment of the armies in the field, and has kept up its muster roll,
together with the in-rush of the Italian tide, have ever since opposed a
stubborn barrier to all efforts at permanent improvement. The more that has
been done, the less it has seemed to accomplish in the way of real relief,
until it has at last become clear that nothing short of entire demolition will

ever prove of radical benefit. Corruption could not have chosen ground for
its stand with better promise of success. The whole district is a maze of
narrow, often unsuspected passage-ways—necessarily, for there is scarce a
lot that has not two, three, or four tenements upon it, swarming with
unwholesome crowds. What a birds-eye view of “the Bend” would be like
is a matter of bewildering conjecture. Its everyday appearance, as seen from
the corner of Bayard Street on a sunny day, is one of the sights of New
York.
Bayard Street is the high road to Jewtown across the Bowery, picketed from
end to end with the outposts of Israel. Hebrew faces, Hebrew signs, and
incessant chatter in the queer lingo that passes for Hebrew on the East Side
attend the curious wanderer to the very corner of Mulberry Street. But the
moment he turns the corner the scene changes abruptly. Before him lies
spread out what might better be the market-place in some town in Southern
Italy than a street in New York—all but the houses; they are still the same
old tenements of the unromantic type. But for once they do not make the
foreground in a slum picture from the American metropolis. The interest
centres not in them, but in the crowd they shelter only when the street is not
preferable, and that with the Italian is only when it rains or he is sick. When
the sun shines the entire population seeks the street, carrying on its
household work, its bargaining, its love-making on street or sidewalk, or
idling there when it has nothing better to do, with the reverse of the impulse
that makes the Polish Jew coop himself up in his den with the thermometer
at stewing heat. Along the curb women sit in rows, young and old alike with
the odd head-covering, pad or turban, that is their badge of servitude—her’s
to bear the burden as long as she lives—haggling over baskets of frowsy
weeds, some sort of salad probably, stale tomatoes, and oranges not above
suspicion. Ash-barrels serve them as counters, and not infrequently does the
arrival of the official cart en route for the dump cause a temporary
suspension of trade until the barrels have been emptied and restored.
Hucksters and pedlars’ carts make two rows of booths in the street itself,
and along the houses is still another—a perpetual market doing a very lively
trade in its own queer staples, found nowhere on American ground save in
“the Bend.” Two old hags, camping on the pavement, are dispensing stale
bread, baked not in loaves, but in the shape of big wreaths like exaggerated
crullers, out of bags of dirty bed-tick. There is no use disguising the fact:

they look like and they probably are old mattresses mustered into service
under the pressure of a rush of trade. Stale bread was the one article the
health officers, after a raid on the market, once reported as “not
unwholesome.” It was only disgusting. Here is a brawny butcher, sleeves
rolled up above the elbows and clay pipe in mouth, skinning a kid that
hangs from his hook. They will tell you with a laugh at the Elizabeth Street
police station that only a few days ago when a dead goat had been reported
lying in Pell Street it was mysteriously missing by the time the offal-cart
came to take it away. It turned out that an Italian had carried it off in his
sack to a wake or feast of some sort in one of the back alleys.

THE BEND.

On either side of the narrow entrance to Bandit’s Roost, one of the most
notorious of these, is a shop that is a fair sample of the sort of invention
necessity is the mother of in “the Bend.” It is not enough that trucks and
ash-barrels have provided four distinct lines of shops that are not down on
the insurance maps, to accommodate the crowds. Here have the very
hallways been made into shops. Three feet wide by four deep, they have
just room for one, the shop-keeper, who, himself within, does his business
outside, his wares displayed on a board hung across what was once the hall
door. Back of the rear wall of this unique shop a hole has been punched

from the hall into the alley and the tenants go that way. One of the shops is
a “tobacco bureau,” presided over by an unknown saint, done in yellow and
red—there is not a shop, a stand, or an ash-barrel doing duty for a counter,
that has not its patron saint—the other is a fish-stand full of slimy, odd-
looking creatures, fish that never swam in American waters, or if they did,
were never seen on an American fish-stand, and snails. Big, awkward
sausages, anything but appetizing, hang in the grocer’s doorway, knocking
against the customer’s head as if to remind him that they are there waiting
to be bought. What they are I never had the courage to ask. Down the street
comes a file of women carrying enormous bundles of fire-wood on their
heads, loads of decaying vegetables from the market wagons in their
aprons, and each a baby at the breast supported by a sort of sling that
prevents it from tumbling down. The women do all the carrying, all the
work one sees going on in “the Bend.” The men sit or stand in the streets,
on trucks, or in the open doors of the saloons smoking black clay pipes,
talking and gesticulating as if forever on the point of coming to blows. Near
a particularly boisterous group, a really pretty girl with a string of amber
beads twisted artlessly in the knot of her raven hair has been bargaining
long and earnestly with an old granny, who presides over a wheel-barrow
load of second-hand stockings and faded cotton yarn, industriously darning
the biggest holes while she extols the virtues of her stock. One of the rude
swains, with patched overalls tucked into his boots, to whom the girl’s eyes
have strayed more than once, steps up and gallantly offers to pick her out
the handsomest pair, whereat she laughs and pushes him away with a
gesture which he interprets as an invitation to stay; and he does, evidently
to the satisfaction of the beldame, who forthwith raises her prices fifty per
cent. without being detected by the girl.
Red bandannas and yellow kerchiefs are everywhere; so is the Italian
tongue, infinitely sweeter than the harsh gutturals of the Russian Jew
around the corner. So are the “ristorantes” of innumerable Pasquales; half of
the people in “the Bend” are christened Pasquale, or get the name in some
other way. When the police do not know the name of an escaped murderer,
they guess at Pasquale and send the name out on alarm; in nine cases out of
ten it fits. So are the “banks” that hang out their shingle as tempting bait on
every hand. There are half a dozen in the single block, steamship agencies,
employment offices, and savings-banks, all in one. So are the toddling

youngsters, bow-legged half of them, and so are no end of mothers, present
and prospective, some of them scarce yet in their teens. Those who are not
in the street are hanging half way out of the windows, shouting at some one
below. All “the Bend” must be, if not altogether, at least half out of doors
when the sun shines.
In the street, where the city wields the broom, there is at least an effort at
cleaning up. There has to be, or it would be swamped in filth overrunning
from the courts and alleys where the rag-pickers live. It requires more than
ordinary courage to explore these on a hot day. The undertaker has to do it
then, the police always. Right here, in this tenement on the east side of the
street, they found little Antonia Candia, victim of fiendish cruelty,
“covered,” says the account found in the records of the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Children, “with sores, and her hair matted with
dried blood.” Abuse is the normal condition of “the Bend,” murder its
everyday crop, with the tenants not always the criminals. In this block
between Bayard, Park, Mulberry, and Baxter Streets, “the Bend” proper, the
late Tenement House Commission counted 155 deaths of children[8] in a
specimen year (1882). Their per centage of the total mortality in the block
was 68.28, while for the whole city the proportion was only 46.20. The
infant mortality in any city or place as compared with the whole number of
deaths is justly considered a good barometer of its general sanitary
condition. Here, in this tenement, No. 59½, next to Bandits’ Roost, fourteen
persons died that year, and eleven of them were children; in No. 61 eleven,
and eight of them not yet five years old. According to the records in the
Bureau of Vital Statistics only thirty-nine people lived in No. 59½ in the
year 1888, nine of them little children. There were five baby funerals in that
house the same year. Out of the alley itself, No. 59, nine dead were carried
in 1888, five in baby coffins. Here is the record of the year for the whole
block, as furnished by the Registrar of Vital Statistics, Dr. Roger S. Tracy:
Deaths and Death-rates in 1888 in Baxter and Mulberry Streets, between
Park and Bayard Streets.

Population. Deaths. Death-rate.
A B C A B C A B D
Baxter Street 1,918 315 2,233 26 46 72 13.56 146.02 32.24

Mulberry Street 2,788 629 3,417 44 86 130 15.78 136.70 38.05
Total 4,706 944 5,650 70 132 202 14.87 139.83 5.75

A = Five years old and over.
B = Under five years.
C = Total.
D = General.

The general death-rate for the whole city that year was 26.27.
These figures speak for themselves, when it is shown that in the model
tenement across the way at Nos. 48 and 50, where the same class of people
live in greater swarms (161, according to the record), but under good
management, and in decent quarters, the hearse called that year only twice,
once for a baby. The agent of the Christian people who built that tenement
will tell you that Italians are good tenants, while the owner of the alley will
oppose every order to put his property in repair with the claim that they are
the worst of a bad lot. Both are right, from their different stand-points. It is
the stand-point that makes the difference—and the tenant.

BANDITS’ ROOST.

What if I were to tell you that this alley, and more tenement property in “the
Bend,” all of it notorious for years as the vilest and worst to be found
anywhere, stood associated on the tax-books all through the long struggle to
make its owners responsible, which has at last resulted in a qualified victory
for the law, with the name of an honored family, one of the “oldest and
best,” rich in possessions and in influence, and high in the councils of the
city’s government? It would be but the plain truth. Nor would it be the only
instance by very many that stand recorded on the Health Department’s
books of a kind that has come near to making the name of landlord as
odious in New York as it has become in Ireland.
Bottle Alley is around the corner in Baxter Street; but it is a fair specimen
of its kind, wherever found. Look into any of these houses, everywhere the
same piles of rags, of malodorous bones and musty paper, all of which the

sanitary police flatter themselves they have banished to the dumps and the
warehouses. Here is a “flat” of “parlor” and two pitch-dark coops called
bedrooms. Truly, the bed is all there is room for. The family tea-kettle is on
the stove, doing duty for the time being as a wash-boiler. By night it will
have returned to its proper use again, a practical illustration of how poverty
in “the Bend” makes both ends meet. One, two, three beds are there, if the
old boxes and heaps of foul straw can be called by that name; a broken
stove with crazy pipe from which the smoke leaks at every joint, a table of
rough boards propped up on boxes, piles of rubbish in the corner. The
closeness and smell are appalling. How many people sleep here? The
woman with the red bandanna shakes her head sullenly, but the bare-legged
girl with the bright face counts on her fingers—five, six!
“Six, sir!” Six grown people and five children.
“Only five,” she says with a smile, swathing the little one on her lap in its
cruel bandage. There is another in the cradle—actually a cradle. And how
much the rent?
Nine and a half, and “please, sir! he won’t put the paper on.”
“He” is the landlord. The “paper” hangs in musty shreds on the wall.
Well do I recollect the visit of a health inspector to one of these tenements
on a July day when the thermometer outside was climbing high in the
nineties; but inside, in that awful room, with half a dozen persons washing,
cooking, and sorting rags, lay the dying baby alongside the stove, where the
doctors thermometer ran up to 115°! Perishing for the want of a breath of
fresh air in this city of untold charities! Did not the manager of the Fresh
Air Fund write to the pastor of an Italian Church only last year[9] that “no
one asked for Italian children,” and hence he could not send any to the
country?

BOTTLE ALLEY.

Half a dozen blocks up Mulberry Street there is a rag-picker’s settlement, a
sort of overflow from “the Bend,” that exists to-day in all its pristine
nastiness. Something like forty families are packed into five old two-story
and attic houses that were built to hold five, and out in the yards additional
crowds are, or were until very recently, accommodated in sheds built of all
sorts of old boards and used as drying racks for the Italian tenants’ “stock.”
I found them empty when I visited the settlement while writing this. The
last two tenants had just left. Their fate was characteristic. The “old man,”
who lived in the corner coop, with barely room to crouch beside the stove—
there would not have been room for him to sleep had not age crooked his
frame to fit his house—had been taken to the “crazy-house,” and the
woman who was his neighbor and had lived in her shed for years had
simply disappeared. The agent and the other tenants “guessed,” doubtless
correctly, that she might be found on the “island,” but she was decrepit

anyhow from rheumatism, and “not much good,” and no one took the
trouble to inquire for her. They had all they could do attending to their own
business and raising the rent. No wonder; I found that for one front room
and two “bedrooms” in the shameful old wrecks of buildings the tenant was
paying $10 a month, for the back-room and one bedroom $9, and for the
attic rooms, according to size, from $3.75 to $5.50.
There is a standing quarrel between the professional—I mean now the
official—sanitarian and the unsalaried agitator for sanitary reform over the
question of overcrowded tenements. The one puts the number a little
vaguely at four or five hundred, while the other asserts that there are thirty-
two thousand, the whole number of houses classed as tenements at the
census of two years ago, taking no account of the better kind of flats. It
depends on the angle from which one sees it which is right. At best the term
overcrowding is a relative one, and the scale of official measurement
conveniently sliding. Under the pressure of the Italian influx the standard of
breathing space required for an adult by the health officers has been cut
down from six to four hundred cubic feet. The “needs of the situation” is
their plea, and no more perfect argument could be advanced for the
reformer’s position.
It is in “the Bend” the sanitary policeman locates the bulk of his four
hundred, and the sanitary reformer gives up the task in despair. Of its vast
homeless crowds the census takes no account. It is their instinct to shun the
light, and they cannot be corralled in one place long enough to be counted.
But the houses can, and the last count showed that in “the Bend” district,
between Broadway and the Bowery and Canal and Chatham Streets, in a
total of four thousand three hundred and sixty-seven “apartments” only nine
were for the moment vacant, while in the old “Africa,” west of Broadway,
that receives the overflow from Mulberry Street and is rapidly changing its
character, the notice “standing room only” is up. Not a single vacant room
was found there. Nearly a hundred and fifty “lodgers” were driven out of
two adjoining Mulberry Street tenements, one of them aptly named “the
House of Blazes,” during that census. What squalor and degradation inhabit
these dens the health officers know. Through the long summer days their
carts patrol “the Bend,” scattering disinfectants in streets and lanes, in sinks
and cellars, and hidden hovels where the tramp burrows. From midnight till
far into the small hours of the morning the policeman’s thundering rap on

closed doors is heard, with his stern command, “Apri port’!” on his rounds
gathering evidence of illegal overcrowding. The doors are opened
unwillingly enough—but the order means business, and the tenant knows it
even if he understands no word of English—upon such scenes as the one
presented in the picture. It was photographed by flash-light on just such a
visit. In a room not thirteen feet either way slept twelve men and women,
two or three in bunks set in a sort of alcove, the rest on the floor. A kerosene
lamp burned dimly in the fearful atmosphere, probably to guide other and
later arrivals to their “beds,” for it was only just past midnight. A baby’s
fretful wail came from an adjoining hall-room, where, in the semi-darkness,
three recumbent figures could be made out. The “apartment” was one of
three in two adjoining buildings we had found, within half an hour,
similarly crowded. Most of the men were lodgers, who slept there for five
cents a spot.

LODGERS IN A CROWDED BAYARD STREET TENEMENT—“FIVE
CENTS A SPOT.”

Another room on the top floor, that had been examined a few nights before,
was comparatively empty. There were only four persons in it, two men, an
old woman, and a young girl. The landlord opened the door with alacrity,
and exhibited with a proud sweep of his hand the sacrifice he had made of
his personal interests to satisfy the law. Our visit had been anticipated. The
policeman’s back was probably no sooner turned than the room was re-
opened for business.

CHAPTER VII.
A RAID ON THE STALE-BEER DIVES.

Midnight roll-call was over in the Elizabeth Street police-station, but the
reserves were held under orders. A raid was on foot, but whether on the
Chinese fan-tan games, on the opium joints of Mott and Pell Streets, or on
dens of even worse character, was a matter of guess-work in the men’s
room. When the last patrolman had come in from his beat, all doubt was
dispelled by the brief order “To the Bend!” The stale-beer dives were the
object of the raid. The policemen buckled their belts tighter, and with
expressive grunts of disgust took up their march toward Mulberry Street.
Past the heathen temples of Mott Street—there was some fun to be gotten
out of a raid there—they trooped, into “the Bend,” sending here and there a
belated tramp scurrying in fright toward healthier quarters, and halted at the
mouth of one of the hidden alleys. Squads were told off and sent to make a
simultaneous descent on all the known tramps’ burrows in the block. Led by
the sergeant, ours—I went along as a kind of war correspondent—groped its
way in single file through the narrow rift between slimy walls to the
tenements in the rear. Twice during our trip we stumbled over tramps, both
women, asleep in the passage. They were quietly passed to the rear,
receiving sundry prods and punches on the trip, and headed for the station
in the grip of a policeman as a sort of advance guard of the coming army.
After what seemed half a mile of groping in the dark we emerged finally
into the alley proper, where light escaping through the cracks of closed
shutters on both sides enabled us to make out the contour of three rickety
frame tenements. Snatches of ribald songs and peals of coarse laughter
reached us from now this, now that of the unseen burrows.
“School is in,” said the Sergeant drily as we stumbled down the worn steps
of the next cellar-way. A kick of his boot-heel sent the door flying into the
room.
A room perhaps a dozen feet square, with walls and ceiling that might once
have been clean—assuredly the floor had not in the memory of man, if

indeed there was other floor than hard-trodden mud—but were now covered
with a brown crust that, touched with the end of a club, came off in
shuddering showers of crawling bugs, revealing the blacker filth beneath.
Grouped about a beer-keg that was propped on the wreck of a broken chair,
a foul and ragged host of men and women, on boxes, benches, and stools.
Tomato-cans filled at the keg were passed from hand to hand. In the centre
of the group a sallow, wrinkled hag, evidently the ruler of the feast, dealt
out the hideous stuff. A pile of copper coins rattled in her apron, the very
pennies received with such showers of blessings upon the giver that
afternoon; the faces of some of the women were familiar enough from the
streets as those of beggars forever whining for a penny, “to keep a family
from starving.” Their whine and boisterous hilarity were alike hushed now.
In sullen, cowed submission they sat, evidently knowing what to expect. At
the first glimpse of the uniform in the open door some in the group,
customers with a record probably, had turned their heads away to avoid the
searching glance of the officer; while a few, less used to such scenes, stared
defiantly.
A single stride took the sergeant into the middle of the room, and with a
swinging blow of his club he knocked the faucet out of the keg and the half-
filled can from the boss hag’s hand. As the contents of both splashed upon
the floor, half a dozen of the group made a sudden dash, and with shoulders
humped above their heads to shield their skulls against the dreaded locust
broke for the door. They had not counted upon the policemen outside. There
was a brief struggle, two or three heavy thumps, and the runaways were
brought back to where their comrades crouched in dogged silence.
“Thirteen!” called the sergeant, completing his survey. “Take them out.
‘Revolvers’ all but one. Good for six months on the island, the whole lot.”
The exception was a young man not much if any over twenty, with a hard
look of dissipation on his face. He seemed less unconcerned than the rest,
but tried hard to make up for it by putting on the boldest air he could.
“Come down early,” commented the officer, shoving him along with his
stick. “There is need of it. They don’t last long at this. That stuff is brewed
to kill at long range.”
At the head of the cellar-steps we encountered a similar procession from
farther back in the alley, where still another was forming to take up its

march to the station. Out in the street was heard the tramp of the hosts
already pursuing that well-trodden path, as with a fresh complement of men
we entered the next stale-beer alley. There were four dives in one cellar
here. The filth and the stench were utterly unbearable; even the sergeant
turned his back and fled after scattering the crowd with his club and starting
them toward the door. The very dog in the alley preferred the cold flags for
a berth to the stifling cellar. We found it lying outside. Seventy-five tramps,
male and female, were arrested in the four small rooms. In one of them,
where the air seemed thick enough to cut with a knife, we found a woman, a
mother with a new-born babe on a heap of dirty straw. She was asleep and
was left until an ambulance could be called to take her to the hospital.
Returning to the station with this batch, we found every window in the
building thrown open to the cold October wind, and the men from the
sergeant down smoking the strongest cigars that could be obtained by way
of disenfecting the place. Two hundred and seventy-five tramps had been
jammed into the cells to be arraigned next morning in the police court on
the charge of vagrancy, with the certain prospect of six months “on the
Island.” Of the sentence at least they were sure. As to the length of the
men’s stay the experienced official at the desk was sceptical, it being then
within a month of an important election. If tramps have nothing else to call
their own they have votes, and votes that are for sale cheap for cash. About
election time this gives them a “pull,” at least by proxy. The sergeant
observed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that he had more
than once seen the same tramp sent to Blackwell’s Island twice in twenty-
four hours for six months at a time.

AN ALL-NIGHT TWO-CENT RESTAURANT, IN “THE BEND.”

As a thief never owns to his calling, however devoid of moral scruples,
preferring to style himself a speculator, so this real home-product of the
slums, the stale-beer dive, is known about “the Bend” by the more dignified
name of the two-cent restaurant. Usually, as in this instance, it is in some
cellar giving on a back alley. Doctored, unlicensed beer is its chief ware.
Sometimes a cup of “coffee” and a stale roll may be had for two cents. The
men pay the score. To the women—unutterable horror of the suggestion—
the place is free. The beer is collected from the kegs put on the sidewalk by
the saloon-keeper to await the brewer’s cart, and is touched up with drugs to
put a froth on it. The privilege to sit all night on a chair, or sleep on a table,
or in a barrel, goes with each round of drinks. Generally an Italian,
sometimes a negro, occasionally a woman, “runs” the dive. Their
customers, alike homeless and hopeless in their utter wretchedness, are the
professional tramps, and these only. The meanest thief is infinitely above
the stale-beer level. Once upon that plane there is no escape. To sink below
it is impossible; no one ever rose from it. One night spent in a stale-beer
dive is like the traditional putting on of the uniform of the caste, the
discarded rags of an old tramp. That stile once crossed, the lane has no
longer a turn; and contrary to the proverb, it is usually not long either.

With the gravitation of the Italian tramp landlord toward the old stronghold
of the African on the West Side, a share of the stale-beer traffic has left “the
Bend;” but its headquarters will always remain there, the real home of
trampdom, just as Fourteenth Street is its limit. No real tramp crosses that
frontier after nightfall and in the daytime only to beg. Repulsive as the
business is, its profits to the Italian dive-keeper are considerable; in fact,
barring a slight outlay in the ingredients that serve to give “life” to the beer-
dregs, it is all profit. The “banker” who curses the Italian colony does not
despise taking a hand in it, and such a thing as a stale-beer trust on a
Mulberry Street scale may yet be among the possibilities. One of these
bankers, who was once known to the police as the keeper of one notorious
stale-beer dive and the active backer of others, is to-day an extensive
manufacturer of macaroni, the owner of several big tenements and other
real estate; and the capital, it is said, has all come out of his old business.
Very likely it is true.
On hot summer nights it is no rare experience when exploring the worst of
the tenements in “the Bend” to find the hallways occupied by rows of
“sitters,” tramps whom laziness or hard luck has prevented from earning
enough by their day’s “labor” to pay the admission fee to a stale-beer dive,
and who have their reasons for declining the hospitality of the police station
lodging-rooms. Huddled together in loathsome files, they squat there over
night, or until an inquisitive policeman breaks up the congregation with his
club, which in Mulberry Street has always free swing. At that season the
woman tramp predominates. The men, some of them at least, take to the
railroad track and to camping out when the nights grow warm, returning in
the fall to prey on the city and to recruit their ranks from the lazy, the
shiftless, and the unfortunate. Like a foul loadstone, “the Bend” attracts and
brings them back, no matter how far they have wandered. For next to
idleness the tramp loves rum; next to rum stale beer, its equivalent of the
gutter. And the first and last go best together.
As “sitters” they occasionally find a job in the saloons about Chatham and
Pearl Streets on cold winter nights, when the hallway is not practicable, that
enables them to pick up a charity drink now and then and a bite of an
infrequent sandwich. The barkeeper permits them to sit about the stove and
by shivering invite the sympathy of transient customers. The dodge works
well, especially about Christmas and election time, and the sitters are able

to keep comfortably filled up to the advantage of their host. But to look
thoroughly miserable they must keep awake. A tramp placidly dozing at the
fire would not be an object of sympathy. To make sure that they do keep
awake, the wily bartender makes them sit constantly swinging one foot like
the pendulum of a clock. When it stops the slothful “sitter” is roused with a
kick and “fired out.” It is said by those who profess to know that habit has
come to the rescue of oversleepy tramps and that the old rounders can
swing hand or foot in their sleep without betraying themselves. In some
saloons “sitters” are let in at these seasons in fresh batches every hour.
On one of my visits to “the Bend” I came across a particularly ragged and
disreputable tramp, who sat smoking his pipe on the rung of a ladder with
such evident philosophic contentment in the busy labor of a score of rag-
pickers all about him, that I bade him sit for a picture, offering him ten
cents for the job. He accepted the offer with hardly a nod, and sat patiently
watching me from his perch until I got ready for work. Then he took the
pipe out of his mouth and put it in his pocket, calmly declaring that it was
not included in the contract, and that it was worth a quarter to have it go in
the picture. The pipe, by the way, was of clay, and of the two-for-a-cent
kind. But I had to give in. The man, scarce ten seconds employed at honest
labor, even at sitting down, at which he was an undoubted expert, had gone
on strike. He knew his rights and the value of “work,” and was not to be
cheated out of either.

THE TRAMP.

Whence these tramps, and why the tramping? are questions oftener asked
than answered. Ill-applied charity and idleness answer the first query. They
are the whence, and to a large extent the why also. Once started on the
career of a tramp, the man keeps to it because it is the laziest. Tramps and
toughs profess the same doctrine, that the world owes them a living, but
from stand-points that tend in different directions. The tough does not
become a tramp, save in rare instances, when old and broken down. Even
then usually he is otherwise disposed of. The devil has various ways of
taking care of his own. Nor is the tramps’ army recruited from any certain
class. All occupations and most grades of society yield to it their contingent
of idleness. Occasionally, from one cause or another, a recruit of a better
stamp is forced into the ranks; but the first acceptance of alms puts a brand
on the able-bodied man which his moral nature rarely hold out to efface. He
seldom recovers his lost caste. The evolution is gradual, keeping step with

the increasing shabbiness of his clothes and corresponding loss of self-
respect, until he reaches the bottom in “the Bend.”
Of the tough the tramp doctrine that the world owes him a living makes a
thief; of the tramp a coward. Numbers only make him bold unless he has to
do with defenceless women. In the city the policemen keep him straight
enough. The women rob an occasional clothes-line when no one is looking,
or steal the pail and scrubbing-brush with which they are set to clean up in
the station-house lodging-rooms after their night’s sleep. At the police
station the roads of the tramp and the tough again converge. In mid-winter,
on the coldest nights, the sanitary police corral the tramps here and in their
lodging-houses and vaccinate them, despite their struggles and many oaths
that they have recently been “scraped.” The station-house is the sieve that
sifts out the chaff from the wheat, if there be any wheat there. A man goes
from his first night’s sleep on the hard slab of a police station lodging-room
to a deck-hand’s berth on an out-going steamer, to the recruiting office, to
any work that is honest, or he goes “to the devil or the dives, same thing,”
says my friend, the Sergeant, who knows.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE CHEAP LODGING-HOUSES.

When it comes to the question of numbers with this tramps’ army, another
factor of serious portent has to be taken into account: the cheap lodging-
houses. In the caravanseries that line Chatham Street and the Bowery,
harboring nightly a population as large as that of many a thriving town, a
home-made article of tramp and thief is turned out that is attracting the
increasing attention of the police, and offers a field for the missionary’s
labors beside which most others seem of slight account. Within a year they
have been stamped as nurseries of crime by the chief of the Secret Police,
[10] the sort of crime that feeds especially on idleness and lies ready to the
hand of fatal opportunity. In the same strain one of the justices on the police
court bench sums up his long experience as a committing magistrate: “The
ten-cent lodging-houses more than counterbalance the good done by the
free reading-room, lectures, and all other agencies of reform. Such lodging-
houses have caused more destitution, more beggary and crime than any
other agency I know of.” A very slight acquaintance with the subject is
sufficient to convince the observer that neither authority overstates the fact.
The two officials had reference, however, to two different grades of
lodging-houses. The cost of a night’s lodging makes the difference. There is
a wider gap between the “hotel”—they are all hotels—that charges a quarter
and the one that furnishes a bed for a dime than between the bridal suite and
the every-day hall bedroom of the ordinary hostelry.
The metropolis is to lots of people like a lighted candle to the moth. It
attracts them in swarms that come year after year with the vague idea that
they can get along here if anywhere; that something is bound to turn up
among so many. Nearly all are young men, unsettled in life, many—most of
them, perhaps—fresh from good homes, beyond a doubt with honest hopes
of getting a start in the city and making a way for themselves. Few of them
have much money to waste while looking around, and the cheapness of the
lodging offered is an object. Fewer still know anything about the city and its

pitfalls. They have come in search of crowds, of “life,” and they gravitate
naturally to the Bowery, the great democratic highway of the city, where the
twenty-five-cent lodging-houses take them in. In the alleged reading-rooms
of these great barracks, that often have accommodations, such as they are,
for two, three, and even four hundred guests, they encounter three distinct
classes of associates: the great mass adventurers like themselves, waiting
there for something to turn up; a much smaller class of respectable clerks or
mechanics, who, too poor or too lonely to have a home of their own, live
this way from year to year; and lastly the thief in search of recruits for his
trade. The sights the young stranger sees, and the company he keeps, in the
Bowery are not of a kind to strengthen any moral principle he may have
brought away from home, and by the time his money is gone, with no work
yet in sight, and he goes down a step, a long step, to the fifteen-cent
lodging-house, he is ready for the tempter whom he finds waiting for him
there, reinforced by the contingent of ex-convicts returning from the prisons
after having served out their sentences for robbery or theft. Then it is that
the something he has been waiting for turns up. The police returns have the
record of it. “In nine cases out of ten,” says Inspector Byrnes, “he turns out
a thief, or a burglar, if, indeed, he does not sooner or later become a
murderer.” As a matter of fact, some of the most atrocious of recent murders
have been the result of schemes of robbery hatched in these houses, and so
frequent and bold have become the depredations of the lodging-house
thieves, that the authorities have been compelled to make a public demand
for more effective laws that shall make them subject at all times to police
regulation.
Inspector Byrnes observes that in the last two or three years at least four
hundred young men have been arrested for petty crimes that originated in
the lodging-houses, and that in many cases it was their first step in crime.
He adds his testimony to the notorious fact that three-fourths of the young
men called on to plead to generally petty offences in the courts are under
twenty years of age, poorly clad, and without means. The bearing of the
remark is obvious. One of the, to the police, well-known thieves who lived,
when out of jail, at the Windsor, a well-known lodging-house in the
Bowery, went to Johnstown after the flood and was shot and killed there
while robbing the dead.

An idea of just how this particular scheme of corruption works, with an
extra touch of infamy thrown in, may be gathered from the story of David
Smith, the “New York Fagin,” who was convicted and sent to prison last
year through the instrumentality of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Children. Here is the account from the Society’s last report:
“The boy, Edward Mulhearn, fourteen years old, had run away from his
home in Jersey City, thinking he might find work and friends in New York.
He may have been a trifle wild. He met Smith on the Bowery and
recognized him as an acquaintance. When Smith offered him a supper and
bed he was only too glad to accept. Smith led the boy to a vile lodging-
house on the Bowery, where he introduced him to his ‘pals’ and swore he
would make a man of him before he was a week older. Next day he took the
unsuspecting Edward all over the Bowery and Grand Street, showed him
the sights and drew his attention to the careless way the ladies carried their
bags and purses and the easy thing it was to get them. He induced Edward
to try his hand. Edward tried and won. He was richer by three dollars! It did
seem easy. ‘Of course it is,’ said his companion. From that time Smith took
the boy on a number of thieving raids, but he never seemed to become adept
enough to be trusted out of range of the ‘Fagin’s’ watchful eye. When he
went out alone he generally returned empty-handed. This did not suit Smith.
It was then he conceived the idea of turning this little inferior thief into a
superior beggar. He took the boy into his room and burned his arms with a
hot iron. The boy screamed and entreated in vain. The merciless wretch
pressed the iron deep into the tender flesh, and afterward applied acid to the
raw wound.
“Thus prepared, with his arm inflamed, swollen, and painful, Edward was
sent out every day by this fiend, who never let him out of his sight, and
threatened to burn his arm off if he did not beg money enough. He was
instructed to tell people the wound had been caused by acid falling upon his
arm at the works. Edward was now too much under the man’s influence to
resist or disobey him. He begged hard and handed Smith the pennies
faithfully. He received in return bad food and worse treatment.”
The reckoning came when the wretch encountered the boy’s father, in
search of his child, in the Bowery, and fell under suspicion of knowing
more than he pretended of the lad’s whereabouts. He was found in his den

with a half dozen of his chums revelling on the proceeds of the boy’s
begging for the day.
The twenty-five cent lodging-house keeps up the pretence of a bedroom,
though the head-high partition enclosing a space just large enough to hold a
cot and a chair and allow the man room to pull off his clothes is the
shallowest of all pretences. The fifteen-cent bed stands boldly forth without
screen in a room full of bunks with sheets as yellow and blankets as foul. At
the ten-cent level the locker for the sleeper’s clothes disappears. There is no
longer need of it. The tramp limit is reached, and there is nothing to lock up
save, on general principles, the lodger. Usually the ten- and seven-cent
lodgings are different grades of the same abomination. Some sort of an
apology for a bed, with mattress and blanket, represents the aristocratic
purchase of the tramp who, by a lucky stroke of beggary, has exchanged the
chance of an empty box or ash-barrel for shelter on the quality floor of one
of these “hotels.” A strip of canvas, strung between rough timbers, without
covering of any kind, does for the couch of the seven-cent lodger who
prefers the questionable comfort of a red-hot stove close to his elbow to the
revelry of the stale-beer dive. It is not the most secure perch in the world.
Uneasy sleepers roll off at intervals, but they have not far to fall to the next
tier of bunks, and the commotion that ensues is speedily quieted by the boss
and his club. On cold winter nights, when every bunk had its tenant, I have
stood in such a lodging-room more than once, and listening to the snoring
of the sleepers like the regular strokes of an engine, and the slow creaking
of the beams under their restless weight, imagined myself on shipboard and
experienced the very real nausea of sea-sickness. The one thing that did not
favor the deception was the air; its character could not be mistaken.

BUNKS IN A SEVEN-CENT LODGING-HOUSE, PELL STREET.

The proprietor of one of these seven-cent houses was known to me as a man
of reputed wealth and respectability. He “ran” three such establishments and
made, it was said, $8,000 a year clear profit on his investment. He lived in a
handsome house quite near to the stylish precincts of Murray Hill, where
the nature of his occupation was not suspected. A notice that was posted on
the wall of the lodgers’ room suggested at least an effort to maintain his up-
town standing in the slums. It read: “No swearing or loud talking after nine
o’clock.” Before nine no exceptions were taken to the natural vulgarity of
the place; but that was the limit.
There are no licensed lodging-houses known to me which charge less than
seven cents for even such a bed as this canvas strip, though there are
unlicensed ones enough where one may sleep on the floor for five cents a

spot, or squat in a sheltered hallway for three. The police station lodging-
house, where the soft side of a plank is the regulation couch, is next in
order. The manner in which this police bed is “made up” is interesting in its
simplicity. The loose planks that make the platform are simply turned over,
and the job is done, with an occasional coat of white-wash thrown in to
sweeten things. I know of only one easier way, but, so far as I am informed,
it has never been introduced in this country. It used to be practised, if report
spoke truly, in certain old-country towns. The “bed” was represented by
clothes-lines stretched across the room upon which the sleepers hung by the
arm-pits for a penny a night. In the morning the boss woke them up by
simply untying the line at one end and letting it go with its load; a labor-
saving device certainly, and highly successful in attaining the desired end.
According to the police figures, 4,974,025 separate lodgings were furnished
last year by these dormitories, between two and three hundred in number,
and, adding the 147,634 lodgings furnished by the station-houses, the total
of the homeless army was 5,121,659, an average of over fourteen thousand
homeless men[11] for every night in the year! The health officers,
professional optimists always in matters that trench upon their official
jurisdiction, insist that the number is not quite so large as here given. But,
apart from any slight discrepancy in the figures, the more important fact
remains that last year’s record of lodgers is an all round increase over the
previous year’s of over three hundred thousand, and that this has been the
ratio of growth of the business during the last three years, the period of
which Inspector Byrnes complains as turning out so many young criminals
with the lodging-house stamp upon them. More than half of the lodging-
houses are in the Bowery district, that is to say, the Fourth, Sixth, and Tenth
Wards, and they harbor nearly three-fourths of their crowds. The calculation
that more than nine thousand homeless young men lodge nightly along
Chatham Street and the Bowery, between the City Hall and the Cooper
Union, is probably not far out of the way. The City Missionary finds them
there far less frequently than the thief in need of helpers. Appropriately
enough, nearly one-fifth of all the pawn-shops in the city and one-sixth of
all the saloons are located here, while twenty-seven per cent. of all the
arrests on the police books have been credited to the district for the last two
years.

About election time, especially in Presidential elections, the lodging-houses
come out strong on the side of the political boss who has the biggest
“barrel.” The victory in political contests, in the three wards I have
mentioned of all others, is distinctly to the general with the strongest
battalions, and the lodging-houses are his favorite recruiting ground. The
colonization of voters is an evil of the first magnitude, none the less
because both parties smirch their hands with it, and for that reason next to
hopeless. Honors are easy, where the two “machines,” intrenched in their
strongholds, outbid each other across the Bowery in open rivalry as to who
shall commit the most flagrant frauds at the polls. Semi-occasionally a
champion offender is caught and punished, as was, not long ago, the
proprietor of one of the biggest Bowery lodging-houses. But such scenes
are largely spectacular, if not prompted by some hidden motive of revenge
that survives from the contest. Beyond a doubt Inspector Byrnes speaks by
the card when he observes that “usually this work is done in the interest of
some local political boss, who stands by the owner of the house, in case the
latter gets into trouble.” For standing by, read twisting the machinery of
outraged justice so that its hand shall fall not too heavily upon the culprit, or
miss him altogether. One of the houses that achieved profitable notoriety in
this way in many successive elections, a notorious tramps’ resort in Houston
Street, was lately given up, and has most appropriately been turned into a
bar-factory, thus still contributing, though in a changed form, to the success
of “the cause.” It must be admitted that the black tramp who herds in the
West Side “hotels” is more discriminating in this matter of electioneering
than his white brother. He at least exhibits some real loyalty in invariably
selling his vote to the Republican bidder for a dollar, while he charges the
Democratic boss a dollar and a half. In view of the well-known facts, there
is a good deal of force in the remark made by a friend of ballot reform
during the recent struggle over that hotly contested issue, that real ballot
reform will do more to knock out cheap lodging-houses than all the
regulations of police and health officers together.
The experiment made by a well-known stove manufacturer a winter or two
ago in the way of charity, might have thrown much desired light on the
question of the number of tramps in the city, could it have been carried to a
successful end. He opened a sort of breakfast shop for the idle and
unemployed in the region of Washington Square, offering to all who had no

money a cup of coffee and a roll for nothing. The first morning he had a
dozen customers, the next about two hundred. The number kept growing
until one morning, at the end of two weeks, found by actual count 2,014
shivering creatures in line waiting their turn for a seat at his tables. The
shop was closed that day. It was one of the rare instances of too great a rush
of custom wrecking a promising business, and the great problem remained
unsolved.

CHAPTER IX.
CHINATOWN.

Between the tabernacles of Jewry and the shrines of the Bend, Joss has
cheekily planted his pagan worship of idols, chief among which are the
celestial worshipper’s own gain and lusts. Whatever may be said about the
Chinaman being a thousand years behind the age on his own shores, here he
is distinctly abreast of it in his successful scheming to “make it pay.” It is
doubtful if there is anything he does not turn to a paying account, from his
religion down, or up, as one prefers. At the risk of distressing some well-
meaning, but, I fear, too trustful people, I state it in advance as my opinion,
based on the steady observation of years, that all attempts to make an
effective Christian of John Chinaman will remain abortive in this
generation; of the next I have, if anything, less hope. Ages of senseless
idolatry, a mere grub-worship, have left him without the essential qualities
for appreciating the gentle teachings of a faith whose motive and unselfish
spirit are alike beyond his grasp. He lacks the handle of a strong faith in
something, anything however wrong, to catch him by. There is nothing
strong about him, except his passions when aroused. I am convinced that he
adopts Christianity, when he adopts it at all, as he puts on American clothes,
with what the politicians would call an ulterior motive, some sort of gain in
the near prospect—washing, a Christian wife, perhaps, anything he happens
to rate for the moment above his cherished pigtail. It may be that I judge
him too harshly. Exceptions may be found. Indeed, for the credit of the race,
I hope there are such. But I am bound to say my hope is not backed by
lively faith.
Chinatown as a spectacle is disappointing. Next-door neighbor to the Bend,
it has little of its outdoor stir and life, none of its gayly-colored rags or
picturesque filth and poverty. Mott Street is clean to distraction: the laundry
stamp is on it, though the houses are chiefly of the conventional tenement-
house type, with nothing to rescue them from the everyday dismal
dreariness of their kind save here and there a splash of dull red or yellow, a

sign, hung endways and with streamers of red flannel tacked on, that
announces in Chinese characters that Dr. Chay Yen Chong sells Chinese
herb medicines, or that Won Lung & Co.—queer contradiction—take in
washing, or deal out tea and groceries. There are some gimcracks in the
second story fire-escape of one of the houses, signifying that Joss or a club
has a habitation there. An American patent medicine concern has seized the
opportunity to decorate the back-ground with its cabalistic trade-mark, that
in this company looks as foreign as the rest. Doubtless the privilege was
bought for cash. It will buy anything in Chinatown, Joss himself included,
as indeed, why should it not? He was bought for cash across the sea and
came here under the law that shuts out the live Chinaman, but lets in his
dead god on payment of the statutory duty on bric-à-brac. Red and yellow
are the holiday colors of Chinatown as of the Bend, but they do not lend
brightness in Mott Street as around the corner in Mulberry. Rather, they
seem to descend to the level of the general dulness, and glower at you from
doors and windows, from the telegraph pole that is the official organ of
Chinatown and from the store signs, with blank, un-meaning stare,
suggesting nothing, asking no questions, and answering none. Fifth Avenue
is not duller on a rainy day than Mott Street to one in search of excitement.
Whatever is on foot goes on behind closed doors. Stealth and secretiveness
are as much part of the Chinaman in New York as the cat-like tread of his
felt shoes. His business, as his domestic life, shuns the light, less because
there is anything to conceal than because that is the way of the man.
Perhaps the attitude of American civilization toward the stranger, whom it
invited in, has taught him that way. At any rate, the very doorways of his
offices and shops are fenced off by queer, forbidding partitions suggestive
of a continual state of siege. The stranger who enters through the crooked
approach is received with sudden silence, a sullen stare, and an angry “Vat
you vant?” that breathes annoyance and distrust.
Trust not him who trusts no one, is as safe a rule in Chinatown as out of it.
Were not Mott Street overawed in its isolation, it would not be safe to
descend this open cellar-way, through which come the pungent odor of
burning opium and the clink of copper coins on the table. As it is, though
safe, it is not profitable to intrude. At the first foot-fall of leather soles on
the steps the hum of talk ceases, and the group of celestials, crouching over
their game of fan tan, stop playing and watch the comer with ugly looks.

Fan tan is their ruling passion. The average Chinaman, the police will tell
you, would rather gamble than eat any day, and they have ample experience
to back them. Only the fellow in the bunk smokes away, indifferent to all
else but his pipe and his own enjoyment. It is a mistake to assume that
Chinatown is honeycombed with opium “joints.” There are a good many
more outside of it than in it. The celestials do not monopolize the pipe. In
Mott Street there is no need of them. Not a Chinese home or burrow there,
but has its bunk and its lay-out, where they can be enjoyed safe from police
interference. The Chinaman smokes opium as Caucasians smoke tobacco,
and apparently with little worse effect upon himself. But woe unto the white
victim upon which his pitiless drug gets its grip!
The bloused pedlars who, with arms buried half to the elbow in their
trousers’ pockets, lounge behind their stock of watermelon seed and sugar-
cane, cut in lengths to suit the purse of the buyer, disdain to offer the
barbarian their wares. Chinatown, that does most things by contraries, rules
it holiday style to carry its hands in its pockets, and its denizens follow the
fashion, whether in blue blouse, in gray, or in brown, with shining and
braided pig-tail dangling below the knees, or with hair cropped short above
a coat collar of “Melican” cut. All kinds of men are met, but no women—
none at least with almond eyes. The reason is simple: there are none. A few,
a very few, Chinese merchants have wives of their own color, but they are
seldom or never seen in the street. The “wives” of Chinatown are of a
different stock that comes closer home.
From the teeming tenements to the right and left of it come the white slaves
of its dens of vice and their infernal drug, that have infused into the
“Bloody Sixth” Ward a subtler poison than ever the stale-beer dives knew,
or the “sudden death” of the Old Brewery. There are houses, dozens of
them, in Mott and Pell Streets, that are literally jammed, from the “joint” in
the cellar to the attic, with these hapless victims of a passion which, once
acquired, demands the sacrifice of every instinct of decency to its insatiate
desire. There is a church in Mott Street, at the entrance to Chinatown, that
stands as a barrier between it and the tenements beyond. Its young men
have waged unceasing war upon the monstrous wickedness for years, but
with very little real result. I have in mind a house in Pell Street that has
been raided no end of times by the police, and its population emptied upon
Blackwell’s Island, or into the reformatories, yet is to-day honeycombed

with scores of the conventional households of the Chinese quarter: the men
worshippers of Joss; the women, all white, girls hardly yet grown to
womanhood, worshipping nothing save the pipe that has enslaved them
body and soul. Easily tempted from homes that have no claim upon the
name, they rarely or never return. Mott Street gives up its victims only to
the Charity Hospital or the Potter’s Field. Of the depth of their fall no one is
more thoroughly aware than these girls themselves; no one less concerned
about it. The calmness with which they discuss it, while insisting illogically
upon the fiction of a marriage that deceives no one, is disheartening. Their
misery is peculiarly fond of company, and an amount of visiting goes on in
these households that makes it extremely difficult for the stranger to
untangle them. I came across a company of them “hitting the pipe” together,
on a tour through their dens one night with the police captain of the
precinct. The girls knew him, called him by name, offered him a pipe, and
chatted with him about the incidents of their acquaintance, how many times
he had “sent them up,” and their chances of “lasting” much longer. There
was no shade of regret in their voices, nothing but utter indifference and
surrender.
One thing about them was conspicuous: their scrupulous neatness. It is the
distinguishing mark of Chinatown, outwardly and physically. It is not
altogether by chance the Chinaman has chosen the laundry as his distinctive
field. He is by nature as clean as the cat, which he resembles in his traits of
cruel cunning, and savage fury when aroused. On this point of cleanliness
he insists in his domestic circle, yielding in others with crafty
submissiveness to the caprice of the girls, who “boss” him in a very
independent manner, fretting vengefully under the yoke they loathe, but
which they know right well they can never shake off, once they have put the
pipe to their lips and given Mott Street a mortgage upon their souls for all
time. To the priest, whom they call in when the poison racks the body, they
pretend that they are yet their own masters; but he knows that it is an idle
boast, least of all believed by themselves. As he walks with them the few
short steps to the Potter’s Field, he hears the sad story he has heard told
over and over again, of father, mother, home, and friends given up for the
accursed pipe, and stands hopeless and helpless before the colossal evil for
which he knows no remedy.

The frequent assertions of the authorities that at least no girls under age are
wrecked on this Chinese shoal, are disproved by the observation of those
who go frequently among these dens, though the smallest girl will
invariably, and usually without being asked, insist that she is sixteen, and so
of age to choose the company she keeps. Such assertions are not to be taken
seriously. Even while I am writing, the morning returns from one of the
precincts that pass through my hands report the arrest of a Chinaman for
“inveigling little girls into his laundry,” one of the hundred outposts of
Chinatown that are scattered all over the city, as the outer threads of the
spider’s web that holds its prey fast. Reference to case No. 39,499 in this
year’s report of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, will
discover one of the much travelled roads to Chinatown. The girl whose
story it tells was thirteen, and one of six children abandoned by a dissipated
father. She had been discharged from an Eighth Avenue store, where she
was employed as cash girl, and, being afraid to tell her mother, floated
about until she landed in a Chinese laundry. The judge heeded her tearful
prayer, and sent her home with her mother, but she was back again in a little
while despite all promises of reform.

IN A CHINESE JOINT.

Her tyrant knows well that she will come, and patiently bides his time.
When her struggles in the web have ceased at last, he rules no longer with

gloved hand. A specimen of celestial logic from the home circle at this
period came home to me with a personal application, one evening when I
attempted, with a policeman, to stop a Chinaman whom we found beating
his white “wife” with a broom-handle in a Mott Street cellar. He was angry
at our interference, and declared vehemently that she was “bad.”
“S’ppose your wifee bad, you no lickee her?” he asked, as if there could be
no appeal from such a common-sense proposition as that. My assurance that
I did not, that such a thing could not occur to me, struck him dumb with
amazement. He eyed me a while in stupid silence, poked the linen in his
tub, stole another look, and made up his mind. A gleam of intelligence
shone in his eye, and pity and contempt struggled in his voice. “Then, I
guess, she lickee you,” he said.
No small commotion was caused in Chinatown once upon the occasion of
an expedition I undertook, accompanied by a couple of police detectives, to
photograph Joss. Some conscienceless wag spread the report, after we were
gone, that his picture was wanted for the Rogues’ Gallery at Headquarters.
The insult was too gross to be passed over without atonement of some sort.
Two roast pigs made matters all right with his offended majesty of Mott
Street, and with his attendant priests, who bear a very practical hand in the
worship by serving as the divine stomach, as it were. They eat the good
things set before their rice-paper master, unless, as once happened, some
sacrilegious tramp sneaks in and gets ahead of them. The practical way in
which this people combine worship with business is certainly admirable. I
was told that the scrawl covering the wall on both sides of the shrine stood
for the names of the pillars of the church or club—the Joss House is both—
that they might have their reward in this world, no matter what happened to
them in the next. There was another inscription overhead that needed no
interpreter. In familiar English letters, copied bodily from the trade dollar,
was the sentiment: “In God we trust.” The priest pointed to it with
undisguised pride and attempted an explanation, from which I gathered that
the inscription was intended as a diplomatic courtesy, a delicate
international compliment to the “Melican Joss,” the almighty dollar.

“THE OFFICIAL ORGAN OF CHINATOWN.”

Chinatown has enlisted the telegraph for the dissemination of public
intelligence, but it has got hold of the contrivance by the wrong end. As the
wires serve us in newspaper-making, so the Chinaman makes use of the
pole for the same purpose. The telegraph pole, of which I spoke as the real
official organ of Chinatown, stands not far from the Joss House in Mott
Street, in full view from Chatham Square. In it centres the real life of the
colony, its gambling news. Every day yellow and red notices are posted
upon it by unseen hands, announcing that in such and such a cellar a fan tan
game will be running that night, or warning the faithful that a raid is
intended on this or that game through the machination of a rival interest. A
constant stream of plotting and counter-plotting makes up the round of
Chinese social and political existence. I do not pretend to understand the
exact political structure of the colony, or its internal government. Even
discarding as idle the stories of a secret cabal with power over life and

death, and authority to enforce its decrees, there is evidence enough that the
Chinese consider themselves subject to the laws of the land only when
submission is unavoidable, and that they are governed by a code of their
own, the very essence of which is rejection of all other authority except
under compulsion. If now and then some horrible crime in the Chinese
colony, a murder of such hideous ferocity as one I have a very vivid
recollection of, where the murderer stabbed his victim (both Chinamen, of
course) in the back with a meat-knife, plunging it in to the hilt no less than
seventeen times, arouses the popular prejudice to a suspicion that it was
“ordered,” only the suspected themselves are to blame, for they appear to
rise up as one man to shield the criminal. The difficulty of tracing the
motive of the crime and the murderer is extreme, and it is the rarest of all
results that the police get on the track of either. The obstacles in the way of
hunting down an Italian murderer are as nothing to the opposition
encountered in Chinatown. Nor is the failure of the pursuit wholly to be
ascribed to the familiar fact that to Caucasian eyes “all Chinamen look
alike,” but rather to their acting “alike,” in a body, to defeat discovery at
any cost.
Withal the police give the Chinese the name of being the “quietest people
down there,” meaning in the notoriously turbulent Sixth Ward; and they are.
The one thing they desire above all is to be let alone, a very natural wish
perhaps, considering all the circumstances. If it were a laudable, or even an
allowable ambition that prompts it, they might be humored with advantage,
probably, to both sides. But the facts show too plainly that it is not, and that
in their very exclusiveness and reserve they are a constant and terrible
menace to society, wholly regardless of their influence upon the industrial
problems which their presence confuses. The severest official scrutiny, the
harshest repressive measures are justifiable in Chinatown, orderly as it
appears on the surface, even more than in the Bend, and the case is
infinitely more urgent. To the peril that threatens there all the senses are
alert, whereas the poison that proceeds from Mott Street puts mind and
body to sleep, to work out its deadly purpose in the corruption of the soul.
This again may be set down as a harsh judgment. I may be accused of
inciting persecution of an unoffending people. Far from it. Granted, that the
Chinese are in no sense a desirable element of the population, that they
serve no useful purpose here, whatever they may have done elsewhere in

other days, yet to this it is a sufficient answer that they are here, and that,
having let them in, we must make the best of it. This is a time for very plain
speaking on this subject. Rather than banish the Chinaman, I would have
the door opened wider—for his wife; make it a condition of his coming or
staying that he bring his wife with him. Then, at least, he might not be what
he now is and remains, a homeless stranger among us. Upon this hinges the
real Chinese question, in our city at all events, as I see it. To assert that the
victims of his drug and his base passions would go to the bad anyhow, is
begging the question. They might and they might not. The chance is the
span between life and death. From any other form of dissipation than that
for which Chinatown stands there is recovery: for the victims of any other
vice, hope. For these there is neither hope nor recovery; nothing but death
—moral, mental, and physical death.

CHAPTER X.
JEWTOWN.

The tenements grow taller, and the gaps in their ranks close up rapidly as
we cross the Bowery and, leaving Chinatown and the Italians behind,
invade the Hebrew quarter. Baxter Street, with its interminable rows of old
clothes shops and its brigades of pullers-in—nicknamed “the Bay” in honor,
perhaps, of the tars who lay to there after a cruise to stock up their togs, or
maybe after the “schooners” of beer plentifully bespoke in that latitude—
Bayard Street, with its synagogues and its crowds, gave us a foretaste of it.
No need of asking here where we are. The jargon of the street, the signs of
the sidewalk, the manner and dress of the people, their unmistakable
physiognomy, betray their race at every step. Men with queer skull-caps,
venerable beard, and the outlandish long-skirted kaftan of the Russian Jew,
elbow the ugliest and the handsomest women in the land. The contrast is
startling. The old women are hags; the young, houris. Wives and mothers at
sixteen, at thirty they are old. So thoroughly has the chosen people crowded
out the Gentiles in the Tenth Ward that, when the great Jewish holidays
come around every year, the public schools in the district have practically to
close up. Of their thousands of pupils scarce a handful come to school. Nor
is there any suspicion that the rest are playing hookey. They stay honestly
home to celebrate. There is no mistaking it: we are in Jewtown.
It is said that nowhere in the world are so many people crowded together on
a square mile as here. The average five-story tenement adds a story or two
to its stature in Ludlow Street and an extra building on the rear lot, and yet
the sign “To Let” is the rarest of all there. Here is one seven stories high.
The sanitary policeman whose beat this is will tell you that it contains
thirty-six families, but the term has a widely different meaning here and on
the avenues. In this house, where a case of small-pox was reported, there
were fifty-eight babies and thirty-eight children that were over five years of
age. In Essex Street two small rooms in a six-story tenement were made to
hold a “family” of father and mother, twelve children, and six boarders. The

boarder plays as important a part in the domestic economy of Jewtown as
the lodger in the Mulberry Street Bend. These are samples of the packing of
the population that has run up the record here to the rate of three hundred
and thirty thousand per square mile. The densest crowding of Old London, I
pointed out before, never got beyond a hundred and seventy-five thousand.
Even the alley is crowded out. Through dark hallways and filthy cellars,
crowded, as is every foot of the street, with dirty children, the settlements in
the rear are reached. Thieves know how to find them when pursued by the
police, and the tramps that sneak in on chilly nights to fight for the warm
spot in the yard over some baker’s oven. They are out of place in this hive
of busy industry, and they know it. It has nothing in common with them or
with their philosophy of life, that the world owes the idler a living. Life
here means the hardest kind of work almost from the cradle. The world as a
debtor has no credit in Jewtown. Its promise to pay wouldn’t buy one of the
old hats that are hawked about Hester Street, unless backed by security
representing labor done at lowest market rates. But this army of workers
must have bread. It is cheap and filling, and bakeries abound. Wherever
they are in the tenements the tramp will skulk in, if he can. There is such a
tramps’ roost in the rear of a tenement near the lower end of Ludlow Street,
that is never without its tenants in winter. By a judicious practice of
flopping over on the stone pavement at intervals, and thus warming one side
at a time, and with an empty box to put the feet in, it is possible to keep
reasonably comfortable there even on a rainy night. In summer the yard is
the only one in the neighborhood that does not do duty as a public
dormitory.

A TRAMP’S NEST IN LUDLOW STREET.

Thrift is the watchword of Jewtown, as of its people the world over. It is at
once its strength and its fatal weakness, its cardinal virtue and its foul
disgrace. Become an over-mastering passion with these people who come
here in droves from Eastern Europe to escape persecution, from which
freedom could be bought only with gold, it has enslaved them in bondage
worse than that from which they fled. Money is their God. Life itself is of
little value compared with even the leanest bank account. In no other spot
does life wear so intensely bald and materialistic an aspect as in Ludlow
Street. Over and over again I have met with instances of these Polish or
Russian Jews deliberately starving themselves to the point of physical
exhaustion, while working night and day at a tremendous pressure to save a
little money. An avenging Nemesis pursues this headlong hunt for wealth;
there is no worse paid class anywhere. I once put the question to one of
their own people, who, being a pawnbroker, and an unusually intelligent
and charitable one, certainly enjoyed the advantage of a practical view of
the situation: “Whence the many wretchedly poor people in such a colony
of workers, where poverty, from a misfortune, has become a reproach,
dreaded as the plague?”
“Immigration,” he said, “brings us a lot. In five years it has averaged
twenty-five thousand a year, of which more than seventy per cent. have
stayed in New York. Half of them require and receive aid from the Hebrew
Charities from the very start, lest they starve. That is one explanation. There
is another class than the one that cannot get work: those who have had too

much of it; who have worked and hoarded and lived, crowded together like
pigs, on the scantiest fare and the worst to be got, bound to save whatever
their earnings, until, worn out, they could work no longer. Then their hoards
were soon exhausted. That is their story.” And I knew that what he said was
true.
Penury and poverty are wedded everywhere to dirt and disease, and
Jewtown is no exception. It could not well be otherwise in such crowds,
considering especially their low intellectual status. The managers of the
Eastern Dispensary, which is in the very heart of their district, told the
whole story when they said: “The diseases these people suffer from are not
due to intemperance or immorality, but to ignorance, want of suitable food,
and the foul air in which they live and work.”[12] The homes of the Hebrew
quarter are its workshops also. Reference will be made to the economic
conditions under which they work in a succeeding chapter. Here we are
concerned simply with the fact. You are made fully aware of it before you
have travelled the length of a single block in any of these East Side streets,
by the whir of a thousand sewing-machines, worked at high pressure from
earliest dawn till mind and muscle give out together. Every member of the
family, from the youngest to the oldest, bears a hand, shut in the qualmy
rooms, where meals are cooked and clothing washed and dried besides, the
live-long day. It is not unusual to find a dozen persons—men, women, and
children—at work in a single small room. The fact accounts for the contrast
that strikes with wonder the observer who comes across from the Bend.
Over there the entire population seems possessed of an uncontrollable
impulse to get out into the street; here all its energies appear to be bent upon
keeping in and away from it. Not that the streets are deserted. The overflow
from these tenements is enough to make a crowd anywhere. The children
alone would do it. Not old enough to work and no room for play, that is
their story. In the home the child’s place is usurped by the lodger, who
performs the service of the Irishman’s pig—pays the rent. In the street the
army of hucksters crowd him out. Typhus fever and small-pox are bred
here, and help solve the question what to do with him. Filth diseases both,
they sprout naturally among the hordes that bring the germs with them from
across the sea, and whose first instinct is to hide their sick lest the
authorities carry them off to the hospital to be slaughtered, as they firmly
believe. The health officers are on constant and sharp lookout for hidden

fever-nests. Considering that half of the ready-made clothes that are sold in
the big stores, if not a good deal more than half, are made in these tenement
rooms, this is not excessive caution. It has happened more than once that a
child recovering from small-pox, and in the most contagious stage of the
disease, has been found crawling among heaps of half-finished clothing that
the next day would be offered for sale on the counter of a Broadway store;
or that a typhus fever patient has been discovered in a room whence perhaps
a hundred coats had been sent home that week, each one with the wearer’s
death-warrant, unseen and unsuspected, basted in the lining.
The health officers call the Tenth the typhus ward; in the office where
deaths are registered it passes as the “suicide ward,” for reasons not hard to
understand; and among the police as the “crooked ward,” on account of the
number of “crooks,” petty thieves and their allies, the “fences,” receivers of
stolen goods, who find the dense crowds congenial. The nearness of the
Bowery, the great “thieves’ highway,” helps to keep up the supply of these,
but Jewtown does not support its dives. Its troubles with the police are the
characteristic crop of its intense business rivalries. Oppression, persecution,
have not shorn the Jew of his native combativeness one whit. He is as ready
to fight for his rights, or what he considers his rights, in a business
transaction—synonymous generally with his advantage—as if he had not
been robbed of them for eighteen hundred years. One strong impression
survives with him from his days of bondage: the power of the law. On the
slightest provocation he rushes off to invoke it for his protection. Doubtless
the sensation is novel to him, and therefore pleasing. The police at the
Eldridge Street station are in a constant turmoil over these everlasting
fights. Somebody is always denouncing somebody else, and getting his
enemy or himself locked up; frequently both, for the prisoner, when brought
in, has generally as plausible a story to tell as his accuser, and as hot a
charge to make. The day closes on a wild conflict of rival interests. Another
dawns with the prisoner in court, but no complainant. Over night the case
has been settled on a business basis, and the police dismiss their prisoner in
deep disgust.
These quarrels have sometimes a comic aspect. Thus, with the numerous
dancing-schools that are scattered among the synagogues, often keeping
them company in the same tenement. They are generally kept by some man
who works in the daytime at tailoring, cigarmaking, or something else. The

young people in Jewtown are inordinately fond of dancing, and after their
day’s hard work will flock to these “schools” for a night’s recreation. But
even to their fun they carry their business preferences, and it happens that a
school adjourns in a body to make a general raid on the rival establishment
across the street, without the ceremony of paying the admission fee. Then
the dance breaks up in a general fight, in which, likely enough, someone is
badly hurt. The police come in, as usual, and ring down the curtain.

A MARKET SCENE IN THE JEWISH QUARTER.

Bitter as are his private feuds, it is not until his religious life is invaded that
a real inside view is obtained of this Jew, whom the history of Christian
civilization has taught nothing but fear and hatred. There are two or three
missions in the district conducting a hopeless propagandism for the Messiah
whom the Tenth Ward rejects, and they attract occasional crowds, who
come to hear the Christian preacher as the Jews of old gathered to hear the
apostles expound the new doctrine. The result is often strikingly similar.
“For once,” said a certain well-known minister of an uptown church to me,
after such an experience, “I felt justified in comparing myself to Paul
preaching salvation to the Jews. They kept still until I spoke of Jesus Christ

as the Son of God. Then they got up and fell to arguing among themselves
and to threatening me, until it looked as if they meant to take me out in
Hester Street and stone me.” As at Jerusalem, the Chief Captain was
happily at hand with his centurions, in the person of a sergeant and three
policemen, and the preacher was rescued. So, in all matters pertaining to
their religious life that tinges all their customs, they stand, these East Side
Jews, where the new day that dawned on Calvary left them standing,
stubbornly refusing to see the light. A visit to a Jewish house of mourning is
like bridging the gap of two thousand years. The inexpressibly sad and
sorrowful wail for the dead, as it swells and rises in the hush of all sounds
of life, comes back from the ages like a mournful echo of the voice of
Rachel “weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because
they are not.”
Attached to many of the synagogues, which among the poorest Jews
frequently consist of a scantily furnished room in a rear tenement, with a
few wooden stools or benches for the congregation, are Talmudic schools
that absorb a share of the growing youth. The school-master is not rarely a
man of some attainments who has been stranded there, his native instinct
for money-making having been smothered in the process that has made of
him a learned man. It was of such a school in Eldridge Street that the
wicked Isaac Iacob, who killed his enemy, his wife, and himself in one day,
was janitor. But the majority of the children seek the public schools, where
they are received sometimes with some misgivings on the part of the
teachers, who find it necessary to inculcate lessons of cleanliness in the
worst cases by practical demonstration with wash-bowl and soap. “He took
hold of the soap as if it were some animal,” said one of these teachers to me
after such an experiment upon a new pupil, “and wiped three fingers across
his face. He called that washing.” In the Allen Street public school the
experienced principal has embodied among the elementary lessons, to keep
constantly before the children the duty that clearly lies next to their hands, a
characteristic exercise. The question is asked daily from the teacher’s desk:
“What must I do to be healthy?” and the whole school responds:
“I must keep my skin clean,
Wear clean clothes,
Breathe pure air,
And live in the sunlight.”

It seems little less than biting sarcasm to hear them say it, for to not a few
of them all these things are known only by name. In their everyday life
there is nothing even to suggest any of them. Only the demand of religious
custom has power to make their parents clean up at stated intervals, and the
young naturally are no better. As scholars, the children of the most ignorant
Polish Jew keep fairly abreast of their more favored playmates, until it
comes to mental arithmetic, when they leave them behind with a bound. It
is surprising to see how strong the instinct of dollars and cents is in them.
They can count, and correctly, almost before they can talk.
Within a few years the police captured on the East Side a band of firebugs
who made a business of setting fire to tenements for the insurance on their
furniture. There has, unfortunately, been some evidence in the past year that
another such conspiracy is on foot. The danger to which these fiends expose
their fellow-tenants is appalling. A fire-panic at night in a tenement, by no
means among the rare experiences in New York, with the surging, half-
smothered crowds on stairs and fire-escapes, the frantic mothers and crying
children, the wild struggle to save the little that is their all, is a horror that
has few parallels in human experience.
I cannot think without a shudder of one such scene in a First Avenue
tenement. It was in the middle of the night. The fire had swept up with
sudden fury from a restaurant on the street floor, cutting off escape. Men
and women threw themselves from the windows, or were carried down
senseless by the firemen. Thirteen half-clad, apparently lifeless bodies were
laid on the floor of an adjoining coal-office, and the ambulance surgeons
worked over them with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A half-grown girl
with a baby in her arms walked about among the dead and dying with a
stunned, vacant look, singing in a low, scared voice to the child. One of the
doctors took her arm to lead her out, and patted the cheek of the baby
soothingly. It was cold. The baby had been smothered with its father and
mother; but the girl, her sister, did not know it. Her reason had fled.
Thursday night and Friday morning are bargain days in the “Pig-market.”
Then is the time to study the ways of this peculiar people to the best
advantage. A common pulse beats in the quarters of the Polish Jews and in
the Mulberry Bend, though they have little else in common. Life over
yonder in fine weather is a perpetual holiday, here a veritable tread-mill of

industry. Friday brings out all the latent color and picturesqueness of the
Italians, as of these Semites. The crowds and the common poverty are the
bonds of sympathy between them. The Pig-market is in Hester Street,
extending either way from Ludlow Street, and up and down the side streets
two or three blocks, as the state of trade demands. The name was given to it
probably in derision, for pork is the one ware that is not on sale in the Pig-
market. There is scarcely anything else that can be hawked from a wagon
that is not to be found, and at ridiculously low prices. Bandannas and tin
cups at two cents, peaches at a cent a quart, “damaged” eggs for a song,
hats for a quarter, and spectacles, warranted to suit the eye, at the optician’s
who has opened shop on a Hester Street door-step, for thirty five cents;
frowsy-looking chickens and half-plucked geese, hung by the neck and
protesting with wildly strutting feet even in death against the outrage, are
the great staple of the market. Half or a quarter of a chicken can be bought
here by those who cannot afford a whole. It took more than ten years of
persistent effort on the part of the sanitary authorities to drive the trade in
live fowl from the streets to the fowl-market on Gouverneur Slip, where the
killing is now done according to Jewish rite by priests detailed for the
purpose by the chief rabbi. Since then they have had a characteristic
rumpus, that involved the entire Jewish community, over the fees for killing
and the mode of collecting them. Here is a woman churning horse-radish on
a machine she has chained and padlocked to a tree on the sidewalk, lest
someone steal it. Beside her a butcher’s stand with cuts at prices the
avenues never dreamed of. Old coats are hawked for fifty cents, “as good as
new,” and “pants”—there are no trousers in Jewtown, only pants—at
anything that can be got. There is a knot of half a dozen “pants” pedlars in
the middle of the street, twice as many men of their own race fingering their
wares and plucking at the seams with the anxious scrutiny of would-be
buyers, though none of them has the least idea of investing in a pair. Yes,
stop! This baker, fresh from his trough, bare-headed and with bare arms, has
made an offer: for this pair thirty cents; a dollar and forty was the price
asked. The pedlar shrugs his shoulders, and turns up his hands with a half
pitying, wholly indignant air. What does the baker take him for? Such pants
—. The baker has turned to go. With a jump like a panther’s, the man with
the pants has him by the sleeve. Will he give eighty cents? Sixty? Fifty? So
help him, they are dirt cheap at that. Lose, will he, on the trade, lose all the
profit of his day’s pedling. The baker goes on unmoved. Forty then? What,

not forty? Take them then for thirty, and wreck the life of a poor man. And
the baker takes them and goes, well knowing that at least twenty cents of
the thirty, two hundred per cent., were clear profit, if indeed the “pants” cost
the pedlar anything.

THE OLD CLO’E’S MAN—IN THE JEWISH QUARTERS.

The suspender pedlar is the mystery of the Pig-market, omnipresent and
unfathomable. He is met at every step with his wares dangling over his
shoulder, down his back, and in front. Millions of suspenders thus
perambulate Jewtown all day on a sort of dress parade. Why suspenders, is
the puzzle, and where do they all go to? The “pants” of Jewtown hang down
with a common accord, as if they had never known the support of
suspenders. It appears to be as characteristic a trait of the race as the long
beard and the Sabbath silk hat of ancient pedigree. I have asked again and

again. No one has ever been able to tell me what becomes of the suspenders
of Jewtown. Perhaps they are hung up as bric-à-brac in its homes, or laid
away and saved up as the equivalent of cash. I cannot tell. I only know that
more suspenders are hawked about the Pig-market every day than would
supply the whole of New York for a year, were they all bought and turned to
use.
The crowds that jostle each other at the wagons and about the sidewalk
shops, where a gutter plank on two ash-barrels does duty for a counter!
Pushing, struggling, babbling, and shouting in foreign tongues, a veritable
Babel of confusion. An English word falls upon the ear almost with a sense
of shock, as something unexpected and strange. In the midst of it all there is
a sudden wild scattering, a hustling of things from the street into dark
cellars, into back-yards and by-ways, a slamming and locking of doors
hidden under the improvised shelves and counters. The health officers’ cart
is coming down the street, preceded and followed by stalwart policemen,
who shovel up with scant ceremony the eatables—musty bread, decayed
fish and stale vegetables—indifferent to the curses that are showered on
them from stoops and windows, and carry them off to the dump. In the
wake of the wagon, as it makes its way to the East River after the raid,
follow a line of despoiled hucksters shouting defiance from a safe distance.
Their clamor dies away with the noise of the market. The endless panorama
of the tenements, rows upon rows, between stony streets, stretches to the
north, to the south, and to the west as far as the eye reaches.

CHAPTER XI.
THE SWEATERS OF JEWTOWN.

Anything like an exhaustive discussion of the economical problem
presented by the Tenth Ward[13] is beset by difficulties that increase in
precise proportion to the efforts put forth to remove them. I have too vivid a
recollection of weary days and nights spent in those stewing tenements,
trying to get to the bottom of the vexatious question only to find myself in
the end as far from the truth as at the beginning, asking with rising wrath
Pilate’s question, “What is truth?” to attempt to weary the reader by
dragging him with me over that sterile and unprofitable ground. Nor are
these pages the place for such a discussion. In it, let me confess it at once
and have done with it, I should be like the blind leading the blind; between
the real and apparent poverty, the hidden hoards and the unhesitating
mendacity of these people, where they conceive their interests to be
concerned in one way or another, the reader and I would fall together into
the ditch of doubt and conjecture in which I have found company before.
The facts that lie on the surface indicate the causes as clearly as the nature
of the trouble. In effect both have been already stated. A friend of mine who
manufactures cloth once boasted to me that nowadays, on cheap clothing,
New York “beats the world.” “To what,” I asked, “do you attribute it?” “To
the cutter’s long knife[14] and the Polish Jew,” he said. Which of the two has
cut deepest into the workman’s wages is not a doubtful question. Practically
the Jew has monopolized the business since the battle between East
Broadway and Broadway ended in a complete victory for the East Side and
cheap labor, and transferred to it the control of the trade in cheap clothing.
Yet, not satisfied with having won the field, he strives as hotly with his own
for the profit of half a cent as he fought with his Christian competitor for
the dollar. If the victory is a barren one, the blame is his own. His price is
not what he can get, but the lowest he can live for and underbid his
neighbor. Just what that means we shall see. The manufacturer knows it,
and is not slow to take advantage of his knowledge. He makes him hungry

for work by keeping it from him as long as possible; then drives the closest
bargain he can with the sweater.
Many harsh things have been said of the “sweater,” that really apply to the
system in which he is a necessary, logical link. It can at least be said of him
that he is no worse than the conditions that created him. The sweater is
simply the middleman, the sub-contractor, a workman like his fellows,
perhaps with the single distinction from the rest that he knows a little
English; perhaps not even that, but with the accidental possession of two or
three sewing-machines, or of credit enough to hire them, as his capital, who
drums up work among the clothing-houses. Of workmen he can always get
enough. Every ship-load from German ports brings them to his door in
droves, clamoring for work. The sun sets upon the day of the arrival of
many a Polish Jew, finding him at work in an East Side tenement, treading
the machine and “learning the trade.” Often there are two, sometimes three,
sets of sweaters on one job. They work with the rest when they are not
drumming up trade, driving their “hands” as they drive their machine, for
all they are worth, and making a profit on their work, of course, though in
most cases not nearly as extravagant a percentage, probably, as is often
supposed. If it resolves itself into a margin of five or six cents, or even less,
on a dozen pairs of boys’ trousers, for instance, it is nevertheless enough to
make the contractor with his thrifty instincts independent. The workman
growls, not at the hard labor, or poor pay, but over the pennies another is
coining out of his sweat, and on the first opportunity turns sweater himself,
and takes his revenge by driving an even closer bargain than his rival tyrant,
thus reducing his profits.
The sweater knows well that the isolation of the workman in his helpless
ignorance is his sure foundation, and he has done what he could—with
merciless severity where he could—to smother every symptom of
awakening intelligence in his slaves. In this effort to perpetuate his
despotism he has had the effectual assistance of his own system and the
sharp competition that keep the men on starvation wages; of their
constitutional greed, that will not permit the sacrifice of temporary
advantage, however slight, for permanent good, and above all, of the
hungry hordes of immigrants to whom no argument appeals save the cry for
bread. Within very recent times he has, however, been forced to partial
surrender by the organization of the men to a considerable extent into trades

unions, and by experiments in co-operation, under intelligent leadership,
that presage the sweater’s doom. But as long as the ignorant crowds
continue to come and to herd in these tenements, his grip can never be
shaken off. And the supply across the seas is apparently inexhaustible.
Every fresh persecution of the Russian or Polish Jew on his native soil starts
greater hordes hitherward to confound economical problems, and recruit the
sweater’s phalanx. The curse of bigotry and ignorance reaches halfway
across the world, to sow its bitter seed in fertile soil in the East Side
tenements. If the Jew himself was to blame for the resentment he aroused
over there, he is amply punished. He gathers the first-fruits of the harvest
here.
The bulk of the sweater’s work is done in the tenements, which the law that
regulates factory labor does not reach. To the factories themselves that are
taking the place of the rear tenements in rapidly growing numbers, letting in
bigger day-crowds than those the health officers banished, the tenement
shops serve as a supplement through which the law is successfully evaded.
Ten hours is the legal work-day in the factories, and nine o’clock the
closing hour at the latest. Forty-five minutes at least must be allowed for
dinner, and children under sixteen must not be employed unless they can
read and write English; none at all under fourteen. The very fact that such a
law should stand on the statute book, shows how desperate the plight of
these people. But the tenement has defeated its benevolent purpose. In it the
child works unchallenged from the day he is old enough to pull a thread.
There is no such thing as a dinner hour; men and women eat while they
work, and the “day” is lengthened at both ends far into the night. Factory
hands take their work with them at the close of the lawful day to eke out
their scanty earnings by working overtime at home. Little chance on this
ground for the campaign of education that alone can bring the needed relief;
small wonder that there are whole settlements on this East Side where
English is practically an unknown tongue, though the people be both
willing and anxious to learn. “When shall we find time to learn?” asked one
of them of me once. I owe him the answer yet.
Take the Second Avenue Elevated Railroad at Chatham Square and ride up
half a mile through the sweaters’ district. Every open window of the big
tenements, that stand like a continuous brick wall on both sides of the way,
gives you a glimpse of one of these shops as the train speeds by. Men and

women bending over their machines, or ironing clothes at the window, half-
naked. Proprieties do not count on the East Side; nothing counts that cannot
be converted into hard cash. The road is like a big gangway through an
endless work-room where vast multitudes are forever laboring. Morning,
noon, or night, it makes no difference; the scene is always the same. At
Rivington Street let us get off and continue our trip on foot. It is Sunday
evening west of the Bowery. Here, under the rule of Mosaic law, the week
of work is under full headway, its first day far spent. The hucksters’ wagons
are absent or stand idle at the curb; the saloons admit the thirsty crowds
through the side-door labelled “Family Entrance;” a tin sign in a store-
window announces that a “Sunday School” gathers in stray children of the
new dispensation; but beyond these things there is little to suggest the
Christian Sabbath. Men stagger along the sidewalk groaning under heavy
burdens of unsewn garments, or enormous black bags stuffed full of
finished coats and trousers. Let us follow one to his home and see how
Sunday passes in a Ludlow Street tenement.
Up two flights of dark stairs, three, four, with new smells of cabbage, of
onions, of frying fish, on every landing, whirring sewing machines behind
closed doors betraying what goes on within, to the door that opens to admit
the bundle and the man. A sweater, this, in a small way. Five men and a
woman, two young girls, not fifteen, and a boy who says unasked that he is
fifteen, and lies in saying it, are at the machines sewing knickerbockers,
“knee-pants” in the Ludlow Street dialect. The floor is littered ankle-deep
with half-sewn garments. In the alcove, on a couch of many dozens of
“pants” ready for the finisher, a bare-legged baby with pinched face is
asleep. A fence of piled-up clothing keeps him from rolling off on the floor.
The faces, hands, and arms to the elbows of everyone in the room are black
with the color of the cloth on which they are working. The boy and the
woman alone look up at our entrance. The girls shoot sidelong glances, but
at a warning look from the man with the bundle they tread their machines
more energetically than ever. The men do not appear to be aware even of
the presence of a stranger.
They are “learners,” all of them, says the woman, who proves to be the wife
of the boss, and have “come over” only a few weeks ago. She is disinclined
to talk at first, but a few words in her own tongue from our guide[15] set her
fears, whatever they are, at rest, and she grows almost talkative. The

learners work for week’s wages, she says. How much do they earn? She
shrugs her shoulders with an expressive gesture. The workers themselves,
asked in their own tongue, say indifferently, as though the question were of
no interest: from two to five dollars. The children—there are four of them—
are not old enough to work. The oldest is only six. They turn out one
hundred and twenty dozen “knee-pants” a week, for which the manufacturer
pays seventy cents a dozen. Five cents a dozen is the clear profit, but her
own and her husband’s work brings the family earnings up to twenty-five
dollars a week, when they have work all the time. But often half the time is
put in looking for it. They work no longer than to nine o’clock at night,
from daybreak. There are ten machines in the room; six are hired at two
dollars a month. For the two shabby, smoke-begrimed rooms, one
somewhat larger than ordinary, they pay twenty dollars a month. She does
not complain, though “times are not what they were, and it costs a good
deal to live.” Eight dollars a week for the family of six and two boarders.
How do they do it? She laughs, as she goes over the bill of fare, at the silly
question: Bread, fifteen cents a day, of milk two quarts a day at four cents a
quart, one pound of meat for dinner at twelve cents, butter one pound a
week at “eight cents a quarter of a pound.” Coffee, potatoes, and pickles
complete the list. At the least calculation, probably, this sweater’s family
hoards up thirty dollars a month, and in a few years will own a tenement
somewhere and profit by the example set by their landlord in rent-
collecting. It is the way the savings of Jewtown are universally invested,
and with the natural talent of its people for commercial speculation the
investment is enormously profitable.

“KNEE-PANTS” AT FORTY-FIVE CENTS A DOZEN—A LUDLOW
STREET SWEATER’S SHOP.

On the next floor, in a dimly lighted room with a big red-hot stove to keep
the pressing irons ready for use, is a family of man, wife, three children,
and a boarder. “Knee-pants” are made there too, of a still lower grade.
Three cents and a half is all he clears, says the man, and lies probably out of
at least two cents. The wife makes a dollar and a half finishing, the man
about nine dollars at the machine. The boarder pays sixty-five cents a week.
He is really only a lodger, getting his meals outside. The rent is two dollars
and twenty-five cents a week, cost of living five dollars. Every floor has at
least two, sometimes four, such shops. Here is one with a young family for
which life is bright with promise. Husband and wife work together; just
now the latter, a comely young woman, is eating her dinner of dry bread
and green pickles. Pickles are favorite food in Jewtown. They are filling,
and keep the children from crying with hunger. Those who have stomachs
like ostriches thrive in spite of them and grow strong—plain proof that they
are good to eat. The rest? “Well, they die,” says our guide, dryly. No
thought of untimely death comes to disturb this family with life all before it.
In a few years the man will be a prosperous sweater. Already he employs an
old man as ironer at three dollars a week, and a sweet-faced little Italian girl
as finisher at a dollar and a half. She is twelve, she says, and can neither

read nor write; will probably never learn. How should she? The family
clears from ten to eleven dollars a week in brisk times, more than half of
which goes into the bank.
A companion picture from across the hall. The man works on the machine
for his sweater twelve hours a day, turning out three dozen “knee-pants,” for
which he receives forty-two cents a dozen. The finisher who works with
him gets ten, and the ironer eight cents a dozen; buttonholes are extra, at
eight to ten cents a hundred. This operator has four children at his home in
Stanton Street, none old enough to work, and a sick wife. His rent is twelve
dollars a month; his wages for a hard week’s work less than eight dollars.
Such as he, with their consuming desire for money thus smothered, recruit
the ranks of the anarchists, won over by the promise of a general “divide;”
and an enlightened public sentiment turns up its nose at the vicious
foreigner for whose perverted notions there is no room in this land of
plenty.
Turning the corner into Hester Street, we stumble upon a nest of cloak-
makers in their busy season. Six months of the year the cloak-maker is idle,
or nearly so. Now is his harvest. Seventy-five cents a cloak, all complete, is
the price in this shop. The cloak is of cheap plush, and might sell for eight
or nine dollars over the store-counter. Seven dollars is the weekly wage of
this man with wife and two children, and nine dollars and a half rent to pay
per month. A boarder pays about a third of it. There was a time when he
made ten dollars a week and thought himself rich. But wages have come
down fearfully in the last two years. Think of it: “come down” to this. The
other cloak-makers aver that they can make as much as twelve dollars a
week, when they are employed, by taking their work home and sewing till
midnight. One exhibits his account-book with a Ludlow Street sweater. It
shows that he and his partner, working on first-class garments for a
Broadway house in the four busiest weeks of the season, made together
from $15.15 to $19.20 a week by striving from 6 A.M. to 11 P.M., that is to
say, from $7.58 to $9.60 each.[16] The sweater on this work probably made
as much as fifty per cent. at least on their labor. Not far away is a factory in
a rear yard where the factory inspector reports teams of tailors making
men’s coats at an average of twenty-seven cents a coat, all complete except
buttons and button-holes.

Turning back, we pass a towering double tenement in Ludlow Street, owned
by a well-known Jewish liquor dealer and politician, a triple combination
that bodes ill for his tenants. As a matter of fact, the cheapest “apartment,”
three rear rooms on the sixth floor, only one of which deserves the name, is
rented for $13 a month. Here is a reminder of the Bend, a hallway turned
into a shoemaker’s shop. Two hallways side by side in adjoining tenements,
would be sinful waste in Jewtown, when one would do as well by knocking
a hole in the wall. But this shoemaker knows a trick the Italian’s ingenuity
did not suggest. He has his “flat” as well as his shop there. A curtain hung
back of his stool in the narrow passage half conceals his bed that fills it
entirely from wall to wall. To get into it he has to crawl over the foot-board,
and he must come out the same way. Expedients more odd than this are
born of the East Side crowding. In one of the houses we left, the coal-bin of
a family on the fourth floor was on the roof of the adjoining tenement. A
quarter of a ton of coal was being dumped there while we talked with the
people.
We have reached Broome Street. The hum of industry in this six-story
tenement on the corner leaves no doubt of the aspect Sunday wears within
it. One flight up, we knock at the nearest door. The grocer, who keeps the
store, lives on the “stoop,” the first floor in East Side parlance. In this room
a suspender-maker sleeps and works with his family of wife and four
children. For a wonder there are no boarders. His wife and eighteen years
old daughter share in the work, but the girl’s eyes are giving out from the
strain. Three months in the year, when work is very brisk, the family makes
by united efforts as high as fourteen and fifteen dollars a week. The other
nine months it averages from three to four dollars. The oldest boy, a young
man, earns from four to six dollars in an Orchard Street factory, when he
has work. The rent is ten dollars a month for the room and a miserable little
coop of a bedroom where the old folks sleep. The girl makes her bed on the
lounge in the front room; the big boys and the children sleep on the floor.
Coal at ten cents a small pail, meat at twelve cents a pound, one and a half
pound of butter a week at thirty-six cents, and a quarter of a pound of tea in
the same space of time, are items of their house-keeping account as given
by the daughter. Milk at four and five cents a quart, “according to quality.”
The sanitary authorities know what that means, know how miserably
inadequate is the fine of fifty or a hundred dollars for the murder done in

cold blood by the wretches who poison the babes of these tenements with
the stuff that is half water, or swill. Their defence is that the demand is for
“cheap milk.” Scarcely a wonder that this suspender-maker will hardly be
able to save up the dot for his daughter, without which she stands no chance
of marrying in Jewtown, even with her face that would be pretty had it a
healthier tinge.
Up under the roof three men are making boys’ jackets at twenty cents a
piece, of which the sewer takes eight, the ironer three, the finisher five
cents, and the button-hole-maker two and a quarter, leaving a cent and
three-quarters to pay for the drumming up, the fetching and bringing back
of the goods. They bunk together in a room for which they pay eight dollars
a month. All three are single here, that is: their wives are on the other side
yet, waiting for them to earn enough to send for them. Their breakfast, eaten
at the work-bench, consists of a couple of rolls at a cent a piece, and a
draught of water, milk when business has been very good, a square meal at
noon in a restaurant, and the morning meal over again at night. This square
meal, that is the evidence of a very liberal disposition on the part of the
consumer, is an affair of more than ordinary note; it may be justly called an
institution. I know of a couple of restaurants at the lower end of Orchard
Street that are favorite resorts for the Polish Jews, who remember the
injunction that the ox that treadeth out the corn shall not be muzzled. Being
neighbors, they are rivals of course, and cutting under. When I was last
there one gave a dinner of soup, meat-stew, bread, pie, pickles, and a
“schooner” of beer for thirteen cents; the other charged fifteen cents for a
similar dinner, but with two schooners of beer and a cigar, or a cigarette, as
the extra inducement. The two cents had won the day, however, and the
thirteen-cent restaurant did such a thriving business that it was about to
spread out into the adjoining store to accommodate the crowds of
customers. At this rate the lodger of Jewtown can “live like a lord,” as he
says himself, for twenty-five cents a day, including the price of his bed, that
ranges all the way from thirty to forty and fifty cents a week, and save
money, no matter what his earnings. He does it, too, so long as work is to be
had at any price, and by the standard he sets up Jewtown must abide.
It has thousands upon thousands of lodgers who help to pay its extortionate
rents. At night there is scarce a room in all the district that has not one or
more of them, some above half a score, sleeping on cots, or on the floor. It

is idle to speak of privacy in these “homes.” The term carries no more
meaning with it than would a lecture on social ethics to an audience of
Hottentots. The picture is not overdrawn. In fact, in presenting the home life
of these people I have been at some pains to avoid the extreme of privation,
taking the cases just as they came to hand on the safer middle-ground of
average earnings. Yet even the direst apparent poverty in Jewtown, unless
dependent on absolute lack of work, would, were the truth known, in nine
cases out of ten have a silver lining in the shape of a margin in bank.
These are the economical conditions that enable my manufacturing friend to
boast that New York can “beat the world” on cheap clothing. In support of
his claim he told me that a single Bowery firm last year sold fifteen
thousand suits at $1.95 that averaged in cost $1.12½. With the material at
fifteen cents a yard, he said, children’s suits of assorted sizes can be sold at
wholesale for seventy-five cents, and boys’ cape overcoats at the same
price. They are the same conditions that have perplexed the committee of
benevolent Hebrews in charge of Baron de Hirsch’s munificent gift of ten
thousand dollars a month for the relief of the Jewish poor in New York. To
find proper channels through which to pour this money so that it shall effect
its purpose without pauperizing, and without perpetuating the problem it is
sought to solve, by attracting still greater swarms, is indeed no easy task.
Colonization has not in the past been a success with these people. The great
mass of them are too gregarious to take kindly to farming, and their strong
commercial instinct hampers the experiment. To herd them in model
tenements, though it relieve the physical suffering in a measure, would be to
treat a symptom of the disease rather than strike at its root, even if land
could be got cheap enough where they gather to build on a sufficiently large
scale to make the plan a success. Trade schools for manual training could
hardly be made to reach the adults, who in addition would have to be
supported for months while learning. For the young this device has proved
most excellent under the wise management of the United Hebrew Charities,
an organization that gathers to its work the best thought and effort of many
of our most public-spirited citizens. One, or all, of these plans may be tried,
probably will. I state but the misgivings as to the result of some of the
practical minds that have busied themselves with the problem. Its keynote
evidently is the ignorance of the immigrants. They must be taught the
language of the country they have chosen as their home, as the first and

most necessary step. Whatever may follow, that is essential, absolutely
vital. That done, it may well be that the case in its new aspect will not be
nearly so hard to deal with.
Evening has worn into night as we take up our homeward journey through
the streets, now no longer silent. The thousands of lighted windows in the
tenements glow like dull red eyes in a huge stone wall. From every door
multitudes of tired men and women pour forth for a half-hour’s rest in the
open air before sleep closes the eyes weary with incessant working. Crowds
of half-naked children tumble in the street and on the sidewalk, or doze
fretfully on the stone steps. As we stop in front of a tenement to watch one
of these groups, a dirty baby in a single brief garment—yet a sweet, human
little baby despite its dirt and tatters—tumbles off the lowest step, rolls over
once, clutches my leg with unconscious grip, and goes to sleep on the
flagstones, its curly head pillowed on my boot.

CHAPTER XII.
THE BOHEMIANS—TENEMENT-HOUSE
CIGARMAKING.

Evil as the part is which the tenement plays in Jewtown as the pretext for
circumventing the law that was made to benefit and relieve the tenant, we
have not far to go to find it in even a worse rôle. If the tenement is here
continually dragged into the eye of public condemnation and scorn, it is
because in one way or another it is found directly responsible for, or
intimately associated with, three-fourths of the miseries of the poor. In the
Bohemian quarter it is made the vehicle for enforcing upon a proud race a
slavery as real as any that ever disgraced the South. Not content with
simply robbing the tenant, the owner, in the dual capacity of landlord and
employer, reduces him to virtual serfdom by making his becoming his
tenant, on such terms as he sees fit to make, the condition of employment at
wages likewise of his own making. It does not help the case that this
landlord employer, almost always a Jew, is frequently of the thrifty Polish
race just described.
Perhaps the Bohemian quarter is hardly the proper name to give to the
colony, for though it has distinct boundaries it is scattered over a wide area
on the East Side, in wedge-like streaks that relieve the monotony of the
solid German population by their strong contrasts. The two races mingle no
more on this side of the Atlantic than on the rugged slopes of the Bohemian
mountains; the echoes of the thirty years’ war ring in New York, after two
centuries and a half, with as fierce a hatred as the gigantic combat bred
among the vanquished Czechs. A chief reason for this is doubtless the
complete isolation of the Bohemian immigrant. Several causes operate to
bring this about: his singularly harsh and unattractive language, which he
can neither easily himself unlearn nor impart to others, his stubborn pride of
race, and a popular prejudice which has forced upon him the unjust stigma
of a disturber of the public peace and an enemy of organized labor. I greatly
mistrust that the Bohemian on our shores is a much-abused man. To his

traducer, who casts up anarchism against him, he replies that the last census
(1880) shows his people to have the fewest criminals of all in proportion to
numbers. In New York a Bohemian criminal is such a rarity that the case of
two firebugs of several years ago is remembered with damaging
distinctness. The accusation that he lives like the “rat” he is, cutting down
wages by his underpaid labor, he throws back in the teeth of the trades
unions with the counter-charge that they are the first cause of his attitude to
the labor question.
A little way above Houston Street the first of his colonies is encountered, in
Fifth Street and thereabouts. Then for a mile and a half scarce a Bohemian
is to be found, until Thirty-eighth Street is reached. Fifty-fourth and
Seventy-third Streets in their turn are the centres of populous Bohemian
settlements. The location of the cigar factories, upon which he depends for a
living, determines his choice of home, though there is less choice about it
than with any other class in the community, save perhaps the colored
people. Probably more than half of all the Bohemians in this city are
cigarmakers, and it is the herding of these in great numbers in the so-called
tenement factories, where the cheapest grade of work is done at the lowest
wages, that constitutes at once their greatest hardship and the chief grudge
of other workmen against them. The manufacturer who owns, say, from
three or four, to a dozen or more tenements contiguous to his shop, fills
them up with these people, charging them outrageous rents, and demanding
often even a preliminary deposit of five dollars “key money;” deals them
out tobacco by the week, and devotes the rest of his energies to the paring
down of wages to within a peg or two of the point where the tenant rebels in
desperation. When he does rebel, he is given the alternative of submission,
or eviction with entire loss of employment. His needs determine the issue.
Usually he is not in a position to hesitate long. Unlike the Polish Jew,
whose example of untiring industry he emulates, he has seldom much laid
up against a rainy day. He is fond of a glass of beer, and likes to live as well
as his means will permit. The shop triumphs, and fetters more galling than
ever are forged for the tenant. In the opposite case, the newspapers have to
record the throwing upon the street of a small army of people, with pitiful
cases of destitution and family misery.
Men, women and children work together seven days in the week in these
cheerless tenements to make a living for the family, from the break of day

till far into the night. Often the wife is the original cigarmaker from the old
home, the husband having adopted her trade here as a matter of necessity,
because, knowing no word of English, he could get no other work. As they
state the cause of the bitter hostility of the trades unions, she was the
primary bone of contention in the day of the early Bohemian immigration.
The unions refused to admit the women, and, as the support of the family
depended upon her to a large extent, such terms as were offered had to be
accepted. The manufacturer has ever since industriously fanned the
antagonism between the unions and his hands, for his own advantage. The
victory rests with him, since the Court of Appeals decided that the law,
passed a few years ago, to prohibit cigarmaking in tenements was
unconstitutional, and thus put an end to the struggle. While it lasted, all
sorts of frightful stories were told of the shocking conditions under which
people lived and worked in these tenements, from a sanitary point of view
especially, and a general impression survives to this day that they are
particularly desperate. The Board of Health, after a careful canvass, did not
find them so then. I am satisfied from personal inspection, at a much later
day, guided in a number of instances by the union cigarmakers themselves
to the tenements which they considered the worst, that the accounts were
greatly exaggerated. Doubtless the people are poor, in many cases very
poor; but they are not uncleanly, rather the reverse; they live much better
than the clothing-makers in the Tenth Ward, and in spite of their sallow
look, that may be due to the all-pervading smell of tobacco, they do not
appear to be less healthy than other in-door workers. I found on my tours of
investigation several cases of consumption, of which one at least was said
by the doctor to be due to the constant inhalation of tobacco fumes. But an
examination of the death records in the Health Department does not support
the claim that the Bohemian cigarmakers are peculiarly prone to that
disease. On the contrary, the Bohemian percentage of deaths from
consumption appears quite low. This, however, is a line of scientific inquiry
which I leave others to pursue, along with the more involved problem
whether the falling off in the number of children, sometimes quite
noticeable in the Bohemian settlements, is, as has been suggested,
dependent upon the character of the parents’ work. The sore grievances I
found were the miserable wages and the enormous rents exacted for the
minimum of accommodation. And surely these stand for enough of
suffering.

Take a row of houses in East Tenth Street as an instance. They contained
thirty-five families of cigarmakers, with probably not half a dozen persons
in the whole lot of them, outside of the children, who could speak a word of
English, though many had been in the country half a lifetime. This room
with two windows giving on the street, and a rear attachment without
windows, called a bedroom by courtesy, is rented at $12.25 a month. In the
front room man and wife work at the bench from six in the morning till nine
at night. They make a team, stripping the tobacco leaves together; then he
makes the filler, and she rolls the wrapper on and finishes the cigar. For a
thousand they receive $3.75, and can turn out together three thousand cigars
a week. The point has been reached where the rebellion comes in, and the
workers in these tenements are just now on a strike, demanding $5.00 and
$5.50 for their work. The manufacturer having refused, they are expecting
hourly to be served with notice to quit their homes, and the going of a
stranger among them excites their resentment, until his errand is explained.
While we are in the house, the ultimatum of the “boss” is received. He will
give $3.75 a thousand, not another cent. Our host is a man of seeming
intelligence, yet he has been nine years in New York and knows neither
English nor German. Three bright little children play about the floor.
His neighbor on the same floor has been here fifteen years, but shakes his
head when asked if he can speak English. He answers in a few broken
syllables when addressed in German. With $11.75 rent to pay for like
accommodation, he has the advantage of his oldest boy’s work besides his
wife’s at the bench. Three properly make a team, and these three can turn
out four thousand cigars a week, at $3.75. This Bohemian has a large
family; there are four children, too small to work, to be cared for. A
comparison of the domestic bill of fare between Tenth and Ludlow Streets
result, in the discovery that this Bohemian’s butcher’s bill for the week,
with meat at twelve cents a pound as in Ludlow Street, is from two dollars
and a half to three dollars. The Polish Jew fed as big a family on one pound
of meat a day. The difference proves to be typical. Here is a suit of three
rooms, two dark, three flights up. The ceiling is partly down in one of the
rooms. “It is three months since we asked the landlord to fix it,” says the
oldest son, a very intelligent lad who has learned English in the evening
school. His father has not had that advantage, and has sat at his bench, deaf
and dumb to the world about him except his own, for six years. He has

improved his time and become an expert at his trade. Father, mother, and
son together, a full team, make from fifteen to sixteen dollars a week.
A man with venerable beard and keen eyes answers our questions through
an interpreter, in the next house. Very few brighter faces would be met in a
day’s walk among American mechanics, yet he has in nine years learned no
syllable of English. German he probably does not want to learn. His story
supplies the explanation, as did the stories of the others. In all that time he
has been at work grubbing to earn bread. Wife and he by constant labor
make three thousand cigars a week, earning $11.25 when there is no lack of
material; when in winter they receive from the manufacturer tobacco for
only two thousand, the rent of $10 for two rooms, practically one with a
dark alcove, has nevertheless to be paid in full, and six mouths to be fed. He
was a blacksmith in the old country, but cannot work at his trade here
because he does not understand “Engliska.” If he could, he says, with a
bright look, he could do better work than he sees done here. It would seem
happiness to him to knock off at 6 o’clock instead of working, as he now
often has to do, till midnight. But how? He knows of no Bohemian
blacksmith who can understand him; he should starve. Here, with his wife,
he can make a living at least. “Aye,” says she, turning, from listening, to her
household duties, “it would be nice for sure to have father work at his
trade.” Then what a home she could make for them, and how happy they
would be. Here is an unattainable ideal, indeed, of a workman in the most
prosperous city in the world! There is genuine, if unspoken, pathos in the
soft tap she gives her husband’s hand as she goes about her work with a
half-suppressed little sigh.

BOHEMIAN CIGARMAKERS AT WORK IN THEIR TENEMENT.

The very ash-barrels that stand in front of the big rows of tenements in
Seventy-first and Seventy-third Streets advertise the business that is carried
on within. They are filled to the brim with the stems of stripped tobacco
leaves. The rank smell that waited for us on the corner of the block follows
us into the hallways, penetrates every nook and cranny of the houses. As in
the settlement farther down town, every room here has its work-bench with
its stumpy knife and queer pouch of bed-tick, worn brown and greasy,
fastened in front the whole length of the bench to receive the scraps of
waste. This landlord-employer at all events gives three rooms for $12.50, if
two be dark, one wholly and the other getting some light from the front
room. The mother of the three bare-footed little children we met on the
stairs was taken to the hospital the other day when she could no longer
work. She will never come out alive. There is no waste in these tenements.
Lives, like clothes, are worn through and out before put aside. Her place at
the bench is taken already by another who divides with the head of the
household his earnings of $15.50 a week. He has just come out successful
of a strike that brought the pay of these tenements up to $4.50 per thousand
cigars. Notice to quit had already been served on them, when the employer
decided to give in, frightened by the prospective loss of rent. Asked how

long he works, the man says: “from they can see till bed-time.” Bed-time
proves to be eleven o’clock. Seventeen hours a day, seven days in the week,
at thirteen cents an hour for the two, six cents and a half for each! Good
average earnings for a tenement-house cigarmaker in summer. In winter it is
at least one-fourth less. In spite of it all, the rooms are cleanly kept. From
the bedroom farthest back the woman brings out a pile of moist tobacco-
leaves to be stripped. They are kept there, under cover lest they dry and
crack, from Friday to Friday, when an accounting is made and fresh
supplies given out. The people sleep there too, but the smell, offensive to
the unfamiliar nose, does not bother them. They are used to it.
In a house around the corner that is not a factory-tenement, lives now the
cigarmaker I spoke of as suffering from consumption which the doctor said
was due to the tobacco-fumes. Perhaps the lack of healthy exercise had as
much to do with it. His case is interesting from its own stand-point. He too
is one with a—for a Bohemian—large family. Six children sit at his table.
By trade a shoemaker, for thirteen years he helped his wife make cigars in
the manufacturer’s tenement. She was a very good hand, and until his health
gave out two years ago they were able to make from $17 to $25 a week, by
lengthening the day at both ends. Now that he can work no more, and the
family under the doctor’s orders has moved away from the smell of
tobacco, the burden of its support has fallen upon her alone, for none of the
children are old enough to help. She has work in the shop at eight dollars a
week, and this must go round; it is all there is. Happily, this being a
tenement for revenue only, unmixed with cigars, the rent is cheaper: seven
dollars for two bright rooms on the top floor. No housekeeping is attempted.
A woman in Seventy-second Street supplies their cooking, which the wife
and mother fetches in a basket, her husband being too weak. Breakfast of
coffee and hard-tack, or black bread, at twenty cents for the whole eight; a
good many, the little woman says with a brave, patient smile, and there is
seldom anything to spare, but——. The invalid is listening, and the
sentence remains unfinished. What of dinner? One of the children brings it
from the cook. Oh! it is a good dinner, meat, soup, greens and bread, all for
thirty cents. It is the principal family meal. Does she come home for dinner?
No; she cannot leave the shop, but gets a bite at her bench. The question: A
bite of what? seems as merciless as the surgeon’s knife, and she winces
under it as one shrinks from physical pain. Bread, then. But at night they all

have supper together—sausage and bread. For ten cents they can eat all they
want. Can they not? she says, stroking the hair of the little boy at her knee;
his eyes glisten hungrily at the thought, as he nods stoutly in support of his
mother. Only, she adds, the week the rent is due, they have to shorten
rations to pay the landlord.
But what of his being an Anarchist, this Bohemian—an infidel—I hear
somebody say. Almost one might be persuaded by such facts as these—and
they are everyday facts, not fancy—to retort: what more natural? With
every hand raised against him in the old land and the new, in the land of his
hoped-for freedom, what more logical than that his should be turned against
society that seems to exist only for his oppression? But the charge is not
half true. Naturally the Bohemian loves peace, as he loves music and song.
As someone has said: He does not seek war, but when attacked knows
better how to die than how to surrender. The Czech is the Irishman of
Central Europe, with all his genius and his strong passions, with the same
bitter traditions of landlord-robbery, perpetuated here where he thought to
forget them; like him ever and on principle in the opposition, “agin the
government” wherever he goes. Among such a people, ground by poverty
until their songs have died in curses upon their oppressors, hopelessly
isolated and ignorant of our language and our laws, it would not be hard for
bad men at any time to lead a few astray. And this is what has been done.
Yet, even with the occasional noise made by the few, the criminal statistics
already alluded to quite dispose of the charge that they incline to turbulence
and riot. So it is with the infidel propaganda, the legacy perhaps of the
fierce contention through hundreds of years between Catholics and
Protestants on Bohemia’s soil, of bad faith and savage persecutions in the
name of the Christians’ God that disgrace its history. The Bohemian
clergyman, who spoke for his people at the Christian Conference held in
Chickering Hall two years ago, took even stronger ground. “They are
Roman Catholics by birth, infidels by necessity, and Protestants by history
and inclination,” he said. Yet he added his testimony in the same breath to
the fact that, though the Freethinkers had started two schools in the
immediate neighborhood of his church to counteract its influence, his flock
had grown in a few years from a mere handful at the start to proportions far
beyond his hopes, gathering in both Anarchists and Freethinkers, and
making good church members of them.

Thus the whole matter resolves itself once more into a question of
education, all the more urgent because these people are poor, miserably
poor almost to a man. “There is not,” said one of them, who knew
thoroughly what he was speaking of, “there is not one of them all, who, if
he were to sell all he was worth to-morrow, would have money enough to
buy a house and lot in the country.”

CHAPTER XIII.
THE COLOR LINE IN NEW YORK.

The color line must be drawn through the tenements to give the picture its
proper shading. The landlord does the drawing, does it with an absence of
pretence, a frankness of despotism, that is nothing if not brutal. The Czar of
all the Russias is not more absolute upon his own soil than the New York
landlord in his dealings with colored tenants. Where he permits them to
live, they go; where he shuts the door, stay out. By his grace they exist at all
in certain localities; his ukase banishes them from others. He accepts the
responsibility, when laid at his door, with unruffled complacency. It is
business, he will tell you. And it is. He makes the prejudice in which he
traffics pay him well, and that, as he thinks it quite superfluous to tell you,
is what he is there for.
That his pencil does not make quite as black a mark as it did, that the hand
that wields it does not bear down as hard as only a short half dozen years
ago, is the hopeful sign of an awakening public conscience under the stress
of which the line shows signs of wavering. But for this the landlord
deserves no credit. It has come, is coming about despite him. The line may
not be wholly effaced while the name of the negro, alone among the world’s
races, is spelled with a small n. Natural selection will have more or less to
do beyond a doubt in every age with dividing the races; only so, it may be,
can they work out together their highest destiny. But with the despotism that
deliberately assigns to the defenceless Black the lowest level for the
purpose of robbing him there that has nothing to do. Of such slavery,
different only in degree from the other kind that held him as a chattel, to be
sold or bartered at the will of his master, this century, if signs fail not, will
see the end in New York.
Ever since the war New York has been receiving the overflow of colored
population from the Southern cities. In the last decade this migration has
grown to such proportions that it is estimated that our Blacks have quite
doubled in number since the Tenth Census. Whether the exchange has been

of advantage to the negro may well be questioned. Trades of which he had
practical control in his Southern home are not open to him here. I know that
it may be answered that there is no industrial proscription of color; that it is
a matter of choice. Perhaps so. At all events he does not choose then. How
many colored carpenters or masons has anyone seen at work in New York?
In the South there are enough of them and, if the testimony of the most
intelligent of their people is worth anything, plenty of them have come here.
As a matter of fact the colored man takes in New York, without a struggle,
the lower level of menial service for which his past traditions and natural
love of ease perhaps as yet fit him best. Even the colored barber is rapidly
getting to be a thing of the past. Along shore, at any unskilled labor, he
works unmolested; but he does not appear to prefer the job. His sphere thus
defined, he naturally takes his stand among the poor, and in the homes of
the poor. Until very recent times—the years since a change was wrought
can be counted on the fingers of one hand—he was practically restricted in
the choice of a home to a narrow section on the West Side, that nevertheless
had a social top and bottom to it—the top in the tenements on the line of
Seventh Avenue as far north as Thirty-second Street, where he was allowed
to occupy the houses of unsavory reputation which the police had cleared
and for which decent white tenants could not be found; the bottom in the
vile rookeries of Thompson Street and South Fifth Avenue, the old “Africa”
that is now fast becoming a modern Italy. To-day there are black colonies in
Yorkville and Morrisania. The encroachment of business and the Italian
below, and the swelling of the population above, have been the chief agents
in working out his second emancipation, a very real one, for with his cutting
loose from the old tenements there has come a distinct and gratifying
improvement in the tenant, that argues louder than theories or speeches the
influence of vile surroundings in debasing the man. The colored citizen
whom this year’s census man found in his Ninety-ninth Street “flat” is a
very different individual from the “nigger” his predecessor counted in the
black-and-tan slums of Thompson and Sullivan Streets. There is no more
clean and orderly community in New York than the new settlement of
colored people that is growing up on the East Side from Yorkville to
Harlem.
Cleanliness is the characteristic of the negro in his new surroundings, as it
was his virtue in the old. In this respect he is immensely the superior of the

lowest of the whites, the Italians and the Polish Jews, below whom he has
been classed in the past in the tenant scale. Nevertheless, he has always had
to pay higher rents than even these for the poorest and most stinted rooms.
The exceptions I have come across, in which the rents, though high, have
seemed more nearly on a level with what was asked for the same number
and size of rooms in the average tenement, were in the case of tumble-down
rookeries in which no one else would live, and were always coupled with
the condition that the landlord should “make no repairs.” It can readily be
seen, that his profits were scarcely curtailed by his “humanity.” The reason
advanced for this systematic robbery is that white people will not live in the
same house with colored tenants, or even in a house recently occupied by
negroes, and that consequently its selling value is injured. The prejudice
undoubtedly exists, but it is not lessened by the house agents, who have set
up the maxim “once a colored house, always a colored house.”
There is method in the maxim, as shown by an inquiry made last year by
the Real Estate Record. It proved agents to be practically unanimous in the
endorsement of the negro as a clean, orderly, and “profitable” tenant. Here
is the testimony of one of the largest real estate firms in the city: “We would
rather have negro tenants in our poorest class of tenements than the lower
grades of foreign white people. We find the former cleaner than the latter,
and they do not destroy the property so much. We also get higher prices. We
have a tenement on Nineteenth Street, where we get $10 for two rooms
which we could not get more than $7.50 for from white tenants previously.
We have a four-story tenement on our books on Thirty-third Street, between
Sixth and Seventh Avenues, with four rooms per floor—a parlor, two
bedrooms, and a kitchen. We get $20 for the first floor, $24 for the second,
$23 for the third and $20 for the fourth, in all $87 or $1,044 per annum. The
size of the building is only 21+55.” Another firm declared that in a
specified instance they had saved fifteen to twenty per cent. on the gross
rentals since they changed their white tenants for colored ones. Still another
gave the following case of a front and rear tenement that had formerly been
occupied by tenants of a “low European type,” who had been turned out on
account of filthy habits and poor pay. The negroes proved cleaner, better,
and steadier tenants. Instead, however, of having their rents reduced in
consequence, the comparison stood as follows:
Rents under White Tenants. Rents under Colored Tenants.

Per month. Per month.
Front— 1st floor (store, etc.) $21 Front— 1st floor (store, etc.) $21
2d ” 13 2d ” 14
3d ” 13 3d ” 14
4th ” (and rear) 21 4th ” 14
Rear— 2d ” 12 Rear— 2d ” 12
3d ” 12 3d ” 13
4th ” (see front) — 4th ” 13
Rear house— 1st ” 8 Rear house— 1st ” 10
2d ” 10 2d ” 12
3d ” 9 3d ” 11
4th ” 8 4th ” 10
Total $127 Total $144

An increased rental of $17 per month, or $204 a year, and an advance of
nearly thirteen and one-half per cent. on the gross rental “in favor” of the
colored tenant. Profitable, surely!
I have quoted these cases at length in order to let in light on the quality of
this landlord despotism that has purposely confused the public mind, and
for its own selfish ends is propping up a waning prejudice. It will be cause
for congratulation if indeed its time has come at last. Within a year, I am
told by one of the most intelligent and best informed of our colored citizens,
there has been evidence, simultaneous with the colored hegira from the low
down-town tenements, of a movement toward less exorbitant rents. I cannot
pass from this subject without adding a leaf from my own experience that
deserves a place in this record, though, for the credit of humanity, I hope as
an extreme case. It was last Christmas that I had occasion to visit the home
of an old colored woman in Sixteenth Street, as the almoner of generous
friends out of town who wished me to buy her a Christmas dinner. The old
woman lived in a wretched shanty, occupying two mean, dilapidated rooms
at the top of a sort of hen-ladder that went by the name of stairs. For these
she paid ten dollars a month out of her hard-earned wages as a scrub-
woman. I did not find her in and, being informed that she was “at the
agent’s,” went around to hunt her up. The agent’s wife appeared, to report
that Ann was out. Being in a hurry it occurred to me that I might save time
by making her employer the purveyor of my friend’s bounty, and proposed
to entrust the money, two dollars, to her to be expended for Old Ann’s
benefit. She fell in with the suggestion at once, and confided to me in the
fullness of her heart that she liked the plan, inasmuch as “I generally find

her a Christmas dinner myself, and this money—she owes Mr. —— (her
husband, the agent) a lot of rent.” Needless to state that there was a change
of programme then and there, and that Ann was saved from the sort of
Christmas cheer that woman’s charity would have spread before her. When
I had the old soul comfortably installed in her own den, with a chicken and
“fixin’s” and a bright fire in her stove, I asked her how much she owed of
her rent. Her answer was that she did not really owe anything, her month
not being quite up, but that the amount yet unpaid was—two dollars!
Poverty, abuse, and injustice alike the negro accepts with imperturbable
cheerfulness. His philosophy is of the kind that has no room for repining.
Whether lie lives in an Eighth Ward barrack or in a tenement with a brown-
stone front and pretensions to the title of “flat,” he looks at the sunny side
of life and enjoys it. He loves fine clothes and good living a good deal more
than he does a bank account. The proverbial rainy day it would be rank
ingratitude, from his point of view, to look for when the sun shines
unclouded in a clear sky. His home surroundings, except when he is utterly
depraved, reflect his blithesome temper. The poorest negro housekeeper’s
room in New York is bright with gaily-colored prints of his beloved “Abe
Linkum,” General Grant, President Garfield, Mrs. Cleveland, and other
national celebrities, and cheery with flowers and singing birds. In the art of
putting the best foot foremost, of disguising his poverty by making a little
go a long way, our negro has no equal. When a fair share of prosperity is
his, he knows how to make life and home very pleasant to those about him.
Pianos and parlor furniture abound in the uptown homes of colored tenants
and give them a very prosperous air. But even where the wolf howls at the
door, he makes a bold and gorgeous front. The amount of “style” displayed
on fine Sundays on Sixth and Seventh Avenues by colored holiday-makers
would turn a pessimist black with wrath. The negro’s great ambition is to
rise in the social scale to which his color has made him a stranger and an
outsider, and he is quite willing to accept the shadow for the substance
where that is the best he can get. The claw-hammer coat and white tie of a
waiter in a first-class summer hotel, with the chance of taking his ease in six
months of winter, are to him the next best thing to mingling with the white
quality he serves, on equal terms. His festive gatherings, pre-eminently his
cake-walks, at which a sugared and frosted cake is the proud prize of the
couple with the most aristocratic step and carriage, are comic mixtures of

elaborate ceremonial and the joyous abandon of the natural man. With all
his ludicrous incongruities, his sensuality and his lack of moral
accountability, his superstition and other faults that are the effect of
temperament and of centuries of slavery, he has his eminently good points.
He is loyal to the backbone, proud of being an American and of his new-
found citizenship. He is at least as easily moulded for good as for evil. His
churches are crowded to the doors on Sunday nights when the colored
colony turns out to worship. His people own church property in this city
upon which they have paid half a million dollars out of the depth of their
poverty, with comparatively little assistance from their white brethren. He is
both willing and anxious to learn, and his intellectual status is distinctly
improving. If his emotions are not very deeply rooted, they are at least
sincere while they last, and until the tempter gets the upper hand again.
Of all the temptations that beset him, the one that troubles him and the
police most is his passion for gambling. The game of policy is a kind of
unlawful penny lottery specially adapted to his means, but patronized
extensively by poor white players as well. It is the meanest of swindles, but
reaps for its backers rich fortunes wherever colored people congregate.
Between the fortune-teller and the policy shop, closely allied frauds always,
the wages of many a hard day’s work are wasted by the negro; but the loss
causes him few regrets. Penniless, but with undaunted faith in his ultimate
“luck,” he looks forward to the time when he shall once more be able to
take a hand at “beating policy.” When periodically the negro’s lucky
numbers, 4-11-44, come out on the slips of the alleged daily drawings, that
are supposed to be held in some far-off Western town, intense excitement
reigns in Thompson Street and along the Avenue, where someone is always
the winner. An immense impetus is given then to the bogus business that
has no existence outside of the cigar stores and candy shops where it hides
from the law, save in some cunning Bowery “broker’s” back office, where
the slips are printed and the “winnings” apportioned daily with due regard
to the backer’s interests.

A BLACK-AND-TAN DIVE IN “AFRICA.”

It is a question whether “Africa” has been improved by the advent of the
Italian, with the tramp from the Mulberry Street Bend in his train. The
moral turpitude of Thompson Street has been notorious for years, and the
mingling of the three elements does not seem to have wrought any change
for the better. The borderland where the white and black races meet in
common debauch, the aptly-named black-and-tan saloon, has never been
debatable ground from a moral stand-point. It has always been the worst of
the desperately bad. Than this commingling of the utterly depraved of both
sexes, white and black, on such ground, there can be no greater
abomination. Usually it is some foul cellar dive, perhaps run by the political
“leader” of the district, who is “in with” the police. In any event it gathers
to itself all the law-breakers and all the human wrecks within reach. When a
fight breaks out during the dance a dozen razors are handy in as many boot-
legs, and there is always a job for the surgeon and the ambulance. The black
“tough” is as handy with the razor in a fight as his peaceably inclined
brother is with it in pursuit of his honest trade. As the Chinaman hides his
knife in his sleeve and the Italian his stiletto in the bosom, so the negro goes
to the ball with a razor in his boot-leg, and on occasion does as much
execution with it as both of the others together. More than three-fourths of

the business the police have with the colored people in New York arises in
the black-and-tan district, now no longer fairly representative of their color.
I have touched briefly upon such facts in the negro’s life as may serve to
throw light on the social condition of his people in New York. If, when the
account is made up between the races, it shall be claimed that he falls short
of the result to be expected from twenty-five years of freedom, it may be
well to turn to the other side of the ledger and see how much of the blame is
borne by the prejudice and greed that have kept him from rising under a
burden of responsibility to which he could hardly be equal. And in this view
he may be seen to have advanced much farther and faster than before
suspected, and to promise, after all, with fair treatment, quite as well as the
rest of us, his white-skinned fellow-citizens, had any right to expect.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE COMMON HERD.

There is another line not always so readily drawn in the tenements, yet the
real boundary line of the Other Half: the one that defines the “flat.” The law
does not draw it at all, accounting all flats tenements without distinction.
The health officer draws it from observation, lumping all those which in his
judgment have nothing, or not enough, to give them claim upon the name,
with the common herd, and his way is, perhaps, on the whole, the surest and
best. The outside of the building gives no valuable clew. Brass and brown-
stone go well sometimes with dense crowds and dark and dingy rooms; but
the first attempt to enter helps draw the line with tolerable distinctness. A
locked door is a strong point in favor of the flat. It argues that the first step
has been taken to secure privacy, the absence of which is the chief curse of
the tenement. Behind a locked door the hoodlum is not at home, unless
there be a jailor in place of a janitor to guard it. Not that the janitor and the
door-bell are infallible. There may be a tenement behind a closed door; but
never a “flat” without it. The hall that is a highway for all the world by
night and by day is the tenement’s proper badge. The Other Half ever
receives with open doors.

THE OPEN DOOR.

With this introduction we shall not seek it long anywhere in the city. Below
Houston Street the door-bell in our age is as extinct as the dodo. East of
Second Avenue, and west of Ninth Avenue as far up as the Park, it is
practically an unknown institution. The nearer the river and the great
workshops the more numerous the tenements. The kind of work carried on
in any locality to a large extent determines their character. Skilled and well-
paid labor puts its stamp on a tenement even in spite of the open door, and
usually soon supplies the missing bell. Gas-houses, slaughter-houses and
the docks, that attract the roughest crowds and support the vilest saloons,
invariably form slum-centres. The city is full of such above the line of
Fourteenth Street, that is erroneously supposed by some to fence off the
good from the bad, separate the chaff from the wheat. There is nothing
below that line that can outdo in wickedness Hell’s Kitchen, in the region of
three-cent whiskey, or its counterpoise at the other end of Thirty-ninth
Street, on the East River, the home of the infamous Rag Gang. Cherry
Street is not “tougher” than Battle Row in East Sixty-third Street, or “the
village” at Twenty-ninth Street and First Avenue, where stores of broken
bricks, ammunition for the nightly conflicts with the police, are part of the
regulation outfit of every tenement. The Mulberry Street Bend is scarce
dirtier than Little Italy in Harlem. Even across the Harlem River, Frog

Hollow challenges the admiration of the earlier slums for the boldness and
pernicious activity of its home gang. There are enough of these sore spots.
We shall yet have occasion to look into the social conditions of some of
them; were I to draw a picture of them here as they are, the subject, I fear,
would outgrow alike the limits of this book and the reader’s patience.
It is true that they tell only one side of the story; that there is another to tell.
A story of thousands of devoted lives, laboring earnestly to make the most
of their scant opportunities for good; of heroic men and women striving
patiently against fearful odds and by their very courage coming off victors
in the battle with the tenement; of womanhood pure and undefiled. That it
should blossom in such an atmosphere is one of the unfathomable mysteries
of life. And yet it is not an uncommon thing to find sweet and innocent
girls, singularly untouched by the evil around them, true wives and faithful
mothers, literally “like jewels in a swine’s snout,” in the worst of the
infamous barracks. It is the experience of all who have intelligently
observed this side of life in a great city, not to be explained—unless on the
theory of my friend, the priest in the Mulberry Street Bend, that inherent
purity revolts instinctively from the naked brutality of vice as seen in the
slums—but to be thankfully accepted as the one gleam of hope in an
otherwise hopeless desert.

BIRD’S-EYE VIEW of AN EAST SIDE TENEMENT BLOCK. (FROM A
DRAWING BY CHARLES F. WINGATE, ESQ.)

But the relief is not great. In the dull content of life bred on the tenement-
house dead level there is little to redeem it, or to calm apprehension for a
society that has nothing better to offer its toilers; while the patient efforts of
the lives finally attuned to it to render the situation tolerable, and the very
success of these efforts, serve only to bring out in stronger contrast the
general gloom of the picture by showing how much farther they might have
gone with half a chance. Go into any of the “respectable” tenement
neighborhoods—the fact that there are not more than two saloons on the
corner, nor over three or four in the block will serve as a fair guide—where
live the great body of hard-working Irish and German immigrants and their
descendants, who accept naturally the conditions of tenement life, because
for them there is nothing else in New York; be with and among its people
until you understand their ways, their aims, and the quality of their
ambitions, and unless you can content yourself with the scriptural promise
that the poor we shall have always with us, or with the menagerie view that,
if fed, they have no cause of complaint, you shall come away agreeing with
me that, humanly speaking, life there does not seem worth the living. Take
at random one of these uptown tenement blocks, not of the worst nor yet of
the most prosperous kind, within hail of what the newspapers would call a
“fine residential section.” These houses were built since the last cholera
scare made people willing to listen to reason. The block is not like the one
over on the East Side in which I actually lost my way once. There were
thirty or forty rear houses in the heart of it, three or four on every lot, set at
all sorts of angles, with odd, winding passages, or no passage at all, only
“runways” for the thieves and toughs of the neighborhood. These yards are
clear. There is air there, and it is about all there is. The view between brick
walls outside is that of a stony street; inside, of rows of unpainted board
fences, a bewildering maze of clothes-posts and lines; underfoot, a desert of
brown, hard-baked soil from which every blade of grass, every stray weed,
every speck of green, has been trodden out, as must inevitably be every
gentle thought and aspiration above the mere wants of the body in those
whose moral natures such home surroundings are to nourish. In self-
defence, you know, all life eventually accommodates itself to its
environment, and human life is no exception. Within the house there is
nothing to supply the want thus left unsatisfied. Tenement-houses have no
æsthetic resources. If any are to be brought to bear on them, they must
come from the outside. There is the common hall with doors opening softly

on every landing as the strange step is heard on the stairs, the air-shaft that
seems always so busy letting out foul stenches from below that it has no
time to earn its name by bringing down fresh air, the squeaking pumps that
hold no water, and the rent that is never less than one week’s wages out of
the four, quite as often half of the family earnings.
Why complete the sketch? It is drearily familiar already. Such as it is, it is
the frame in which are set days, weeks, months, and years of unceasing toil,
just able to fill the mouth and clothe the back. Such as it is, it is the world,
and all of it, to which these weary workers return nightly to feed heart and
brain after wearing out the body at the bench, or in the shop. To it come the
young with their restless yearnings, perhaps to pass on the threshold one of
the daughters of sin, driven to the tenement by the police when they raided
her den, sallying forth in silks and fine attire after her day of idleness. These
in their coarse garments—girls with the love of youth for beautiful things,
with this hard life before them—who shall save them from the tempter?
Down in the street the saloon, always bright and gay, gathering to itself all
the cheer of the block, beckons the boys. In many such blocks the census-
taker found two thousand men, women, and children, and over, who called
them home.
The picture is faithful enough to stand for its class wherever along both
rivers the Irish brogue is heard. As already said, the Celt falls most readily
victim to tenement influences since shanty-town and its original free-soilers
have become things of the past. If he be thrifty and shrewd his progress
thenceforward is along the plane of the tenement, on which he soon
assumes to manage without improving things. The German has an
advantage over his Celtic neighbor in his strong love for flowers, which not
all the tenements on the East Side have power to smother. His garden goes
with him wherever he goes. Not that it represents any high moral principle
in the man; rather perhaps the capacity for it. He turns his saloon into a
shrubbery as soon as his back-yard. But wherever he puts it in a tenement
block it does the work of a dozen police clubs. In proportion as it spreads
the neighborhood takes on a more orderly character. As the green dies out
of the landscape and increases in political importance, the police find more
to do. Where it disappears altogether from sight, lapsing into a mere
sentiment, police-beats are shortened and the force patrols double at night.
Neither the man nor the sentiment is wholly responsible for this. It is the

tenement unadorned that is. The changing of Tompkins Square from a sand
lot into a beautiful park put an end for good and all to the Bread and Blood
riots of which it used to be the scene, and transformed a nest of dangerous
agitators into a harmless, beer-craving band of Anarchists. They have
scarcely been heard of since. Opponents of the small parks system as a
means of relieving the congested population of tenement districts, please
take note.
With the first hot nights in June police despatches, that record the killing of
men and women by rolling off roofs and window-sills while asleep,
announce that the time of greatest suffering among the poor is at hand. It is
in hot weather, when life indoors is well-nigh unbearable with cooking,
sleeping, and working, all crowded into the small rooms together, that the
tenement expands, reckless of all restraint. Then a strange and picturesque
life moves upon the flat roofs. In the day and early evening mothers air their
babies there, the boys fly their kites from the house-tops, undismayed by
police regulations, and the young men and girls court and pass the growler.
In the stifling July nights, when the big barracks are like fiery furnaces,
their very walls giving out absorbed heat, men and women lie in restless,
sweltering rows, panting for air and sleep. Then every truck in the street,
every crowded fire-escape, becomes a bedroom, infinitely preferable to any
the house affords. A cooling shower on such a night is hailed as a heaven-
sent blessing in a hundred thousand homes.
Life in the tenements in July and August spells death to an army of little
ones whom the doctor’s skill is powerless to save. When the white badge of
mourning flutters from every second door, sleepless mothers walk the
streets in the gray of the early dawn, trying to stir a cooling breeze to fan
the brow of the sick baby. There is no sadder sight than this patient devotion
striving against fearfully hopeless odds. Fifty “summer doctors,” especially
trained to this work, are then sent into the tenements by the Board of
Health, with free advice and medicine for the poor. Devoted women follow
in their track with care and nursing for the sick. Fresh-air excursions run
daily out of New York on land and water; but despite all efforts the grave-
diggers in Calvary work over-time, and little coffins are stacked mountains
high on the deck of the Charity Commissioners’ boat when it makes its
semi-weekly trips to the city cemetery.

Under the most favorable circumstances,
an epidemic, which the well-to-do can
afford to make light of as a thing to be got
over or avoided by reasonable care, is
excessively fatal among the children of the
poor, by reason of the practical
impossibility of isolating the patient in a
tenement. The measles, ordinarily a
harmless disease, furnishes a familiar
example. Tread it ever so lightly on the
avenues, in the tenements it kills right and
left. Such an epidemic ravaged three
crowded blocks in Elizabeth Street on the
heels of the grippe last winter, and, when it
had spent its fury, the death-maps in the
Bureau of Vital Statistics looked as if a
black hand had been laid across those
blocks, over-shadowing in part the
contiguous tenements in Mott Street, and
with the thumb covering a particularly packed settlement of half a dozen
houses in Mulberry Street. The track of the epidemic through these teeming
barracks was as clearly defined as the track of a tornado through a forest
district. There were houses in which as many as eight little children had
died in five months. The records showed that respiratory diseases, the
common heritage of the grippe and the measles, had caused death in most
cases, discovering the trouble to be, next to the inability to check the
contagion in those crowds, in the poverty of the parents and the wretched
home conditions that made proper care of the sick impossible. The fact was
emphasized by the occurrence here and there of a few isolated deaths from
diphtheria and scarlet fever. In the case of these diseases, considered more
dangerous to the public health, the health officers exercised summary
powers of removal to the hospital where proper treatment could be had, and
the result was a low death-rate.
These were tenements of the tall, modern type. A little more than a year
ago, when a census was made of the tenements and compared with the
mortality tables, no little surprise and congratulation was caused by the

discovery that as the buildings grew taller the death-rate fell. The reason is
plain, though the reverse had been expected by most people. The biggest
tenements have been built in the last ten years of sanitary reform rule, and
have been brought, in all but the crowding, under its laws. The old houses
that from private dwellings were made into tenements, or were run up to
house the biggest crowds in defiance of every moral and physical law, can
be improved by no device short of demolition. They will ever remain the
worst.
That ignorance plays its part, as well as poverty and bad hygienic
surroundings, in the sacrifice of life is of course inevitable. They go usually
hand in hand. A message came one day last spring summoning me to a Mott
Street tenement in which lay a child dying from some unknown disease.
With the “charity doctor” I found the patient on the top floor, stretched upon
two chairs in a dreadfully stifling room. She was gasping in the agony of
peritonitis that had already written its death-sentence on her wan and
pinched face. The whole family, father, mother, and four ragged children,
sat around looking on with the stony resignation of helpless despair that had
long since given up the fight against fate as useless. A glance around the
wretched room left no doubt as to the cause of the child’s condition.
“Improper nourishment,” said the doctor, which, translated to suit the place,
meant starvation. The father’s hands were crippled from lead poisoning. He
had not been able to work for a year. A contagious disease of the eyes, too
long neglected, had made the mother and one of the boys nearly blind. The
children cried with hunger. They had not broken their fast that day, and it
was then near noon. For months the family had subsisted on two dollars a
week from the priest, and a few loaves and a piece of corned beef which the
sisters sent them on Saturday. The doctor gave direction for the treatment of
the child, knowing that it was possible only to alleviate its sufferings until
death should end them, and left some money for food for the rest. An hour
later, when I returned, I found them feeding the dying child with ginger ale,
bought for two cents a bottle at the pedlar’s cart down the street. A pitying
neighbor had proposed it as the one thing she could think of as likely to
make the child forget its misery. There was enough in the bottle to go round
to the rest of the family. In fact, the wake had already begun; before night it
was under way in dead earnest.

IN POVERTY GAP, WEST TWENTY-EIGHTH ST. AN ENGLISH COAL-
HEAVER’S HOME.[17]

Every once in a while a case of downright starvation gets into the
newspapers and makes a sensation. But this is the exception. Were the
whole truth known, it would come home to the community with a shock
that would rouse it to a more serious effort than the spasmodic undoing of
its purse-strings. I am satisfied from my own observation that hundreds of
men, women, and children are every day slowly starving to death in the
tenements with my medical friend’s complaint of “improper nourishment.”
Within a single week I have had this year three cases of insanity, provoked
directly by poverty and want. One was that of a mother who in the middle
of the night got up to murder her child, who was crying for food; another
was the case of an Elizabeth Street truck-driver whom the newspapers never
heard of. With a family to provide for, he had been unable to work for many
months. There was neither food, nor a scrap of anything upon which money
could be raised, left in the house; his mind gave way under the combined
physical and mental suffering. In the third case I was just in time with the
police to prevent the madman from murdering his whole family. He had the

sharpened hatchet in his pocket when we seized him. He was an Irish
laborer, and had been working in the sewers until the poisonous gases
destroyed his health. Then he was laid off, and scarcely anything had been
coming in all winter but the oldest child’s earnings as cash-girl in a store,
$2.50 a week. There were seven children to provide for, and the rent of the
Mulberry Street attic in which the family lived was $10 a month. They had
borrowed as long as anybody had a cent to lend. When at last the man got
an odd job that would just buy the children bread, the week’s wages only
served to measure the depth of their misery. “It came in so on the tail-end of
everything,” said his wife in telling the story, with unconscious eloquence.
The outlook worried him through sleepless nights until it destroyed his
reason. In his madness he had only one conscious thought: that the town
should not take the children. “Better that I take care of them myself,” he
repeated to himself as he ground the axe to an edge. Help came in
abundance from many almost as poor as they when the desperate straits of
the family became known through his arrest. The readiness of the poor to
share what little they have with those who have even less is one of the few
moral virtues of the tenements. Their enormous crowds touch elbow in a
closeness of sympathy that is scarcely to be understood out of them, and has
no parallel except among the unfortunate women whom the world scorns as
outcasts. There is very little professed sentiment about it to draw a
sentimental tear from the eye of romantic philanthropy. The hard fact is that
the instinct of self-preservation impels them to make common cause against
the common misery.
No doubt intemperance bears a large share of the blame for it; judging from
the stand-point of the policeman perhaps the greater share. Two such entries
as I read in the police returns on successive days last March, of mothers in
West Side tenements, who, in their drunken sleep, lay upon and killed their
infants, go far to support such a position. And they are far from uncommon.
But my experience has shown me another view of it, a view which the last
report of the Society for Improving the Condition of the Poor seems more
than half inclined to adopt in allotting to “intemperance the cause of
distress, or distress the cause of intemperance,” forty per cent. of the cases
it is called upon to deal with. Even if it were all true, I should still load over
upon the tenement the heaviest responsibility. A single factor, the
scandalous scarcity of water in the hot summer when the thirst of the

million tenants must be quenched, if not in that in something else, has in the
past years more than all other causes encouraged drunkenness among the
poor. But to my mind there is a closer connection between the wages of the
tenements and the vices and improvidence of those who dwell in them than,
with the guilt of the tenement upon our heads, we are willing to admit even
to ourselves. Weak tea with a dry crust is not a diet to nurse moral strength.
Yet how much better might the fare be expected to be in the family of this
“widow with seven children, very energetic and prudent”—I quote again
from the report of the Society for the Improvement of the Condition of the
Poor—whose “eldest girl was employed as a learner in a tailor’s shop at
small wages, and one boy had a place as ‘cash’ in a store. There were two
other little boys who sold papers and sometimes earned one dollar. The
mother finishes pantaloons and can do three pairs in a day, thus earning
thirty-nine cents. Here is a family of eight persons with rent to pay and an
income of less than six dollars a week.”
And yet she was better off in point of pay than this Sixth Street mother, who
“had just brought home four pairs of pants to finish, at seven cents a pair.
She was required to put the canvas in the bottom, basting and sewing three
times around; to put the linings in the waist-bands; to tack three pockets,
three corners to each; to put on two stays and eight buttons, and make six
button-holes; to put the buckle on the back strap and sew on the ticket, all
for seven cents.” Better off than the “church-going mother of six children,”
and with a husband sick to death, who to support the family made shirts,
averaging an income of one dollar and twenty cents a week, while her
oldest girl, aged thirteen, was “employed down-town cutting out Hamburg
edgings at one dollar and a half a week—two and a half cents per hour for
ten hours of steady labor—making the total income of the family two
dollars and seventy cents per week.” Than the Harlem woman, who was
“making a brave effort to support a sick husband and two children by taking
in washing at thirty-five cents for the lot of fourteen large pieces, finding
coal, soap, starch, and bluing herself, rather than depend on charity in any
form.” Specimen wages of the tenements these, seemingly inconsistent with
the charge of improvidence.
But the connection on second thought is not obscure. There is nothing in the
prospect of a sharp, unceasing battle for the bare necessaries of life, to
encourage looking ahead, everything to discourage the effort. Improvidence

and wastefulness are natural results. The instalment plan secures to the
tenant who lives from hand to mouth his few comforts; the evil day of
reckoning is put off till a to-morrow that may never come. When it does
come, with failure to pay and the loss of hard-earned dollars, it simply adds
another hardship to a life measured from the cradle by such incidents. The
children soon catch the spirit of this sort of thing. I remember once calling
at the home of a poor washer-woman, living in an East Side tenement, and
finding the door locked. Some children in the hallway stopped their play
and eyed me attentively while I knocked. The biggest girl volunteered the
information that Mrs. Smith was out; but while I was thinking of how I was
to get a message to her, the child put a question of her own: “Are you the
spring man or the clock man?” When I assured her that I was neither one
nor the other, but had brought work for her mother, Mrs. Smith, who had
been hiding from the instalment collector, speedily appeared.
Perhaps of all the disheartening experiences of those who have devoted
lives of unselfish thought and effort, and their number is not so small as
often supposed, to the lifting of this great load, the indifference of those
they would help is the most puzzling. They will not be helped. Dragged by
main force out of their misery, they slip back again on the first opportunity,
seemingly content only in the old rut. The explanation was supplied by two
women of my acquaintance in an Elizabeth Street tenement, whom the city
missionaries had taken from their wretched hovel and provided with work
and a decent home somewhere in New Jersey. In three weeks they were
back, saying that they preferred their dark rear room to the stumps out in the
country. But to me the oldest, the mother, who had struggled along with her
daughter making cloaks at half a dollar apiece, twelve long years since the
daughter’s husband was killed in a street accident and the city took the
children, made the bitter confession: “We do get so kind o’ downhearted
living this way, that we have to be where something is going on, or we just
can’t stand it.” And there was sadder pathos to me in her words than in the
whole long story of their struggle with poverty; for unconsciously she
voiced the sufferings of thousands, misjudged by a happier world, deemed
vicious because they are human and unfortunate.
It is a popular delusion, encouraged by all sorts of exaggerated stories when
nothing more exciting demands public attention, that there are more
evictions in the tenements of New York every year “than in all Ireland.” I

am not sure that it is doing much for the tenant to upset this fallacy. To my
mind, to be put out of a tenement would be the height of good luck. The fact
is, however, that evictions are not nearly as common in New York as
supposed. The reason is that in the civil courts, the judges of which are
elected in their districts, the tenant-voter has solid ground to stand upon at
last. The law that takes his side to start with is usually twisted to the utmost
to give him time and save him expense. In the busiest East Side court, that
has been very appropriately dubbed the “Poor Man’s Court,” fully five
thousand dispossess warrants are issued in a year, but probably not fifty
evictions take place in the district. The landlord has only one vote, while
there may be forty voters hiring his rooms in the house, all of which the
judge takes into careful account as elements that have a direct bearing on
the case. And so they have—on his case. There are sad cases, just as there
are “rounders” who prefer to be moved at the landlord’s expense and save
the rent, but the former at least are unusual enough to attract more than their
share of attention.

DISPOSSESSED.

If his very poverty compels the tenant to live at a rate if not in a style that
would beggar a Vanderbilt, paying four prices for everything he needs, from

his rent and coal down to the smallest item in his housekeeping account,
fashion, no less inexorable in the tenements than on the avenue, exacts of
him that he must die in a style that is finally and utterly ruinous. The habit
of expensive funerals—I know of no better classification for it than along
with the opium habit and similar grievous plagues of mankind—is a
distinctively Irish inheritance, but it has taken root among all classes of
tenement dwellers, curiously enough most firmly among the Italians, who
have taken amazingly to the funeral coach, perhaps because it furnishes the
one opportunity of their lives for a really grand turn-out with a free ride
thrown in. It is not at all uncommon to find the hoards of a whole lifetime
of hard work and self denial squandered on the empty show of a ludicrous
funeral parade and a display of flowers that ill comports with the humble
life it is supposed to exalt. It is easier to understand the wake as a sort of
consolation cup for the survivors for whom there is—as one of them,
doubtless a heathenish pessimist, put it to me once—“no such luck.” The
press and the pulpit have denounced the wasteful practice that often entails
bitter want upon the relatives of the one buried with such pomp, but with
little or no apparent result. Rather, the undertaker’s business prospers more
than ever in the tenements since the genius of politics has seen its way clear
to make capital out of the dead voter as well as of the living, by making him
the means of a useful “show of strength” and count of noses.
One free excursion awaits young and old whom bitter poverty has denied
the poor privilege of the choice of the home in death they were denied in
life, the ride up the Sound to the Potter’s Field, charitably styled the City
Cemetery. But even there they do not escape their fate. In the common
trench of the Poor Burying Ground they lie packed three stories deep,
shoulder to shoulder, crowded in death as they were in life, to “save space;”
for even on that desert island the ground is not for the exclusive possession
of those who cannot afford to pay for it. There is an odd coincidence in this,
that year by year the lives that are begun in the gutter, the little nameless
waifs whom the police pick up and the city adopts as its wards, are balanced
by the even more forlorn lives that are ended in the river. I do not know
how or why it happens, or that it is more than a mere coincidence. But there
it is. Year by year the balance is struck—a few more, a few less—
substantially the same when the record is closed.

THE TRENCH IN THE POTTER’S FIELD.

CHAPTER XV.
THE PROBLEM OF THE CHILDREN.

The problem of the children becomes, in these swarms, to the last degree
perplexing. Their very number make one stand aghast. I have already given
instances of the packing of the child population in East Side tenements.
They might be continued indefinitely until the array would be enough to
startle any community. For, be it remembered, these children with the
training they receive—or do not receive—with the instincts they inherit and
absorb in their growing up, are to be our future rulers, if our theory of
government is worth anything. More than a working majority of our voters
now register from the tenements. I counted the other day the little ones, up
to ten years or so, in a Bayard Street tenement that for a yard has a
triangular space in the centre with sides fourteen or fifteen feet long, just
room enough for a row of ill-smelling closets at the base of the triangle and
a hydrant at the apex. There was about as much light in this “yard” as in the
average cellar. I gave up my self-imposed task in despair when I had
counted one hundred and twenty-eight in forty families. Thirteen I had
missed, or not found in. Applying the average for the forty to the whole
fifty-three, the house contained one hundred and seventy children. It is not
the only time I have had to give up such census work. I have in mind an
alley—an inlet rather to a row of rear tenements—that is either two or four
feet wide according as the wall of the crazy old building that gives on it
bulges out or in. I tried to count the children that swarmed there, but could
not. Sometimes I have doubted that anybody knows just how many there
are about. Bodies of drowned children turn up in the rivers right along in
summer whom no one seems to know anything about. When last spring
some workmen, while moving a pile of lumber on a North River pier, found
under the last plank the body of a little lad crushed to death, no one had
missed a boy, though his parents afterward turned up. The truant officer
assuredly does not know, though he spends his life trying to find out,
somewhat illogically, perhaps, since the department that employs him
admits that thousands of poor children are crowded out of the schools year

by year for want of room. There was a big tenement in the Sixth Ward, now
happily appropriated by the beneficent spirit of business that blots out so
many foul spots in New York—it figured not long ago in the official reports
as “an out-and-out hog-pen”—that had a record of one hundred and two
arrests in four years among its four hundred and seventy-eight tenants, fifty-
seven of them for drunken and disorderly conduct. I do not know how many
children there were in it, but the inspector reported that he found only seven
in the whole house who owned that they went to school. The rest gathered
all the instruction they received running for beer for their elders. Some of
them claimed the “flat” as their home as a mere matter of form. They slept
in the streets at night. The official came upon a little party of four drinking
beer out of the cover of a milk-can in the hallway. They were of the seven
good boys and proved their claim to the title by offering him some.
The old question, what to do with the boy, assumes a new and serious phase
in the tenements. Under the best conditions found there, it is not easily
answered. In nine cases out of ten he would make an excellent mechanic, if
trained early to work at a trade, for he is neither dull nor slow, but the short-
sighted despotism of the trades unions has practically closed that avenue to
him. Trade-schools, however excellent, cannot supply the opportunity thus
denied him, and at the outset the boy stands condemned by his own to low
and ill-paid drudgery, held down by the hand that of all should labor to raise
him. Home, the greatest factor of all in the training of the young, means
nothing to him but a pigeon-hole in a coop along with so many other human
animals. Its influence is scarcely of the elevating kind, if it have any. The
very games at which he takes a hand in the street become polluting in its
atmosphere. With no steady hand to guide him, the boy takes naturally to
idle ways. Caught in the street by the truant officer, or by the agents of the
Children’s Societies, peddling, perhaps, or begging, to help out the family
resources, he runs the risk of being sent to a reformatory, where contact
with vicious boys older than himself soon develop the latent possibilities for
evil that lie hidden in him. The city has no Truant Home in which to keep
him, and all efforts of the children’s friends to enforce school attendance are
paralyzed by this want. The risk of the reformatory is too great. What is
done in the end is to let him take chances—with the chances all against him.
The result is the rough young savage, familiar from the street. Rough as he
is, if any one doubt that this child of common clay have in him the instinct

of beauty, of love for the ideal of which his life has no embodiment, let him
put the matter to the test. Let him take into a tenement block a handful of
flowers from the fields and watch the brightened faces, the sudden
abandonment of play and fight that go ever hand in hand where there is no
elbow-room, the wild entreaty for “posies,” the eager love with which the
little messengers of peace are shielded, once possessed; then let him change
his mind. I have seen an armful of daisies keep the peace of a block better
than a policeman and his club, seen instincts awaken under their gentle
appeal, whose very existence the soil in which they grew made seem a
mockery. I have not forgotten the deputation of ragamuffins from a
Mulberry Street alley that knocked at my office door one morning on a
mysterious expedition for flowers, not for themselves, but for “a lady,” and
having obtained what they wanted, trooped off to bestow them, a ragged
and dirty little band, with a solemnity that was quite unusual. It was not
until an old man called the next day to thank me for the flowers that I found
out they had decked the bier of a pauper, in the dark rear room where she
lay waiting in her pine-board coffin for the city’s hearse. Yet, as I knew, that
dismal alley with its bare brick walls, between which no sun ever rose or
set, was the world of those children. It filled their young lives. Probably not
one of them had ever been out of the sight of it. They were too dirty, too
ragged, and too generally disreputable, too well hidden in their slum
besides, to come into line with the Fresh Air summer boarders.
With such human instincts and cravings, forever unsatisfied, turned into a
haunting curse; with appetite ground to keenest edge by a hunger that is
never fed, the children of the poor grow up in joyless homes to lives of
wearisome toil that claims them at an age when the play of their happier
fellows has but just begun. Has a yard of turf been laid and a vine been
coaxed to grow within their reach, they are banished and barred out from it
as from a heaven that is not for such as they. I came upon a couple of
youngsters in a Mulberry Street yard a while ago that were chalking on the
fence their first lesson in “writin’.” And this is what they wrote: “Keeb of te
Grass.” They had it by heart, for there was not, I verily believe, a green sod
within a quarter of a mile. Home to them is an empty name. Pleasure? A
gentleman once catechized a ragged class in a down-town public school on
this point, and recorded the result: Out of forty-eight boys twenty had never
seen the Brooklyn Bridge that was scarcely five minutes’ walk away, three

only had been in Central Park, fifteen had known the joy of a ride in a
horse-car. The street, with its ash-barrels and its dirt, the river that runs foul
with mud, are their domain. What training they receive is picked up there.
And they are apt pupils. If the mud and the dirt are easily reflected in their
lives, what wonder? Scarce half-grown, such lads as these confront the
world with the challenge to give them their due, too long withheld, or——.
Our jails supply the answer to the alternative.
A little fellow who seemed clad in but a single rag was among the flotsam
and jetsam stranded at Police Headquarters one day last summer. No one
knew where he came from or where he belonged. The boy himself knew as
little about it as anybody, and was the least anxious to have light shed on
the subject after he had spent a night in the matron’s nursery. The discovery
that beds were provided for boys to sleep in there, and that he could have “a
whole egg” and three slices of bread for breakfast put him on the best of
terms with the world in general, and he decided that Headquarters was “a
bully place.” He sang “McGinty” all through, with Tenth Avenue variations,
for the police, and then settled down to the serious business of giving an
account of himself. The examination went on after this fashion:
“Where do you go to church, my boy?”
“We don’t have no clothes to go to church.” And indeed his appearance, as
he was, in the door of any New York church would have caused a sensation.
“Well, where do you go to school, then?”
“I don’t go to school,” with a snort of contempt.
“Where do you buy your bread?”
“We don’t buy no bread; we buy beer,” said the boy, and it was eventually
the saloon that led the police as a landmark to his “home.” It was worthy of
the boy. As he had said, his only bed was a heap of dirty straw on the floor,
his daily diet a crust in the morning, nothing else.
Into the rooms of the Children’s Aid Society were led two little girls whose
father had “busted up the house” and put them on the street after their
mother died. Another, who was turned out by her step-mother “because she
had five of her own and could not afford to keep her,” could not remember

ever having been in church or Sunday-school, and only knew the name of
Jesus through hearing people swear by it. She had no idea what they meant.
These were specimens of the overflow from the tenements of our home-
heathen that are growing up in New York’s streets to-day, while tender-
hearted men and women are busying themselves with the socks and the
hereafter of well-fed little Hottentots thousands of miles away. According to
Canon Taylor, of York, one hundred and nine missionaries in the four fields
of Persia, Palestine, Arabia, and Egypt spent one year and sixty thousand
dollars in converting one little heathen girl. If there is nothing the matter
with those missionaries, they might come to New York with a good deal
better prospect of success.
By those who lay flattering unction to their souls in the knowledge that to-
day New York has, at all events, no brood of the gutters of tender years that
can be homeless long unheeded, let it be remembered well through what
effort this judgment has been averted. In thirty-seven years the Children’s
Aid Society, that came into existence as an emphatic protest against the
tenement corruption of the young, has sheltered quite three hundred
thousand outcast, homeless, and orphaned children in its lodging-houses,
and has found homes in the West for seventy thousand that had none.
Doubtless, as a mere stroke of finance, the five millions and a half thus
spent were a wiser investment than to have let them grow up thieves and
thugs. In the last fifteen years of this tireless battle for the safety of the State
the intervention of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children has
been invoked for 138,891 little ones: it has thrown its protection around
more than twenty-five thousand helpless children, and has convicted nearly
sixteen thousand wretches of child-beating and abuse. Add to this the
standing army of fifteen thousand dependent children in New York’s
asylums and institutions, and some idea is gained of the crop that is
garnered day by day in the tenements, of the enormous force employed to
check their inroads on our social life, and of the cause for apprehension that
would exist did their efforts flag for ever so brief a time.
Nothing is now better understood than that the rescue of the children is the
key to the problem of city poverty, as presented for our solution to-day: that
character may be formed where to reform it would be a hopeless task. The
concurrent testimony of all who have to undertake it at a later stage: that the
young are naturally neither vicious nor hardened, simply weak and

undeveloped, except by the bad influences of the street, makes this duty all
the more urgent as well as hopeful. Helping hands are held out on every
side. To private charity the municipality leaves the entire care of its
proletariat of tender years, lulling its conscience to sleep with liberal
appropriations of money to foot the bills. Indeed, it is held by those whose
opinions are entitled to weight that it is far too liberal a paymaster for its
own best interests and those of its wards. It deals with the evil in the seed to
a limited extent in gathering in the outcast babies from the streets. To the
ripe fruit the gates of its prisons, its reformatories, and its workhouses are
opened wide the year round. What the showing would be at this end of the
line were it not for the barriers wise charity has thrown across the broad
highway to ruin—is building day by day—may be measured by such results
as those quoted above in the span of a single life.

CHAPTER XVI.
WAIFS OF THE CITY’S SLUMS.

First among these barriers is the Foundling Asylum. It stands at the very
outset of the waste of life that goes on in a population of nearly two
millions of people; powerless to prevent it, though it gather in the outcasts
by night and by day. In a score of years an army of twenty-five thousand of
these forlorn little waifs have cried out from the streets of New York in
arraignment of a Christian civilization under the blessings of which the
instinct of motherhood even was smothered by poverty and want. Only the
poor abandon their children. The stories of richly-dressed foundlings that
are dished up in the newspapers at intervals are pure fiction. Not one
instance of even a well-dressed infant having been picked up in the streets
is on record. They come in rags, a newspaper often the only wrap, semi-
occasionally one in a clean slip with some evidence of loving care; a little
slip of paper pinned on, perhaps, with some such message as this I once
read, in a woman’s trembling hand: “Take care of Johnny, for God’s sake. I
cannot.” But even that is the rarest of all happenings.
The city divides with the Sisters of Charity the task of gathering them in.
The real foundlings, the children of the gutter that are picked up by the
police, are the city’s wards. In midwinter, when the poor shiver in their
homes, and in the dog-days when the fierce heat and foul air of the
tenements smother their babies by thousands, they are found, sometimes
three and four in a night, in hallways, in areas and on the doorsteps of the
rich, with whose comfort in luxurious homes the wretched mother somehow
connects her own misery. Perhaps, as the drowning man clutches at a straw,
she hopes that these happier hearts may have love to spare even for her little
one. In this she is mistaken. Unauthorized babies especially are not popular
in the abodes of the wealthy. It never happens outside of the story-books
that a baby so deserted finds home and friends at once. Its career, though
rather more official, is less romantic, and generally brief. After a night spent
at Police Headquarters it travels up to the Infants’ Hospital on Randall’s

Island in the morning, fitted out with a number and a bottle, that seldom see
much wear before they are laid aside for a fresh recruit. Few outcast babies
survive their desertion long. Murder is the true name of the mother’s crime
in eight cases out of ten. Of 508 babies received at the Randall’s Island
Hospital last year 333 died, 65.55 per cent. But of the 508 only 170 were
picked up in the streets, and among these the mortality was much greater,
probably nearer ninety per cent., if the truth were told. The rest were born in
the hospitals. The high mortality among the foundlings is not to be
marvelled at. The wonder is, rather, that any survive. The stormier the night,
the more certain is the police nursery to echo with the feeble cries of
abandoned babes. Often they come half dead from exposure. One live baby
came in a little pine coffin which a policeman found an inhuman wretch
trying to bury in an up-town lot. But many do not live to be officially
registered as a charge upon the county. Seventy-two dead babies were
picked up in the streets last year. Some of them were doubtless put out by
very poor parents to save funeral expenses. In hard times the number of
dead and live foundlings always increases very noticeably. But whether
travelling by way of the Morgue or the Infants’ Hospital, the little army of
waifs meets, reunited soon, in the trench in the Potter’s Field where, if no
medical student is in need of a subject, they are laid in squads of a dozen.
Most of the foundlings come from the East Side, where they are left by
young mothers without wedding-rings or other name than their own to
bestow upon the baby, returning from the island hospital to face an
unpitying world with the evidence of their shame. Not infrequently they
wear the bed-tick regimentals of the Public Charities, and thus their origin
is easily enough traced. Oftener no ray of light penetrates the gloom, and no
effort is made to probe the mystery of sin and sorrow. This also is the policy
pursued in the great Foundling Asylum of the Sisters of Charity in Sixty-
eighth Street, known all over the world as Sister Irene’s Asylum. Years ago
the crib that now stands just inside the street door, under the great main
portal, was placed outside at night; but it filled up too rapidly. The babies
took to coming in little squads instead of in single file, and in self-defence
the sisters were forced to take the cradle in. Now the mother must bring her
child inside and put it in the crib where she is seen by the sister on guard.
No effort is made to question her, or discover the child’s antecedents, but
she is asked to stay and nurse her own and another baby. If she refuses, she

is allowed to depart unhindered. If willing, she enters at once into the great
family of the good Sister who in twenty-one years has gathered as many
thousand homeless babies into her fold. One was brought in when I was last
in the asylum, in the middle of July, that received in its crib the number
20715. The death-rate is of course lowered a good deal where exposure of
the child is prevented. Among the eleven hundred infants in the asylum it
was something over nineteen per cent. last year; but among those actually
received in the twelvemonth nearer twice that figure. Even the nineteen per
cent., remarkably low for a Foundling Asylum, was equal to the startling
death-rate of Gotham Court in the cholera scourge.
Four hundred and sixty mothers, who could not or would not keep their
own babies, did voluntary penance for their sin in the asylum last year by
nursing a strange waif besides their own until both should be strong enough
to take their chances in life’s battle. An even larger number than the eleven
hundred were “pay babies,” put out to be nursed by “mothers” outside the
asylum. The money thus earned pays the rent of hundreds of poor families.
It is no trifle, quite half of the quarter of a million dollars contributed
annually by the city for the support of the asylum. The procession of these
nurse-mothers, when they come to the asylum on the first Wednesday of
each month to receive their pay and have the babies inspected by the sisters,
is one of the sights of the city. The nurses, who are under strict supervision,
grow to love their little charges and part from them with tears when, at the
age of four or five, they are sent to Western homes to be adopted. The
sisters carefully encourage the home-feeling in the child as their strongest
ally in seeking its mental and moral elevation, and the toddlers depart happy
to join their “papas and mammas” in the far-away, unknown home.
An infinitely more fiendish, if to surface appearances less deliberate, plan
of child-murder than desertion has flourished in New York for years under
the title of baby-farming. The name, put into plain English, means starving
babies to death. The law has fought this most heinous of crimes by
compelling the registry of all baby-farms. As well might it require all
persons intending murder to register their purpose with time and place of
the deed under the penalty of exemplary fines. Murderers do not hang out a
shingle. “Baby-farms,” said once Mr. Elbridge T. Gerry, the President of the
Society charged with the execution of the law that was passed through his
efforts, “are concerns by means of which persons, usually of disreputable

character, eke out a living by taking two, or three, or four babies to board.
They are the charges of outcasts, or illegitimate children. They feed them on
sour milk, and give them paregoric to keep them quiet, until they die, when
they get some young medical man without experience to sign a certificate to
the Board of Health that the child died of inanition, and so the matter ends.
The baby is dead, and there is no one to complain.” A handful of baby-
farms have been registered and licensed by the Board of Health with the
approval of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children in the last
five years, but none of this kind. The devil keeps the only complete register
to be found anywhere. Their trace is found oftenest by the coroner or the
police; sometimes they may be discovered hiding in the advertising
columns of certain newspapers, under the guise of the scarcely less
heartless traffic in helpless children that is dignified with the pretence of
adoption—for cash. An idea of how this scheme works was obtained
through the disclosures in a celebrated divorce case, a year or two ago. The
society has among its records a very recent case[18] of a baby a week old
(Baby “Blue Eyes”) that was offered for sale—adoption, the dealer called it
—in a newspaper. The agent bought it after some haggling for a dollar, and
arrested the woman slave-trader; but the law was powerless to punish her
for her crime. Twelve unfortunate women awaiting dishonored motherhood
were found in her house.
One gets a glimpse of the frightful depths to which human nature, perverted
by avarice bred of ignorance and rasping poverty, can descend, in the mere
suggestion of systematic insurance for profit of children’s lives. A woman
was put on trial in this city last year for incredible cruelty in her treatment
of a step-child. The evidence aroused a strong suspicion that a pitifully
small amount of insurance on the child’s life was one of the motives for the
woman’s savagery. A little investigation brought out the fact that three
companies that were in the business of insuring children’s lives, for sums
varying from $17 up, had issued not less than a million such policies! The
premiums ranged from five to twenty-five cents a week. What untold
horrors this business may conceal was suggested by a formal agreement
entered into by some of the companies, “for the purpose of preventing
speculation in the insurance of children’s lives.” By the terms of this
compact, “no higher premium than ten cents could be accepted on children
under six years old.” Barbarism forsooth! Did ever heathen cruelty invent a

more fiendish plot than the one written down between the lines of this legal
paper?
It is with a sense of glad relief that one turns from this misery to the
brighter page of the helping hands stretched forth on every side to save the
young and the helpless. New York is, I firmly believe, the most charitable
city in the world. Nowhere is there so eager a readiness to help, when it is
known that help is worthily wanted; nowhere are such armies of devoted
workers, nowhere such abundance of means ready to the hand of those who
know the need and how rightly to supply it. Its poverty, its slums, and its
suffering are the result of unprecedented growth with the consequent
disorder and crowding, and the common penalty of metropolitan greatness.
If the structure shows signs of being top-heavy, evidences are not wanting
—they are multiplying day by day—that patient toilers are at work among
the underpinnings. The Day Nurseries, the numberless Kindergartens and
charitable schools in the poor quarters, the Fresh Air Funds, the thousand
and one charities that in one way or another reach the homes and the lives
of the poor with sweetening touch, are proof that if much is yet to be done,
if the need only grows with the effort, hearts and hands will be found to do
it in ever-increasing measure. Black as the cloud is it has a silver lining,
bright with promise. New York is to-day a hundredfold cleaner, better,
purer, city than it was even ten years ago.
Two powerful agents that were among the pioneers in this work of moral
and physical regeneration stand in Paradise Park to-day as milestones on the
rocky, uphill road. The handful of noble women, who braved the foul
depravity of the Old Brewery to rescue its child victims, rolled away the
first and heaviest bowlder, which legislatures and city councils had tackled
in vain. The Five Points Mission and the Five Points House of Industry
have accomplished what no machinery of government availed to do. Sixty
thousand children have been rescued by them from the streets and had their
little feet set in the better way. Their work still goes on, increasing and
gathering in the waifs, instructing and feeding them, and helping their
parents with advice and more substantial aid. Their charity knows not creed
or nationality. The House of Industry is an enormous nursery-school with an
average of more than four hundred day scholars and constant boarders
—“outsiders” and “insiders.” Its influence is felt for many blocks around in
that crowded part of the city. It is one of the most touching sights in the

world to see a score of babies, rescued from homes of brutality and
desolation, where no other blessing than a drunken curse was ever heard,
saying their prayers in the nursery at bedtime. Too often their white night-
gowns hide tortured little bodies and limbs cruelly bruised by inhuman
hands. In the shelter of this fold they are safe, and a happier little group one
may seek long and far in vain.

PRAYER-TIME IN THE NURSERY—FIVE POINTS HOUSE OF
INDUSTRY.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE STREET ARAB.

Not all the barriers erected by society against its nether life, not the labor of
unnumbered societies for the rescue and relief of its outcast waifs, can dam
the stream of homelessness that issues from a source where the very name
of home is a mockery. The Street Arab is as much of an institution in New
York as Newspaper Row, to which he gravitates naturally, following his
Bohemian instinct. Crowded out of the tenements to shift for himself, and
quite ready to do it, he meets there the host of adventurous runaways from
every State in the Union and from across the sea, whom New York attracts
with a queer fascination, as it attracts the older emigrants from all parts of
the world. A census of the population in the Newsboys’ Lodging-house on
any night will show such an odd mixture of small humanity as could hardly
be got together in any other spot. It is a mistake to think that they are
helpless little creatures, to be pitied and cried over because they are alone in
the world. The unmerciful “guying” the good man would receive, who went
to them with such a programme, would soon convince him that that sort of
pity was wasted, and would very likely give him the idea that they were a
set of hardened little scoundrels, quite beyond the reach of missionary
effort.
But that would only be his second mistake. The Street Arab has all the
faults and all the virtues of the lawless life he leads. Vagabond that he is,
acknowledging no authority and owing no allegiance to anybody or
anything, with his grimy fist raised against society whenever it tries to
coerce him, he is as bright and sharp as the weasel, which, among all the
predatory beasts, he most resembles. His sturdy independence, love of
freedom and absolute self-reliance, together with his rude sense of justice
that enables him to govern his little community, not always in accordance
with municipal law or city ordinances, but often a good deal closer to the
saving line of “doing to others as one would be done by”—these are strong
handles by which those who know how can catch the boy and make him

useful. Successful bankers, clergymen, and lawyers all over the country,
statesmen in some instances of national repute, bear evidence in their lives
to the potency of such missionary efforts. There is scarcely a learned
profession, or branch of honorable business, that has not in the last twenty
years borrowed some of its brightest light from the poverty and gloom of
New York’s streets.
Anyone, whom business or curiosity has taken through Park Row or across
Printing House Square in the midnight hour, when the air is filled with the
roar of great presses spinning with printers’ ink on endless rolls of white
paper the history of the world in the twenty-four hours that have just passed
away, has seen little groups of these boys hanging about the newspaper
offices; in winter, when snow is on the streets, fighting for warm spots
around the grated vent-holes that let out the heat and steam from the
underground press-rooms with their noise and clatter, and in summer
playing craps and 7-11 on the curb for their hard-earned pennies, with all
the absorbing concern of hardened gamblers. This is their beat. Here the
agent of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children finds those he
thinks too young for “business,” but does not always capture them. Like
rabbits in their burrows, the little ragamuffins sleep with at least one eye
open, and every sense alert to the approach of danger: of their enemy, the
policeman, whose chief business in life is to move them on, and of the
agent bent on robbing them of their cherished freedom. At the first warning
shout they scatter and are off. To pursue them would be like chasing the
fleet-footed mountain goat in his rocky fastnesses. There is not an open
door, a hidden turn or runway which they do not know, with lots of secret
passages and short cuts no one else ever found. To steal a march on them is
the only way. There is a coal chute from the sidewalk to the boiler-room in
the sub-cellar of the Post Office which the Society’s officer found the boys
had made into a sort of toboggan slide to a snug berth in wintry weather.
They used to slyly raise the cover in the street, slide down in single file, and
snuggle up to the warm boiler out of harm’s way, as they thought. It proved
a trap, however. The agent slid down himself one cold night—there was no
other way of getting there—and, landing right in the midst of the sleeping
colony, had it at his mercy. After repeated raids upon their headquarters, the
boys forsook it last summer, and were next found herding under the shore-
end of one of the East River banana docks, where they had fitted up a

regular club-room that was shared by thirty or forty homeless boys and
about a million rats.
Newspaper Row is merely their headquarters. They are to be found all over
the city, these Street Arabs, where the neighborhood offers a chance of
picking up a living in the daytime and of “turning in” at night with a
promise of security from surprise. In warm weather a truck in the street, a
convenient out-house, or a dug-out in a hay-barge at the wharf make good
bunks. Two were found making their nest once in the end of a big iron pipe
up by the Harlem Bridge, and an old boiler at the East River served as an
elegant flat for another couple, who kept house there with a thief the police
had long sought, little suspecting that he was hiding under their very noses
for months together. When the Children’s Aid Society first opened its
lodging-houses, and with some difficulty persuaded the boys that their
charity was no “pious dodge” to trap them into a treasonable “Sunday-
school racket,” its managers overheard a laughable discussion among the
boys in their unwontedly comfortable beds—perhaps the first some of them
had ever slept in—as to the relative merits of the different styles of their
everyday berths. Preferences were divided between the steam-grating and a
sand-box; but the weight of the evidence was decided to be in favor of the
sand-box, because, as its advocate put it, “you could curl all up in it.” The
new “find” was voted a good way ahead of any previous experience,
however. “My eyes, ain’t it nice!” said one of the lads, tucked in under his
blanket up to the chin, and the roomful of boys echoed the sentiment. The
compact silently made that night between the Street Arabs and their hosts
has never been broken. They have been fast friends ever since.
Whence this army of homeless boys? is a question often asked. The answer
is supplied by the procession of mothers that go out and in at Police
Headquarters the year round, inquiring for missing boys, often not until
they have been gone for weeks and months, and then sometimes rather as a
matter of decent form than from any real interest in the lad’s fate. The
stereotyped promise of the clerks who fail to find his name on the books
among the arrests, that he “will come back when he gets hungry,” does not
always come true. More likely he went away because he was hungry. Some
are orphans, actually or in effect, thrown upon the world when their parents
were “sent up” to the island or to Sing Sing, and somehow overlooked by
the “Society,” which thenceforth became the enemy to be shunned until

growth and dirt and the hardships of
the street, that make old early, offer
some hope of successfully floating
the lie that they are “sixteen.” A
drunken father explains the matter
in other cases, as in that of John and
Willie, aged ten and eight, picked
up by the police. They “didn’t live
nowhere,” never went to school,
could neither read nor write. Their
twelve-year-old sister kept house
for the father, who turned the boys
out to beg, or steal, or starve.
Grinding poverty and hard work
beyond the years of the lad; blows
“DIDN’T LIVE NOWHERE.”
and curses for breakfast, dinner, and
supper; all these are recruiting
agents for the homeless army. Sickness in the house, too many mouths to
feed:
“We wuz six,” said an urchin of twelve or thirteen I came across in the
Newsboys’ Lodging House, “and we ain’t got no father. Some on us had to
go.” And so he went, to make a living by blacking boots. The going is easy
enough. There is very little to hold the boy who has never known anything
but a home in a tenement. Very soon the wild life in the streets holds him
fast, and thenceforward by his own effort there is no escape. Left alone to
himself, he soon enough finds a place in the police books, and there would
be no other answer to the second question: “what becomes of the boy?”
than that given by the criminal courts every day in the week.
But he is not left alone. Society in our day has no such suicidal intention.
Right here, at the parting of the ways, it has thrown up the strongest of all
its defences for itself and for the boy. What the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Children is to the baby-waif, the Children’s Aid Society is to
the homeless boy at this real turning-point in his career. The good it has
done cannot easily be over-estimated. Its lodging-houses, its schools and its
homes block every avenue of escape with their offer of shelter upon terms
which the boy soon accepts, as on the whole cheap and fair. In the great

Duane Street lodging-house for newsboys, they are succinctly stated in a
“notice” over the door that reads thus: “Boys who swear and chew tobacco
cannot sleep here.” There is another unwritten condition, viz.: that the boy
shall be really without a home; but upon this the managers wisely do not
insist too obstinately, accepting without too close inquiry his account of
himself where that seems advisable, well knowing that many a home that
sends forth such lads far less deserves the name than the one they are able
to give them.

STREET ARABS IN SLEEPING QUARTERS.

With these simple preliminaries the outcast boy may enter. Rags do not
count; to ignorance the door is only opened wider. Dirt does not survive
long, once within the walls of the lodging-house. It is the settled belief of
the men who conduct them that soap and water are as powerful moral
agents in their particular field as preaching, and they have experience to
back them. The boy may come and go as he pleases, so long as he behaves

himself. No restraint of any sort is put on his independence. He is as free as
any other guest at a hotel, and, like him, he is expected to pay for what he
gets. How wisely the men planned who laid the foundation of this great
rescue work and yet carry it on, is shown by no single feature of it better
than by this. No pauper was ever bred within these houses. Nothing would
have been easier with such material, or more fatal. But charity of the kind
that pauperizes is furthest from their scheme. Self-help is its very key-note,
and it strikes a response in the boy’s sturdiest trait that raises him at once to
a level with the effort made in his behalf. Recognized as an independent
trader, capable of and bound to take care of himself, he is in a position to
ask trust if trade has gone against him and he cannot pay cash for his “grub”
and his bed, and to get it without question. He can even have the loan of the
small capital required to start him in business with a boot-black’s kit, or an
armful of papers, if he is known or vouched for; but every cent is charged to
him as carefully as though the transaction involved as many hundreds of
dollars, and he is expected to pay back the money as soon as he has made
enough to keep him going without it. He very rarely betrays the trust
reposed in him. Quite on the contrary, around this sound core of self-help,
thus encouraged, habits of thrift and ambitious industry are seen to grow up
in a majority of instances. The boy is “growing” a character, and he goes
out to the man’s work in life with that which for him is better than if he had
found a fortune.
Six cents for his bed, six for his breakfast of bread and coffee, and six for
his supper of pork and beans, as much as he can eat, are the rates of the
boys’ “hotel” for those who bunk together in the great dormitories that
sometimes hold more than a hundred berths, two tiers high, made of iron,
clean and neat. For the “upper ten,” the young financiers who early take the
lead among their fellows, hire them to work for wages and add a share of
their profits to their own, and for the lads who are learning a trade and
getting paid by the week, there are ten-cent beds with a locker and with
curtains hung about. Night schools and Sunday night meetings are held in
the building and are always well attended, in winter especially, when the
lodging-houses are crowded. In summer the tow-path and the country
attract their share of the bigger boys. The “Sunday-school racket” has
ceased to have terror for them. They follow the proceedings with the
liveliest interest, quick to detect cant of any sort, should any stray in. No

one has any just conception of what congregational singing is until he has
witnessed a roomful of these boys roll up their sleeves and start in on “I am
a lily of the valley.” The swinging trapeze in the gymnasium on the top
floor is scarcely more popular with the boys than this tremendously vocal
worship. The Street Arab puts his whole little soul into what interests him
for the moment, whether it be pulverizing a rival who has done a mean trick
to a smaller boy, or attending at the “gospel shop” on Sundays. This
characteristic made necessary some extra supervision when recently the
lads in the Duane Street Lodging House “chipped in” and bought a set of
boxing gloves. The trapeze suffered a temporary eclipse until this new toy
had been tested to the extent of several miniature black eyes upon which
soap had no effect, and sundry little scores had been settled that evened
things up, as it were, for a fresh start.

GETTING READY FOR SUPPER IN THE NEWSBOYS’ LODGING
HOUSE.

I tried one night, not with the best of success I confess, to photograph the
boys in their wash-room, while they were cleaning up for supper. They were
quite turbulent, to the disgust of one of their number who assumed,

unasked, the office of general manager of the show, and expressed his
mortification to me in very polite language. “If they would only behave,
sir!” he complained, “you could make a good picture.”
“Yes,” I said, “but it isn’t in them, I suppose.”
“No, b’gosh!” said he, lapsing suddenly from grace under the provocation,
“them kids ain’t got no sense, nohow!”
The Society maintains five of these boys’ lodging houses, and one for girls,
in the city. The Duane Street Lodging House alone has sheltered since its
foundation in 1855 nearly a quarter of a million different boys, at a total
expense of a good deal less than half a million dollars. Of this amount, up to
the beginning of the present year, the boys and the earnings of the house
had contributed no less than $172,776.38. In all of the lodging-houses
together, 12,153 boys and girls were sheltered and taught last year. The
boys saved up no inconsiderable amount of money in the savings banks
provided for them in the houses, a simple system of lock-boxes that are
emptied for their benefit once a month. Besides these, the Society has
established and operates in the tenement districts twenty-one industrial
schools, co-ordinate with the public schools in authority, for the children of
the poor who cannot find room in the city’s school-houses, or are too
ragged to go there; two free reading-rooms, a dressmaking and typewriting
school and a laundry for the instruction of girls; a sick-children’s mission in
the city and two on the sea-shore, where poor mothers may take their
babies; a cottage by the sea for crippled girls, and a brush factory for
crippled boys in Forty-fourth Street. The Italian school in Leonard Street,
alone, had an average attendance of over six hundred pupils last year. The
daily average attendance at all of them was 4,105, while 11,331 children
were registered and taught. When the fact that there were among these
1,132 children of drunken parents, and 416 that had been found begging in
the street, is contrasted with the showing of $1,337.21 deposited in the
school savings banks by 1,745 pupils, something like an adequate idea is
gained of the scope of the Society’s work in the city.
A large share of it, in a sense the largest, certainly that productive of the
happiest results, lies outside of the city, however. From the lodging-houses
and the schools are drawn the battalions of young emigrants that go every

year to homes in the Far West, to grow up self-supporting men and women
safe from the temptations and the vice of the city. Their number runs far up
in the thousands. The Society never loses sight of them. The records show
that the great mass, with this start given them, become useful citizens, an
honor to the communities in which their lot is cast. Not a few achieve place
and prominence in their new surroundings. Rarely bad reports come of
them. Occasionally one comes back, lured by homesickness even for the
slums; but the briefest stay generally cures the disease for good. I helped
once to see a party off for Michigan, the last sent out by that great friend of
the homeless children, Mrs. Astor, before she died. In the party was a boy
who had been an “Insider” at the Five Points House of Industry, and
brought along as his only baggage a padlocked and iron-bound box that
contained all his wealth, two little white mice of the friendliest disposition.
They were going with him out to live on the fat of the land in the fertile
West, where they would never be wanting for a crust. Alas! for the best-laid
plans of mice and men. The Western diet did not agree with either. I saw
their owner some months later in the old home at the Five Points. He had
come back, walking part of the way, and was now pleading to be sent out
once more. He had at last had enough of the city. His face fell when I asked
him about the mice. It was a sad story, indeed. “They had so much corn to
eat,” he said, “and they couldn’t stand it. They burned all up inside, and
then they busted.”
Mrs. Astor set an example during her noble and useful life in gathering
every year a company of homeless boys from the streets and sending them
to good homes, with decent clothes on their backs—she had sent out no less
than thirteen hundred when she died, and left funds to carry on her work—
that has been followed by many who, like her, had the means and the heart
for such a labor of love. Most of the lodging-houses and school-buildings of
the society were built by some one rich man or woman who paid all the
bills, and often objected to have even the name of the giver made known to
the world. It is one of the pleasant experiences of life that give one hope
and courage in the midst of all this misery to find names, that stand to the
unthinking mass only for money-getting and grasping, associated with such
unheralded benefactions that carry their blessings down to generations yet
unborn. It is not so long since I found the carriage of a woman, whose name
is synonymous with millions, standing in front of the boys’ lodging-house

in Thirty-fifth Street. Its owner was at that moment busy with a surgeon
making a census of the crippled lads in the brush-shop, the most miserable
of all the Society’s charges, as a preliminary to fitting them out with
artificial limbs.
Farther uptown than any reared by the Children’s Aid Society, in Sixty-
seventh Street, stands a lodging-house intended for boys of a somewhat
larger growth than most of those whom the Society shelters. Unlike the
others, too, it was built by the actual labor of the young men it was designed
to benefit. In the day when more of the boys from our streets shall find their
way to it and to the New York Trade Schools, of which it is a kind of home
annex, we shall be in a fair way of solving in the most natural of all ways
the question what to do with this boy, in spite of the ignorant opposition of
the men whose tyrannical policy is now to blame for the showing that, out
of twenty-three millions of dollars paid annually to mechanics in the
building trades in this city, less than six millions go to the workman born in
New York, while his boy roams the streets with every chance of growing up
a vagabond and next to none of becoming an honest artisan. Colonel
Auchmuty is a practical philanthropist to whom the growing youth of New
York will one day owe a debt of gratitude not easily paid. The progress of
the system of trade schools established by him, at which a young man may
acquire the theory as well as the practice of a trade in a few months at a
merely nominal outlay, has not been nearly as rapid as was to be desired,
though the fact that other cities are copying the model, with their master
mechanics as the prime movers in the enterprise, testifies to its excellence.
But it has at last taken a real start, and with union men and even the officers
of unions now sending their sons to the trade schools to be taught,[19] one
may perhaps be permitted to hope that an era of better sense is dawning that
shall witness a rescue work upon lines which, when the leaven has fairly
had time to work, will put an end to the existence of the New York Street
Arab, of the native breed at least.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE REIGN OF RUM.

Where God builds a church the devil builds next door—a saloon, is an old
saying that has lost its point in New York. Either the devil was on the
ground first, or he has been doing a good deal more in the way of building.
I tried once to find out how the account stood, and counted to 111 Protestant
churches, chapels, and places of worship of every kind below Fourteenth
Street, 4,065 saloons. The worst half of the tenement population lives down
there, and it has to this day the worst half of the saloons. Uptown the
account stands a little better, but there are easily ten saloons to every church
to-day. I am afraid, too, that the congregations are larger by a good deal;
certainly the attendance is steadier and the contributions more liberal the
week round, Sunday included. Turn and twist it as we may, over against
every bulwark for decency and morality which society erects, the saloon
projects its colossal shadow, omen of evil wherever it falls into the lives of
the poor.
Nowhere is its mark so broad or so black. To their misery it sticketh closer
than a brother, persuading them that within its doors only is refuge, relief. It
has the best of the argument, too, for it is true, worse pity, that in many a
tenement-house block the saloon is the one bright and cheery and humanly
decent spot to be found. It is a sorry admission to make, that to bring the
rest of the neighborhood up to the level of the saloon would be one way of
squelching it; but it is so. Wherever the tenements thicken, it multiplies.
Upon the direst poverty of their crowds it grows fat and prosperous, levying
upon it a tax heavier than all the rest of its grievous burdens combined. It is
not yet two years since the Excise Board made the rule that no three corners
of any street-crossing, not already so occupied, should thenceforward be
licensed for rum-selling. And the tardy prohibition was intended for the
tenement districts. Nowhere else is there need of it. One may walk many
miles through the homes of the poor searching vainly for an open reading-
room, a cheerful coffee-house, a decent club that is not a cloak for the

traffic in rum. The dramshop yawns at every step, the poor man’s club, his
forum and his haven of rest when weary and disgusted with the crowding,
the quarrelling, and the wretchedness at home. With the poison dealt out
there he takes his politics, in quality not far apart. As the source, so the
stream. The rumshop turns the political crank in New York. The natural
yield is rum politics. Of what that means, successive Boards of Aldermen,
composed in a measure, if not of a majority, of dive-keepers, have given
New York a taste. The disgrace of the infamous “Boodle Board” will be
remembered until some corruption even fouler crops out and throws it into
the shade.
What relation the saloon bears to the crowds, let me illustrate by a
comparison. Below Fourteenth Street were, when the Health Department
took its first accurate census of the tenements a year and a half ago, 13,220
of the 32,390 buildings classed as such in the whole city. Of the eleven
hundred thousand tenants, not quite half a million, embracing a host of
more than sixty-three thousand children under five years of age, lived
below that line. Below it, also, were 234 of the cheap lodging-houses
accounted for by the police last year, with a total of four millions and a half
of lodgers for the twelvemonth, 59 of the city’s 110 pawnshops, and 4,065
of its 7,884 saloons. The four most densely peopled precincts, the Fourth,
Sixth, Tenth, and Eleventh, supported together in round numbers twelve
hundred saloons, and their returns showed twenty-seven per cent. of the
whole number of arrests for the year. The Eleventh Precinct, that has the
greatest and the poorest crowds of all—it is the Tenth Ward—and harbored
one-third of the army of homeless lodgers and fourteen per cent. of all the
prisoners of the year, kept 485 saloons going in 1889. It is not on record
that one of them all failed for want of support. A number of them, on the
contrary, had brought their owners wealth and prominence. From their bars
these eminent citizens stepped proudly into the councils of the city and the
State. The very floor of one of the bar-rooms, in a neighborhood that lately
resounded with the cry for bread of starving workmen, is paved with silver
dollars!
East Side poverty is not alone in thus rewarding the tyrants that sweeten its
cup of bitterness with their treacherous poison. The Fourth Ward points
with pride to the honorable record of the conductors of its “Tub of Blood,”
and a dozen bar-rooms with less startling titles; the West Side to the wealth

and “social” standing of the owners of such resorts as the “Witches’ Broth”
and the “Plug Hat” in the region of Hell’s Kitchen three-cent whiskey,
names ominous of the concoctions brewed there and of their fatally
generous measure. Another ward, that boasts some of the best residences
and the bluest blood on Manhattan Island, honors with political leadership
in the ruling party the proprietor of one of the most disreputable Black-and-
Tan dives and dancing-hells to be found anywhere. Criminals and
policemen alike do him homage. The list might be strung out to make texts
for sermons with a stronger home flavor than many that are preached in our
pulpits on Sunday. But I have not set out to write the political history of
New York. Besides, the list would not be complete. Secret dives are
skulking in the slums and out of them, that are not labelled respectable by a
Board of Excise and support no “family entrance.” Their business, like that
of the stale-beer dives, is done through a side-door the week through. No
one knows the number of unlicensed saloons in the city. Those who have
made the matter a study estimate it at a thousand, more or less. The police
make occasional schedules of a few and report them to headquarters.
Perhaps there is a farce in the police court, and there the matter ends. Rum
and “influence” are synonymous terms. The interests of the one rarely
suffer for the want of attention from the other.

A DOWNTOWN “MORGUE.”

With the exception of these free lances that treat the law openly with
contempt, the saloons all hang out a sign announcing in fat type that no beer
or liquor is sold to children. In the down-town “morgues” that make the
lowest degradation of tramp-humanity pan out a paying interest, as in the
“reputable resorts” uptown where Inspector Byrnes’s men spot their
worthier quarry elbowing citizens whom the idea of associating with a
burglar would give a shock they would not get over for a week, this sign is
seen conspicuously displayed. Though apparently it means submission to a
beneficent law, in reality the sign is a heartless, cruel joke. I doubt if one
child in a thousand, who brings his growler to be filled at the average New
York bar, is sent away empty-handed, if able to pay for what he wants. I
once followed a little boy, who shivered in bare feet on a cold November
night so that he seemed in danger of smashing his pitcher on the icy
pavement, into a Mulberry Street saloon where just such a sign hung on the
wall, and forbade the barkeeper to serve the boy. The man was as
astonished at my interference as if I had told him to shut up his shop and go
home, which in fact I might have done with as good a right, for it was after
1 A.M., the legal closing hour. He was mighty indignant too, and told me
roughly to go away and mind my business, while he filled the pitcher. The
law prohibiting the selling of beer to minors is about as much respected in
the tenement-house districts as the ordinance against swearing. Newspaper
readers will recall the story, told little more than a year ago, of a boy who
after carrying beer a whole day for a shopful of men over on the East Side,
where his father worked, crept into the cellar to sleep off the effects of his
own share in the rioting. It was Saturday evening. Sunday his parents
sought him high and low; but it was not until Monday morning, when the
shop was opened, that he was found, killed and half-eaten by the rats that
overran the place.
All the evil the saloon does in breeding poverty and in corrupting politics;
all the suffering it brings into the lives of its thousands of innocent victims,
the wives and children of drunkards it sends forth to curse the community;
its fostering of crime and its shielding of criminals—it is all as nothing to
this, its worst offence. In its affinity for the thief there is at least this
compensation that, as it makes, it also unmakes him. It starts him on his
career only to trip him up and betray him into the hands of the law, when

the rum he exchanged for his honesty has stolen his brains as well. For the
corruption of the child there is no restitution. None is possible. It saps the
very vitals of society; undermines its strongest defences, and delivers them
over to the enemy. Fostered and filled by the saloon, the “growler” looms
up in the New York street boy’s life, baffling the most persistent efforts to
reclaim him. There is no escape from it; no hope for the boy, once its
blighting grip is upon him. Thenceforward the logic of the slums, that the
world which gave him poverty and ignorance for his portion “owes him a
living,” is his creed, and the career of the “tough” lies open before him, a
beaten track to be blindly followed to a bad end in the wake of the growler.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE HARVEST OF TARES.

The “growler” stood at the cradle of the tough. It bosses him through his
boyhood apprenticeship in the “gang,” and leaves him, for a time only, at
the door of the jail that receives him to finish his training and turn him loose
upon the world a thief, to collect by stealth or by force the living his
philosophy tells him that it owes him, and will not voluntarily surrender
without an equivalent in the work which he hates. From the moment he,
almost a baby, for the first time carries the growler for beer, he is never out
of its reach, and the two soon form a partnership that lasts through life. It
has at least the merit, such as it is, of being loyal. The saloon is the only
thing that takes kindly to the lad. Honest play is interdicted in the streets.
The policeman arrests the ball-tossers, and there is no room in the back-
yard. In one of these, between two enormous tenements that swarmed with
children, I read this ominous notice: “All boys caught in this yard will be
delt with accorden to law.”
Along the water-fronts, in the holes of the dock-rats, and on the avenues,
the young tough finds plenty of kindred spirits. Every corner has its gang,
not always on the best of terms with the rivals in the next block, but all with
a common programme: defiance of law and order, and with a common
ambition: to get “pinched,” i.e., arrested, so as to pose as heroes before their
fellows. A successful raid on the grocer’s till is a good mark, “doing up” a
policeman cause for promotion. The gang is an institution in New York. The
police deny its existence while nursing the bruises received in nightly
battles with it that tax their utmost resources. The newspapers chronicle its
doings daily, with a sensational minuteness of detail that does its share
toward keeping up its evil traditions and inflaming the ambition of its
members to be as bad as the worst. The gang is the ripe fruit of tenement-
house growth. It was born there, endowed with a heritage of instinctive
hostility to restraint by a generation that sacrificed home to freedom, or left
its country for its country’s good. The tenement received and nursed the

seed. The intensity of the American temper stood sponsor to the murderer in
what would have been the common “bruiser” of a more phlegmatic clime.
New York’s tough represents the essence of reaction against the old and the
new oppression, nursed in the rank soil of its slums. Its gangs are made up
of the American-born sons of English, Irish, and German parents. They
reflect exactly the conditions of the tenements from which they sprang.
Murder is as congenial to Cherry Street or to Battle Row, as quiet and order
to Murray Hill. The “assimilation” of Europe’s oppressed hordes, upon
which our Fourth of July orators are fond of dwelling, is perfect. The
product is our own.
Such is the genesis of New York’s gangs. Their history is not so easily
written. It would embrace the largest share of our city’s criminal history for
two generations back, every page of it dyed red with blood. The guillotine
Paris set up a century ago to avenge its wrongs was not more relentless, or
less discriminating, than this Nemesis of New York. The difference is of
intent. Murder with that was the serious purpose; with ours it is the careless
incident, the wanton brutality of the moment. Bravado and robbery are the
real purposes of the gangs; the former prompts the attack upon the
policeman, the latter that upon the citizen. Within a single week last spring,
the newspapers recorded six murderous assaults on unoffending people,
committed by young highwaymen in the public streets. How many more
were suppressed by the police, who always do their utmost to hush up such
outrages “in the interests of justice,” I shall not say. There has been no lack
of such occurrences since, as the records of the criminal courts show. In
fact, the past summer has seen, after a period of comparative quiescence of
the gangs, a reawakening to renewed turbulence of the East Side tribes, and
over and over again the reserve forces of a precinct have been called out to
club them into submission. It is a peculiarity of the gangs that they usually
break out in spots, as it were. When the West Side is in a state of eruption,
the East Side gangs “lie low,” and when the toughs along the North River
are nursing broken heads at home, or their revenge in Sing Sing, fresh
trouble breaks out in the tenements east of Third Avenue. This result is
brought about by the very efforts made by the police to put down the gangs.
In spite of local feuds, there is between them a species of ruffianly
Freemasonry that readily admits to full fellowship a hunted rival in the face
of the common enemy. The gangs belt the city like a huge chain from the

Battery to Harlem—the collective name of the “chain gang” has been given
to their scattered groups in the belief that a much closer connection exists
between them than commonly supposed—and the ruffian for whom the East
Side has became too hot, has only to step across town and change his name,
a matter usually much easier for him than to change his shirt, to find a
sanctuary in which to plot fresh outrages. The more notorious he is, the
warmer the welcome, and if he has “done” his man he is by common
consent accorded the leadership in his new field.
From all this it might be inferred that the New York tough is a very fierce
individual, of indomitable courage and naturally as blood-thirsty as a tiger.
On the contrary he is an arrant coward. His instincts of ferocity are those of
the wolf rather than the tiger. It is only when he hunts with the pack that he
is dangerous. Then his inordinate vanity makes him forget all fear or
caution in the desire to distinguish himself before his fellows, a result of his
swallowing all the flash literature and penny-dreadfuls he can beg, borrow,
or steal—and there is never any lack of them—and of the strongly dramatic
element in his nature that is nursed by such a diet into rank and morbid
growth. He is a queer bundle of contradictions at all times. Drunk and foul-
mouthed, ready to cut the throat of a defenceless stranger at the toss of a
cent, fresh from beating his decent mother black and blue to get money for
rum,[20] he will resent as an intolerable insult the imputation that he is “no
gentleman.” Fighting his battles with the coward’s weapons, the brass-
knuckles and the deadly sand-bag, or with brick-bats from the housetops, he
is still in all seriousness a lover of fair play, and as likely as not, when his
gang has downed a policeman in a battle that has cost a dozen broken
heads, to be found next saving a drowning child or woman at the peril of his
own life. It depends on the angle at which he is seen, whether he is a
cowardly ruffian, or a possible hero with different training and under
different social conditions. Ready wit he has at all times, and there is less
meanness in his make-up than in that of the bully of the London slums; but
an intense love of show and applause, that carries him to any length of
bravado, which his twin-brother across the sea entirely lacks. I have a very
vivid recollection of seeing one of his tribe, a robber and murderer before
he was nineteen, go to the gallows unmoved, all fear of the rope overcome,
as it seemed, by the secret, exultant pride of being the centre of a first-class
show, shortly to be followed by that acme of tenement-life bliss, a big

funeral. He had his reward. His name is to this day a talisman among West
Side ruffians, and is proudly borne by the gang of which, up till the night
when he “knocked out his man,” he was an obscure though aspiring
member.

A GROWLER GANG IN SESSION.

The crime that made McGloin famous was the cowardly murder of an
unarmed saloonkeeper who came upon the gang while it was sacking his
bar-room at the dead of night. McGloin might easily have fled, but
disdained to “run for a Dutchman.” His act was a fair measure of the
standard of heroism set up by his class in its conflicts with society. The
finish is worthy of the start. The first long step in crime taken by the half-
grown boy, fired with ambition to earn a standing in his gang, is usually to
rob a “lush,” i.e., a drunken man who has strayed his way, likely enough is

lying asleep in a hallway. He has served an apprenticeship on copper-
bottom wash-boilers and like articles found lying around loose, and capable
of being converted into cash enough to give the growler a trip or two; but
his first venture at robbery moves him up into full fellowship at once. He is
no longer a “kid,” though his years may be few, but a tough with the rest.
He may even in time—he is reasonably certain of it—get his name in the
papers as a murderous scoundrel, and have his cup of glory filled to the
brim. I came once upon a gang of such young rascals passing the growler
after a successful raid of some sort, down at the West Thirty-seventh Street
dock, and, having my camera along, offered to “take” them. They were not
old and wary enough to be shy of the photographer, whose acquaintance
they usually first make in handcuffs and the grip of a policeman; or their
vanity overcame their caution. It is entirely in keeping with the tough’s
character that he should love of all things to pose before a photographer,
and the ambition is usually the stronger the more repulsive the tough. These
were of that sort, and accepted the offer with great readiness, dragging into
their group a disreputable-looking sheep that roamed about with them (the
slaughter-houses were close at hand) as one of the band. The homeliest
ruffian of the lot, who insisted on being taken with the growler to his
“mug,” took the opportunity to pour what was left in it down his throat and
this caused a brief unpleasantness, but otherwise the performance was a
success. While I was getting the camera ready, I threw out a vague
suggestion of cigarette-pictures, and it took root at once. Nothing would do
then but that I must take the boldest spirits of the company “in character.”
One of them tumbled over against a shed, as if asleep, while two of the
others bent over him, searching his pockets with a deftness that was highly
suggestive. This, they explained for my benefit, was to show how they “did
the trick.” The rest of the band were so impressed with the importance of
this exhibition that they insisted on crowding into the picture by climbing
upon the shed, sitting on the roof with their feet dangling over the edge, and
disposing themselves in every imaginable manner within view, as they
thought. Lest any reader be led into the error of supposing them to have
been harmless young fellows enjoying themselves in peace, let me say that
within half an hour after our meeting, when I called at the police station
three blocks away, I found there two of my friends of the “Montgomery
Guards” under arrest for robbing a Jewish pedlar who had passed that way
after I left them, and trying to saw his head off, as they put it, “just for fun.

The sheeny cum along an’ the saw was there, an’ we socked it to him.” The
prisoners were described to me by the police as Dennis, “the Bum,” and
“Mud” Foley.
It is not always that their little diversions end as harmlessly as did this, even
from the standpoint of the Jew, who was pretty badly hurt. Not far from the
preserves of the Montgomery Guards, in Poverty Gap, directly opposite the
scene of the murder to which I have referred in a note explaining the picture
of the Cunningham family (p. 169), a young lad, who was the only support
of his aged parents, was beaten to death within a few months by the “Alley
Gang,” for the same offence that drew down the displeasure of its neighbors
upon the pedlar: that of being at work trying to earn an honest living. I
found a part of the gang asleep the next morning, before young Healey’s
death was known, in a heap of straw on the floor of an unoccupied room in
the same row of rear tenements in which the murdered boy’s home was.
One of the tenants, who secretly directed me to their lair, assuring me that
no worse scoundrels went unhung, ten minutes later gave the gang, to its
face, an official character for sobriety and inoffensiveness that very nearly
startled me into an unguarded rebuke of his duplicity. I caught his eye in
time and held my peace. The man was simply trying to protect his own
home, while giving such aid as he safely could toward bringing the
murderous ruffians to justice. The incident shows to what extent a
neighborhood may be terrorized by a determined gang of these reckless
toughs.
In Poverty Gap there were still a few decent people left. When it comes to
Hell’s Kitchen, or to its compeers at the other end of Thirty-ninth Street
over by the East River, and further down First Avenue in “the Village,” the
Rag Gang and its allies have no need of fearing treachery in their periodical
battles with the police. The entire neighborhood takes a hand on these
occasions, the women in the front rank, partly from sheer love of the “fun,”
but chiefly because husbands, brothers, and sweet-hearts are in the fight to a
man and need their help. Chimney-tops form the staple of ammunition then,
and stacks of loose brick and paving-stones, carefully hoarded in upper
rooms as a prudent provision against emergencies. Regular patrol posts are
established by the police on the housetops in times of trouble in these
localities, but even then they do not escape whole-skinned, if, indeed, with
their lives; neither does the gang. The policeman knows of but one cure for

the tough, the club, and he lays it on without stint whenever and wherever
he has the chance, knowing right well that, if caught at a disadvantage, he
will get his outlay back with interest. Words are worse than wasted in the
gang-districts. It is a blow at sight, and the tough thus accosted never stops
to ask questions. Unless he is “wanted” for some signal outrage, the
policeman rarely bothers with arresting him. He can point out half a dozen
at sight against whom indictments are pending by the basketful, but whom
no jail ever held many hours. They only serve to make him more reckless,
for he knows that the political backing that has saved him in the past can do
it again. It is a commodity that is only exchangeable “for value received,”
and it is not hard to imagine what sort of value is in demand. The saloon, in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, stands behind the bargain.
For these reasons, as well as because he knows from frequent experience
his own way to be the best, the policeman lets the gangs alone except when
they come within reach of his long night-stick. They have their “club-
rooms” where they meet, generally in a tenement, sometimes under a pier
or a dump, to carouse, play cards, and plan their raids; their “fences,” who
dispose of the stolen property. When the necessity presents itself for a
descent upon the gang after some particularly flagrant outrage, the police
have a task on hand that is not of the easiest. The gangs, like foxes, have
more than one hole to their dens. In some localities, where the interior of a
block is filled with rear tenements, often set at all sorts of odd angles,
surprise alone is practicable. Pursuit through the winding ways and
passages is impossible. The young thieves know them all by heart. They
have their runways over roofs and fences which no one else could find.
Their lair is generally selected with special reference to its possibilities of
escape. Once pitched upon, its occupation by the gang, with its ear-mark of
nightly symposiums, “can-rackets” in the slang of the street, is the signal
for a rapid deterioration of the tenement, if that is possible. Relief is only to
be had by ousting the intruders. An instance came under my notice in which
valuable property had been well-nigh ruined by being made the
thoroughfare of thieves by night and by day. They had chosen it because of
a passage that led through the block by way of several connecting halls and
yards. The place came soon to be known as “Murderers Alley.” Complaint
was made to the Board of Health, as a last resort, of the condition of the
property. The practical inspector who was sent to report upon it suggested

to the owner that he build a brick-wall in a place where it would shut off
communication between the streets, and he took the advice. Within the brief
space of a few months the house changed character entirely, and became as
decent as it had been before the convenient runway was discovered.

TYPICAL TOUGHS (FROM THE ROGUES’ GALLERY).

This was in the Sixth Ward, where the infamous Whyo Gang until a few
years ago absorbed the worst depravity of the Bend and what is left of the
Five Points. The gang was finally broken up when its leader was hanged for
murder after a life of uninterrupted and unavenged crimes, the recital of
which made his father confessor turn pale, listening in the shadow of the
scaffold, though many years of labor as chaplain of the Tombs had hardened
him to such rehearsals. The great Whyo had been a “power in the ward,”
handy at carrying elections for the party or faction that happened to stand in
need of his services and was willing to pay for them in money or in kind.
Other gangs have sprung up since with as high ambition and a fair prospect
of outdoing their predecessor. The conditions that bred it still exist,
practically unchanged. Inspector Byrnes is authority for the statement that
throughout the city the young tough has more “ability” and “nerve” than the
thief whose example he successfully emulates. He begins earlier, too.

Speaking of the increase of the native element among criminal prisoners
exhibited in the census returns of the last thirty years,[21] the Rev. Fred. H.
Wines says, “their youth is a very striking fact.” Had he confined his
observations to the police courts of New York, he might have emphasized
that remark and found an explanation of the discovery that “the ratio of
prisoners in cities is two and one-quarter times as great as in the country at
large,” a computation that takes no account of the reformatories for juvenile
delinquents, or the exhibit would have been still more striking. Of the
82,200 persons arrested by the police in 1889, 10,505 were under twenty
years old. The last report of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Children enumerates, as “a few typical cases,” eighteen “professional
cracksmen,” between nine and fifteen years old, who had been caught with
burglars’ tools, or in the act of robbery. Four of them, hardly yet in long
trousers, had “held up” a wayfarer in the public street and robbed him of
$73. One, aged sixteen, “was the leader of a noted gang of young robbers in
Forty-ninth Street. He committed murder, for which he is now serving a
term of nineteen years in State’s Prison.” Four of the eighteen were girls
and quite as bad as the worst. In a few years they would have been living
with the toughs of their choice without the ceremony of a marriage, egging
them on by their pride in their lawless achievements, and fighting side by
side with them in their encounters with the “cops.”
The exploits of the Paradise Park Gang in the way of highway robbery
showed last summer that the embers of the scattered Whyo Gang, upon the
wreck of which it grew, were smouldering still. The hanging of Driscoll
broke up the Whyos because they were a comparatively small band, and,
with the incomparable master-spirit gone, were unable to resist the angry
rush of public indignation that followed the crowning outrage. This is the
history of the passing away of famous gangs from time to time. The passing
is more apparent than real, however. Some other daring leader gathers the
scattered elements about him soon, and the war on society is resumed. A
bare enumeration of the names of the best-known gangs would occupy
pages of this book. The Rock Gang, the Rag Gang, the Stable Gang, and the
Short Tail Gang down about the “Hook” have all achieved bad eminence,
along with scores of others that have not paraded so frequently in the
newspapers. By day they loaf in the corner-groggeries on their beat, at night
they plunder the stores along the avenues, or lie in wait at the river for

unsteady feet straying their way. The man who is sober and minds his own
business they seldom molest, unless he be a stranger inquiring his way, or a
policeman and the gang twenty against the one. The tipsy wayfarer is their
chosen victim, and they seldom have to look for him long. One has not far
to go to the river from any point in New York. The man who does not know
where he is going is sure to reach it sooner or later. Should he foolishly
resist or make an outcry—dead men tell no tales. “Floaters” come ashore
every now and then with pockets turned inside out, not always evidence of
a post-mortem inspection by dock-rats. Police patrol the rivers as well as
the shore on constant look-out for these, but seldom catch up with them. If
overtaken after a race during which shots are often exchanged from the
boats, the thieves have an easy way of escaping and at the same time
destroying the evidence against them; they simply upset the boat. They
swim, one and all, like real rats; the lost plunder can be recovered at leisure
the next day by diving or grappling. The loss of the boat counts for little.
Another is stolen, and the gang is ready for business again.

HUNTING RIVER THIEVES.

The fiction of a social “club,” which most of the gangs keep up, helps them
to a pretext for blackmailing the politicians and the storekeepers in their
bailiwick at the annual seasons of their picnic, or ball. The “thieves’ ball” is
as well known and recognized an institution on the East Side as the Charity
Ball in a different social stratum, although it does not go by that name, in
print at least. Indeed, the last thing a New York tough will admit is that he is
a thief. He dignifies his calling with the pretence of gambling. He does not
steal: he “wins” your money or your watch, and on the police returns he is a
“speculator.” If, when he passes around the hat for “voluntary”
contributions, any storekeeper should have the temerity to refuse to chip in,
he may look for a visit from the gang on the first dark night, and account
himself lucky if his place escapes being altogether wrecked. The Hell’s
Kitchen Gang and the Rag Gang have both distinguished themselves within
recent times by blowing up objectionable stores with stolen gunpowder. But
if no such episode mar the celebration, the excursion comes off and is the
occasion for a series of drunken fights that as likely as not end in murder.
No season has passed within my memory that has not seen the police
reserves called out to receive some howling pandemonium returning from a
picnic grove on the Hudson or on the Sound. At least one peaceful
community up the river, that had borne with this nuisance until patience had
ceased to be a virtue, received a boat-load of such picnickers in a style
befitting the occasion and the cargo. The outraged citizens planted a
howitzer on the dock, and bade the party land at their peril. With the loaded
gun pointed dead at them, the furious toughs gave up and the peace was not
broken on the Hudson that day, at least not ashore. It is good cause for
congratulation that the worst of all forms of recreation popular among the
city’s toughs, the moonlight picnic, has been effectually discouraged. Its
opportunities for disgraceful revelry and immorality were unrivalled
anywhere.
In spite of influence and protection, the tough reaches eventually the end of
his rope. Occasionally—not too often—there is a noose on it. If not, the
world that owes him a living, according to his creed, will insist on his
earning it on the safe side of a prison wall. A few, a very few, have been
clubbed into an approach to righteousness from the police standpoint. The
condemned tough goes up to serve his “bit” or couple of “stretches,”
followed by the applause of his gang. In the prison he meets older thieves

than himself, and sits at their feet listening with respectful admiration to
their accounts of the great doings that sent them before. He returns with the
brand of the jail upon him, to encounter the hero-worship of his old
associates as an offset to the cold shoulder given him by all the rest of the
world. Even if he is willing to work, disgusted with the restraint and hard
labor of prison life, and in a majority of cases that thought is probably
uppermost in his mind, no one will have him around. If, with the assistance
of Inspector Byrnes, who is a philanthropist in his own practical way, he
secures a job, he is discharged on the slightest provocation, and for the most
trifling fault. Very soon he sinks back into his old surroundings, to rise no
more until he is lost to view in the queer, mysterious way in which thieves
and fallen women disappear. No one can tell how. In the ranks of criminals
he never rises above that of the “laborer,” the small thief or burglar, or
general crook, who blindly does the work planned for him by others, and
runs the biggest risk for the poorest pay. It cannot be said that the “growler”
brought him luck, or its friendship fortune. And yet, if his misdeeds have
helped to make manifest that all effort to reclaim his kind must begin with
the conditions of life against which his very existence is a protest, even the
tough has not lived in vain. This measure of credit at least should be
accorded him, that, with or without his good-will, he has been a factor in
urging on the battle against the slums that bred him. It is a fight in which
eternal vigilance is truly the price of liberty and the preservation of society.

CHAPTER XX.
THE WORKING GIRLS OF NEW YORK.

Of the harvest of tares, sown in iniquity and reaped in wrath, the police
returns tell the story. The pen that wrote the “Song of the Shirt” is needed to
tell of the sad and toil-worn lives of New York’s working-women. The cry
echoes by night and by day through its tenements:
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
Six months have not passed since at a great public meeting in this city, the
Working Women’s Society reported: “It is a known fact that men’s wages
cannot fall below a limit upon which they can exist, but woman’s wages
have no limit, since the paths of shame are always open to her. It is simply
impossible for any woman to live without assistance on the low salary a
saleswoman earns, without depriving herself of real necessities.... It is
inevitable that they must in many instances resort to evil.” It was only a few
brief weeks before that verdict was uttered, that the community was
shocked by the story of a gentle and refined woman who, left in direst
poverty to earn her own living alone among strangers, threw herself from
her attic window, preferring death to dishonor. “I would have done any
honest work, even to scrubbing,” she wrote, drenched and starving, after a
vain search for work in a driving storm. She had tramped the streets for
weeks on her weary errand, and the only living wages that were offered her
were the wages of sin. The ink was not dry upon her letter before a woman
in an East Side tenement wrote down her reason for self-murder:
“Weakness, sleeplessness, and yet obliged to work. My strength fails me.
Sing at my coffin: ‘Where does the soul find a home and rest?’” Her story
may be found as one of two typical “cases of despair” in one little church
community, in the City Mission Society’s Monthly for last February. It is a
story that has many parallels in the experience of every missionary, every
police reporter and every family doctor whose practice is among the poor.

It is estimated that at least one hundred and fifty thousand women and girls
earn their own living in New York; but there is reason to believe that this
estimate falls far short of the truth when sufficient account is taken of the
large number who are not wholly dependent upon their own labor, while
contributing by it to the family’s earnings. These alone constitute a large
class of the women wage-earners, and it is characteristic of the situation that
the very fact that some need not starve on their wages condemns the rest to
that fate. The pay they are willing to accept all have to take. What the
“everlasting law of supply and demand,” that serves as such a convenient
gag for public indignation, has to do with it, one learns from observation all
along the road of inquiry into these real woman’s wrongs. To take the case
of the saleswomen for illustration: The investigation of the Working
Women’s Society disclosed the fact that wages averaging from $2 to $4.50
a week were reduced by excessive fines, the employers placing a value
upon time lost that is not given to services rendered." A little girl, who
received two dollars a week, made cash-sales amounting to $167 in a single
day, while the receipts of a fifteen-dollar male clerk in the same department
footed up only $125; yet for some trivial mistake the girl was fined sixty
cents out of her two dollars. The practice prevailed in some stores of
dividing the fines between the superintendent and the time-keeper at the end
of the year. In one instance they amounted to $3,000, and “the
superintendent was heard to charge the time-keeper with not being strict
enough in his duties.” One of the causes for fine in a certain large store was
sitting down. The law requiring seats for saleswomen, generally ignored,
was obeyed faithfully in this establishment. The seats were there, but the
girls were fined when found using them.
Cash-girls receiving $1.75 a week for work that at certain seasons
lengthened their day to sixteen hours were sometimes required to pay for
their aprons. A common cause for discharge from stores in which, on
account of the oppressive heat and lack of ventilation, “girls fainted day
after day and came out looking like corpses,” was too long service. No
other fault was found with the discharged saleswomen than that they had
been long enough in the employ of the firm to justly expect an increase of
salary. The reason was even given with brutal frankness, in some instances.
These facts give a slight idea of the hardships and the poor pay of a
business that notoriously absorbs child-labor. The girls are sent to the store

before they have fairly entered their teens, because the money they can earn
there is needed for the support of the family. If the boys will not work, if the
street tempts them from home, among the girls at least there must be no
drones. To keep their places they are told to lie about their age and to say
that they are over fourteen. The precaution is usually superfluous. The
Women’s Investigating Committee found the majority of the children
employed in the stores to be under age, but heard only in a single instance
of the truant officers calling. In that case they came once a year and sent the
youngest children home; but in a month’s time they were all back in their
places, and were not again disturbed. When it comes to the factories, where
hard bodily labor is added to long hours, stifling rooms, and starvation
wages, matters are even worse. The Legislature has passed laws to prevent
the employment of children, as it has forbidden saloon-keepers to sell them
beer, and it has provided means of enforcing its mandate, so efficient, that
the very number of factories in New York is guessed at as in the
neighborhood of twelve thousand. Up till this summer, a single inspector
was charged with the duty of keeping the run of them all, and of seeing to it
that the law was respected by the owners.

SEWING AND STARVING IN AN ELIZABETH STREET ATTIC.

Sixty cents is put as the average day’s earnings of the 150,000, but into this
computation enters the stylish “cashier’s” two dollars a day, as well as the
thirty cents of the poor little girl who pulls threads in an East Side factory,
and, if anything, the average is probably too high. Such as it is, however, it
represents board, rent, clothing, and “pleasure” to this army of workers.
Here is the case of a woman employed in the manufacturing department of
a Broadway house. It stands for a hundred like her own. She averages three
dollars a week. Pays $1.50 for her room; for breakfast she has a cup of
coffee; lunch she cannot afford. One meal a day is her allowance. This
woman is young, she is pretty. She has “the world before her.” Is it anything
less than a miracle if she is guilty of nothing worse than the “early and
improvident marriage,” against which moralists exclaim as one of the
prolific causes of the distress of the poor? Almost any door might seem to
offer welcome escape from such slavery as this. “I feel so much healthier

since I got three square meals a day,” said a lodger in one of the Girls’
Homes. Two young sewing-girls came in seeking domestic service, so that
they might get enough to eat. They had been only half-fed for some time,
and starvation had driven them to the one door at which the pride of the
American-born girl will not permit her to knock, though poverty be the
price of her independence.
The tenement and the competition of public institutions and farmers’ wives
and daughters, have done the tyrant shirt to death, but they have not
bettered the lot of the needle-women. The sweater of the East Side has
appropriated the flannel shirt. He turns them out to-day at forty-five cents a
dozen, paying his Jewish workers from twenty to thirty-five cents. One of
these testified before the State Board of Arbitration, during the shirtmakers’
strike, that she worked eleven hours in the shop and four at home, and had
never in the best of times made over six dollars a week. Another stated that
she worked from 4 o’clock in the morning to 11 at night. These girls had to
find their own thread and pay for their own machines out of their wages.
The white shirt has gone to the public and private institutions that shelter
large numbers of young girls, and to the country. There are not half as many
shirtmakers in New York to-day as only a few years ago, and some of the
largest firms have closed their city shops. The same is true of the
manufacturers of underwear. One large Broadway firm has nearly all its
work done by farmers’ girls in Maine, who think themselves well off if they
can earn two or three dollars a week to pay for a Sunday silk, or the
wedding outfit, little dreaming of the part they are playing in starving their
city sisters. Literally, they sew “with double thread, a shroud as well as a
shirt.” Their pin-money sets the rate of wages for thousands of poor sewing-
girls in New York. The average earnings of the worker on underwear to-day
do not exceed the three dollars which her competitor among the Eastern
hills is willing to accept as the price of her play. The shirtmaker’s pay is
better only because the very finest custom work is all there is left for her to
do.
Calico wrappers at a dollar and a half a dozen—the very expert sewers able
to make from eight to ten, the common run five or six—neckties at from 25
to 75 cents a dozen, with a dozen as a good day’s work, are specimens of
women’s wages. And yet people persist in wondering at the poor quality of
work done in the tenements! Italian cheap labor has come of late also to

possess this poor field, with the sweater in its train. There is scarce a branch
of woman’s work outside of the home in which wages, long since at low-
water mark, have not fallen to the point of actual starvation. A case was
brought to my notice recently by a woman doctor, whose heart as well as
her life-work is with the poor, of a widow with two little children she found
at work in an East Side attic, making paper-bags. Her father, she told the
doctor, had made good wages at it; but she received only five cents for six
hundred of the little three-cornered bags, and her fingers had to be very
swift and handle the paste-brush very deftly to bring her earnings up to
twenty-five and thirty cents a day. She paid four dollars a month for her
room. The rest went to buy food for herself and the children. The
physician’s purse, rather than her skill, had healing for their complaint.
I have aimed to set down a few dry facts merely. They carry their own
comment. Back of the shop with its weary, grinding toil—the home in the
tenement, of which it was said in a report of the State Labor Bureau:
“Decency and womanly reserve cannot be maintained there—what wonder
so many fall away from virtue?” Of the outlook, what? Last Christmas Eve
my business took me to an obscure street among the West Side tenements.
An old woman had just fallen on the doorstep, stricken with paralysis. The
doctor said she would never again move her right hand or foot. The whole
side was dead. By her bedside, in their cheerless room, sat the patient’s
aged sister, a hopeless cripple, in dumb despair. Forty years ago the sisters
had come, five in number then, with their mother, from the North of Ireland
to make their home and earn a living among strangers. They were lace
embroiderers and found work easily at good wages. All the rest had died as
the years went by. The two remained and, firmly resolved to lead an honest
life, worked on though wages fell and fell as age and toil stiffened their
once nimble fingers and dimmed their sight. Then one of them dropped out,
her hands palsied and her courage gone. Still the other toiled on, resting
neither by night nor by day, that the sister might not want. Now that she too
had been stricken, as she was going to the store for the work that was to
keep them through the holidays, the battle was over at last. There was
before them starvation, or the poor-house. And the proud spirits of the
sisters, helpless now, quailed at the outlook.
These were old, with life behind them. For them nothing was left but to sit
in the shadow and wait. But of the thousands, who are travelling the road

they trod to the end, with the hot blood of youth in their veins, with the love
of life and of the beautiful world to which not even sixty cents a day can
shut their eyes—who is to blame if their feet find the paths of shame that
are “always open to them?” The very paths that have effaced the saving
“limit,” and to which it is declared to be “inevitable that they must in many
instances resort.” Let the moralist answer. Let the wise economist apply his
rule of supply and demand, and let the answer be heard in this city of a
thousand charities where justice goes begging.
To the everlasting credit of New York’s working-girl let it be said that,
rough though her road be, all but hopeless her battle with life, only in the
rarest instances does she go astray. As a class she is brave, virtuous, and
true. New York’s army of profligate women is not, as in some foreign cities,
recruited from her ranks. She is as plucky as she is proud. That “American
girls never whimper” became a proverb long ago, and she accepts her lot
uncomplainingly, doing the best she can and holding her cherished
independence cheap at the cost of a meal, or of half her daily ration, if need
be. The home in the tenement and the traditions of her childhood have
neither trained her to luxury nor predisposed her in favor of domestic labor
in preference to the shop. So, to the world she presents a cheerful,
uncomplaining front that sometimes deceives it. Her courage will not be
without its reward. Slowly, as the conviction is thrust upon society that
woman’s work must enter more and more into its planning, a better day is
dawning. The organization of working girls’ clubs, unions, and societies
with a community of interests, despite the obstacles to such a movement,
bears testimony to it, as to the devotion of the unselfish women who have
made their poorer sisters’ cause their own, and will yet wring from an unfair
world the justice too long denied her.

CHAPTER XXI.
PAUPERISM IN THE TENEMENTS.

The reader who has followed with me the fate of the Other Half thus far,
may not experience much of a shock at being told that in eight years
135,595 families in New York were registered as asking or receiving
charity. Perhaps, however, the intelligence will rouse him that for five years
past one person in every ten who died in this city was buried in the Potter’s
Field. These facts tell a terrible story. The first means that in a population of
a million and a half, very nearly, if not quite, half a million persons were
driven, or chose, to beg for food, or to accept it in charity at some period of
the eight years, if not during the whole of it. There is no mistake about these
figures. They are drawn from the records of the Charity Organization
Society, and represent the time during which it has been in existence. It is
not even pretended that the record is complete. To be well within the limits,
the Society’s statisticians allow only three and a half to the family, instead
of the four and a half that are accepted as the standard of calculations which
deal with New York’s population as a whole. They estimate upon the basis
of their every-day experience that, allowing for those who have died,
moved away, or become for the time being at least self-supporting, eighty-
five per cent. of the registry are still within, or lingering upon, the borders
of dependence. Precisely how the case stands with this great horde of the
indigent is shown by a classification of 5,169 cases that were investigated
by the Society in one year. This was the way it turned out: 327 worthy of
continuous relief, or 6.4 per cent.; 1,269 worthy of temporary relief, or 24.4
per cent.; 2,698 in need of work, rather than relief, or 52.2 per cent.; 875
unworthy of relief, or 17 per cent.
That is, nearly six and a half per cent, of all were utterly helpless—orphans,
cripples, or the very aged; nearly one-fourth needed just a lift to start them
on the road of independence, or of permanent pauperism, according to the
wisdom with which the lever was applied. More than half were destitute
because they had no work and were unable to find any, and one-sixth were

frauds, professional beggars, training their children to follow in their foot-
steps—a veritable “tribe of Ishmael,” tightening its grip on society as the
years pass, until society shall summon up pluck to say with Paul, “if any
man will not work neither shall he eat,” and stick to it. It is worthy of note
that almost precisely the same results followed a similar investigation in
Boston. There were a few more helpless cases of the sort true charity
accounts it a gain to care for, but the proportion of a given lot that was
crippled for want of work, or unworthy, was exactly the same as in this city.
The bankrupt in hope, in courage, in purse, and in purpose, are not peculiar
to New York. They are found the world over, but we have our full share. If
further proof were wanted, it is found in the prevalence of pauper burials.
The Potter’s Field stands ever for utter, hopeless surrender. The last the poor
will let go, however miserable their lot in life, is the hope of a decent burial.
But for the five years ending with 1888 the average of burials in the Potter’s
Field has been 10.03 per cent. of all. In 1889 it was 9.64. In that year the
proportion to the total mortality of those who died in hospitals, institutions,
and in the Almshouse was as 1 in 5.

A FLAT IN THE PAUPER BARRACKS, WEST THIRTY-EIGHTH
STREET, WITH ALL ITS FURNITURE.

The 135,595 families inhabited no fewer than 31,000 different tenements. I
say tenements advisedly, though the society calls them buildings, because at
least ninety-nine per cent. were found in the big barracks, the rest in
shanties scattered here and there, and now and then a fraud or an
exceptional case of distress in a dwelling-house of better class. Here,
undoubtedly, allowance must be made for the constant moving about of
those who live on charity, which enables one active beggar to blacklist a
dozen houses in the year. Still the great mass of the tenements are shown to
be harboring alms-seekers. They might almost as safely harbor the small-
pox. That scourge is not more contagious than the alms-seeker’s complaint.
There are houses that have been corrupted through and through by this
pestilence, until their very atmosphere breathes beggary. More than a

hundred and twenty pauper families have been reported from time to time
as living in one such tenement.
The truth is that pauperism grows in the tenements as naturally as weeds in
a garden lot. A moral distemper, like crime, it finds there its most fertile
soil. All the surroundings of tenement-house life favor its growth, and
where once it has taken root it is harder to dislodge than the most virulent of
physical diseases. The thief is infinitely easier to deal with than the pauper,
because the very fact of his being a thief presupposes some bottom to the
man. Granted that it is bad, there is still something, a possible handle by
which to catch him. To the pauper there is none. He is as hopeless as his
own poverty. I speak of the pauper, not of the honestly poor. There is a
sharp line between the two; but athwart it stands the tenement, all the time
blurring and blotting it out. “It all comes down to character in the end,” was
the verdict of a philanthropist whose life has been spent wrestling with this
weary problem. And so it comes down to the tenement, the destroyer of
individuality and character everywhere. “In nine years,” said a wise and
charitable physician, sadly, to me, “I have known of but a single case of
permanent improvement in a poor tenement family.” I have known of some,
whose experience, extending over an even longer stretch, was little better.
The beggar follows the “tough’s” rule of life that the world owes him a
living, but his scheme of collecting it stops short of violence. He has not the
pluck to rob even a drunken man. His highest flights take in at most an
unguarded clothes-line, or a little child sent to buy bread or beer with the
pennies he clutches tightly as he skips along. Even then he prefers to attain
his end by stratagem rather than by force, though occasionally, when the
coast is clear, he rises to the height of the bully. The ways he finds of
“collecting” under the cloak of undeserved poverty are numberless, and
often reflect credit on the man’s ingenuity, if not on the man himself. I
remember the shock with which my first experience with his kind—her
kind, rather, in this case: the beggar was a woman—came home to me. On
my way to and from the office I had been giving charity regularly, as I
fondly believed, to an old woman who sat in Chatham Square with a baby
done up in a bundle of rags, moaning piteously in sunshine and rain,
“Please, help the poor.” It was the baby I pitied and thought I was doing my
little to help, until one night I was just in time to rescue it from rolling out
of her lap, and found the bundle I had been wasting my pennies upon just

rags and nothing more, and the old hag dead drunk. Since then I have
encountered bogus babies, borrowed babies, and drugged babies in the
streets, and fought shy of them all. Most of them, I am glad to say, have
been banished from the street since; but they are still occasionally to be
found. It was only last winter that the officers of the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Children arrested an Italian woman who was
begging along Madison Avenue with a poor little wreck of a girl, whose
rags and pinched face were calculated to tug hard at the purse-strings of a
miser. Over five dollars in nickles and pennies were taken from the
woman’s pockets, and when her story of poverty and hunger was
investigated at the family’s home in a Baxter Street tenement, bank-books
turned up that showed the Masonis to be regular pauper capitalists, able to
draw their check for three thousand dollars, had they been so disposed. The
woman was fined $250, a worse punishment undoubtedly than to have sent
her to prison for the rest of her natural life. Her class has, unhappily,
representatives in New York that have not yet been brought to grief.
Nothing short of making street begging a crime has availed to clear our city
of this pest to an appreciable extent. By how much of an effort this result
has been accomplished may be gleaned from the fact that the Charity
Organization Society alone, in five years, caused the taking up of 2,594
street beggars, and the arrest and conviction of 1,474 persistent offenders.
Last year it dealt with 612 perambulating mendicants. The police report
only 19 arrests for begging during the year 1889, but the real facts of the
case are found under the heading “vagrancy.” In all, 2,633 persons were
charged with this offence, 947 of them women. A goodly proportion of
these latter came from the low groggeries of the Tenth Ward, where a
peculiar variety of the female tramp-beggar is at home, the “scrub.” The
scrub is one degree perhaps above the average pauper in this, that she is
willing to work at least one day in the week, generally the Jewish Sabbath.
The orthodox Jew can do no work of any sort from Friday evening till
sunset on Saturday, and this interim the scrub fills out in Ludlow Street. The
pittance she receives for this vicarious sacrifice of herself upon the altar of
the ancient faith buys her rum for at least two days of the week at one of the
neighborhood “morgues.” She lives through the other four by begging.
There are distilleries in Jewtown, or just across its borders, that depend
almost wholly on her custom. Recently, when one in Hester Street was

raided because the neighbors had complained of the boisterous hilarity of
the hags over their beer, thirty two aged “scrubs” were marched off to the
station-house.
It is curious to find preconceived notions quite upset in a review of the
nationalities that go to make up this squad of street beggars. The Irish head
the list with fifteen per cent., and the native American is only a little way
behind with twelve per cent., while the Italian, who in his own country
turns beggary into a fine art, has less than two per cent. Eight per cent. were
Germans. The relative prevalence of the races in our population does not
account for this showing. Various causes operate, no doubt, to produce it.
Chief among them is, I think, the tenement itself. It has no power to corrupt
the Italian, who comes here in almost every instance to work—no beggar
would ever emigrate from anywhere unless forced to do so. He is distinctly
on its lowest level from the start. With the Irishman the case is different.
The tenement, especially its lowest type, appears to possess a peculiar
affinity for the worse nature of the Celt, to whose best and strongest
instincts it does violence, and soonest and most thoroughly corrupts him.
The “native” twelve per cent. represent the result of this process, the
hereditary beggar of the second or third generation in the slums.
The blind beggar alone is winked at in New York’s streets, because the
authorities do not know what else to do with him. There is no provision for
him anywhere after he is old enough to strike out for himself. The annual
pittance of thirty or forty dollars which he receives from the city serves to
keep his landlord in good humor; for the rest his misfortune and his thin
disguise of selling pencils on the street corners must provide. Until the city
affords him some systematic way of earning his living by work (as
Philadelphia has done, for instance) to banish him from the street would be
tantamount to sentencing him to death by starvation. So he possesses it in
peace, that is, if he is blind in good earnest, and begs without
“encumbrance.” Professional mendicancy does not hesitate to make use of
the greatest of human afflictions as a pretence for enlisting the sympathy
upon which it thrives. Many New Yorkers will remember the French
school-master who was “blinded by a shell at the siege of Paris,” but
miraculously recovered his sight when arrested and deprived of his children
by the officers of Mr. Gerry’s society. When last heard of he kept a
“museum” in Hartford, and acted the overseer with financial success. His

sign with its pitiful tale, that was a familiar sight in our streets for years and
earned for him the capital upon which he started his business, might have
found a place among the curiosities exhibited there, had it not been kept in a
different sort of museum here as a memento of his rascality. There was
another of his tribe, a woman, who begged for years with a deformed child
in her arms, which she was found to have hired at an almshouse in Genoa
for fifteen francs a month. It was a good investment, for she proved to be
possessed of a comfortable fortune. Some time before that, the Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, that found her out, had broken up the
dreadful padrone system, a real slave trade in Italian children, who were
bought of poor parents across the sea and made to beg their way on foot
through France to the port whence they were shipped to this city, to be
beaten and starved here by their cruel masters and sent out to beg, often
after merciless mutilation to make them “take” better with a pitying public.
But, after all, the tenement offers a better chance of fraud on impulsive but
thoughtless charity, than all the wretchedness of the street, and with fewer
risks. To the tender-hearted and unwary it is, in itself, the strongest plea for
help. When such a cry goes up as was heard recently from a Mott Street
den, where the family of a “sick” husband, a despairing mother, and half a
dozen children in rags and dirt were destitute of the “first necessities of
life,” it is not to be wondered at that a stream of gold comes pouring in to
relieve. It happens too often, as in that case, that a little critical inquiry or
reference to the “black list” of the Charity Organization Society, justly
dreaded only by the frauds, discovers the “sickness” to stand for laziness,
and the destitution to be the family’s stock in trade; and the community
receives a shock that for once is downright wholesome, if it imposes a
check on an undiscriminating charity that is worse than none at all.
The case referred to furnished an apt illustration of how thoroughly
corrupting pauperism is in such a setting. The tenement woke up early to
the gold mine that was being worked under its roof, and before the day was
three hours old the stream of callers who responded to the newspaper
appeal found the alley blocked by a couple of “toughs,” who exacted toll of
a silver quarter from each tearful sympathizer with the misery in the attic.
A volume might be written about the tricks of the professional beggar, and
the uses to which he turns the tenement in his trade. The Boston “widow”

whose husband turned up alive and well after she had buried him seventeen
times with tears and lamentation, and made the public pay for the weekly
funerals, is not without representatives in New York. The “gentleman
tramp” is a familiar type from our streets, and the “once respectable
Methodist” who patronized all the revivals in town with his profitable story
of repentance, only to fall from grace into the saloon door nearest the
church after the service was over, merely transferred the scene of his
operations from the tenement to the church as the proper setting for his
specialty. There is enough of real suffering in the homes of the poor to make
one wish that there were some effective way of enforcing Paul’s plan of
starving the drones into the paths of self-support: no work, nothing to eat.

COFFEE AT ONE CENT.

The message came from one of the Health Department’s summer doctors,
last July, to the King’s Daughters’ Tenement-house Committee, that a
family with a sick child was absolutely famishing in an uptown tenement.
The address was not given. The doctor had forgotten to write it down, and
before he could be found and a visitor sent to the house the baby was dead,
and the mother had gone mad. The nurse found the father, who was an
honest laborer long out of work, packing the little corpse in an orange-box

partly filled with straw, that he might take it to the Morgue for pauper
burial. There was absolutely not a crust to eat in the house, and the other
children were crying for food. The great immediate need in that case, as in
more than half of all according to the record, was work and living wages.
Alms do not meet the emergency at all. They frequently aggravate it,
degrading and pauperizing where true help should aim at raising the
sufferer to self-respect and self-dependence. The experience of the Charity
Organization Society in raising, in eight years, 4,500 families out of the rut
of pauperism into proud, if modest, independence, without alms, but by a
system of “friendly visitation,” and the work of the Society for Improving
the Condition of the Poor and kindred organizations along the same line,
shows what can be done by well-directed effort. It is estimated that New
York spends in public and private charity every year a round $8,000,000. A
small part of this sum intelligently invested in a great labor bureau, that
would bring the seeker of work and the one with work to give together
under auspices offering some degree of mutual security, would certainly
repay the amount of the investment in the saving of much capital now
worse than wasted, and would be prolific of the best results. The ultimate
and greatest need, however, the real remedy, is to remove the cause—the
tenement that was built for “a class of whom nothing was expected,” and
which has come fully up to the expectation. Tenement-house reform holds
the key to the problem of pauperism in the city. We can never get rid of
either the tenement or the pauper. The two will always exist together in
New York. But by reforming the one, we can do more toward exterminating
the other than can be done by all other means together that have yet been
invented, or ever will be.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE WRECKS AND THE WASTE.

Pauperdom is to blame for the unjust yoking of poverty with punishment,
“charities” with “correction,” in our municipal ministering to the needs of
the Nether Half. The shadow of the workhouse points like a scornful finger
toward its neighbor, the almshouse, when the sun sets behind the teeming
city across the East River, as if, could its stones speak, it would say before
night drops its black curtain between them: “You and I are brothers. I am
not more bankrupt in moral purpose than you. A common parent begat us.
Twin breasts, the tenement and the saloon, nourished us. Vice and unthrift
go hand in hand. Pauper, behold thy brother!” And the almshouse owns the
bitter relationship in silence.
Over on the islands that lie strung along the river and far up the Sound the
Nether Half hides its deformity, except on show-days, when distinguished
visitors have to be entertained and the sore is uncovered by the authorities
with due municipal pride in the exhibit. I shall spare the reader the sight.
The aim of these pages has been to lay bare its source. But a brief glance at
our proscribed population is needed to give background and tone to the
picture. The review begins with the Charity Hospital with its thousand
helpless human wrecks; takes in the penitentiary, where the “tough” from
Battle Row and Poverty Gap is made to earn behind stone walls the living
the world owes him; a thoughtless, jolly convict-band with opportunity at
last “to think” behind the iron bars, but little desire to improve it; governed
like unruly boys, which in fact most of them are. Three of them were taken
from the dinner-table while I was there one day, for sticking pins into each
other, and were set with their faces to the wall in sight of six hundred of
their comrades for punishment. Pleading incessantly for tobacco, when the
keeper’s back is turned, as the next best thing to the whiskey they cannot
get, though they can plainly make out the saloon-signs across the stream
where they robbed or “slugged” their way to prison. Every once in a while
the longing gets the best of some prisoner from the penitentiary or the

workhouse, and he risks his life in the swift currents to reach the goal that
tantilizes him with the promise of “just one more drunk.” The chances are at
least even of his being run down by some passing steamer and drowned,
even if he is not overtaken by the armed guards who patrol the shore in
boats, or his strength does not give out.
This workhouse comes next, with the broken-down hordes from the dives,
the lodging-houses, and the tramps’ nests, the “hell-box”[22] rather than the
repair-shop of the city. In 1889 the registry at the workhouse footed up
22,477, of whom some had been there as many as twenty times before. It is
the popular summer resort of the slums, but business is brisk at this stand
the year round. Not a few of its patrons drift back periodically without the
formality of a commitment, to take their chances on the island when there is
no escape from the alternative of work in the city. Work, but not too much
work, is the motto of the establishment. The “workhouse step” is an
institution that must be observed on the island, in order to draw any
comparison between it and the snail’s pace that shall do justice to the snail.
Nature and man’s art have made these islands beautiful; but weeds grow
luxuriantly in their gardens, and spiders spin their cobwebs unmolested in
the borders of sweet-smelling box. The work which two score of hired men
could do well is too much for these thousands.
Rows of old women, some smoking stumpy, black clay-pipes, others
knitting or idling, all grumbling, sit or stand under the trees that hedge in
the almshouse, or limp about in the sunshine, leaning on crutches or bean-
pole staffs. They are a “growler-gang” of another sort than may be seen in
session on the rocks of the opposite shore at that very moment. They
grumble and growl from sunrise to sunset, at the weather, the breakfast, the
dinner, the supper; at pork and beans as at corned beef and cabbage; at their
Thanksgiving dinner as at the half rations of the sick ward; at the past that
had no joy, at the present whose comfort they deny, and at the future
without promise. The crusty old men in the next building are not a
circumstance to them. The warden, who was in charge of the almshouse for
many years, had become so snappish and profane by constant association
with a thousand cross old women that I approached him with some
misgivings, to request his permission to “take” a group of a hundred or so
who were within shot of my camera. He misunderstood me.

“Take them?” he yelled. “Take the thousand of them and be welcome. They
will never be still, by ——, till they are sent up on Hart’s Island in a box,
and I’ll be blamed if I don’t think they will growl then at the style of the
funeral.”
And he threw his arms around me in an outburst of enthusiasm over the
wondrous good luck that had sent a friend indeed to his door. I felt it to be a
painful duty to undeceive him. When I told him that I simply wanted the old
women’s picture, he turned away in speechless disgust, and to his dying
day, I have no doubt, remembered my call as the day of the champion fool’s
visit to the island.
When it is known that many of these old people have been sent to the
almshouse to die by their heartless children, for whom they had worked
faithfully as long as they were able, their growling and discontent is not
hard to understand. Bitter poverty threw them all “on the county,” often on
the wrong county at that. Very many of them are old-country poor, sent,
there is reason to believe, to America by the authorities to get rid of the
obligation to support them. “The almshouse,” wrote a good missionary,
“affords a sad illustration of St. Paul’s description of the ‘last days.’ The
class from which comes our poorhouse population is to a large extent
‘without natural affection.’” I was reminded by his words of what my
friend, the doctor, had said to me a little while before: “Many a mother has
told me at her child’s death-bed, ‘I cannot afford to lose it. It costs too much
to bury it.’ And when the little one did die there was no time for the
mother’s grief. The question crowded on at once, ‘where shall the money
come from?’ Natural feelings and affections are smothered in the
tenements.” The doctor’s experience furnished a sadly appropriate text for
the priest’s sermon.
Pitiful as these are, sights and sounds infinitely more saddening await us
beyond the gate that shuts this world of woe off from one whence the light
of hope and reason have gone out together. The shuffling of many feet on
the macadamized roads heralds the approach of a host of women, hundreds
upon hundreds—beyond the turn in the road they still keep coming,
marching with the faltering step, the unseeing look and the incessant,
senseless chatter that betrays the darkened mind. The lunatic women of the
Blackwell’s Island Asylum are taking their afternoon walk. Beyond, on the

wide lawn, moves another still stranger procession, a file of women in the
asylum dress of dull gray, hitched to a queer little wagon that, with its
gaudy adornments, suggests a cross between a baby-carriage and a circus-
chariot. One crazy woman is strapped in the seat; forty tug at the rope to
which they are securely bound. This is the “chain-gang,” so called once in
scoffing ignorance of the humane purpose the contrivance serves. These are
the patients afflicted with suicidal mania, who cannot be trusted at large for
a moment with the river in sight, yet must have their daily walk as a
necessary part of their treatment. So this wagon was invented by a clever
doctor to afford them at once exercise and amusement. A merry-go-round in
the grounds suggests a variation of this scheme. Ghastly suggestion of
mirth, with that stricken host advancing on its aimless journey! As we stop
to see it pass, the plaintive strains of a familiar song float through a barred
window in the gray stone building. The voice is sweet, but inexpressibly
sad: “Oh, how my heart grows weary, far from——” The song breaks off
suddenly in a low, troubled laugh. She has forgotten, forgotten——. A
woman in the ranks, whose head has been turned toward the window,
throws up her hands with a scream. The rest stir uneasily. The nurse is by
her side in an instant with words half soothing, half stern. A messenger
comes in haste from the asylum to ask us not to stop. Strangers may not
linger where the patients pass. It is apt to excite them. As we go in with him
the human file is passing yet, quiet restored. The troubled voice of the
unseen singer still gropes vainly among the lost memories of the past for the
missing key: “Oh! how my heart grows weary, far from——”
“Who is she, doctor?”
“Hopeless case. She will never see home again.”
An average of seventeen hundred women this asylum harbors; the asylum
for men up on Ward’s Island even more. Altogether 1,419 patients were
admitted to the city asylums for the insane in 1889, and at the end of the
year 4,913 remained in them. There is a constant ominous increase in this
class of helpless unfortunates that are thrown on the city’s charity. Quite
two hundred are added year by year, and the asylums were long since so
overcrowded that a great “farm” had to be established on Long Island to
receive the surplus. The strain of our hurried, over-worked life has
something to do with this. Poverty has more. For these are all of the poor. It

is the harvest of sixty and a hundred-fold, the “fearful rolling up and rolling
down from generation to generation, through all the ages, of the weakness,
vice, and moral darkness of the past.”[23] The curse of the island haunts all
that come once within its reach. “No man or woman,” says Dr. Louis L.
Seaman, who speaks from many years’ experience in a position that gave
him full opportunity to observe the facts, “who is ‘sent up’ to these colonies
ever returns to the city scot-free. There is a lien, visible or hidden, upon his
or her present or future, which too often proves stronger than the best
purposes and fairest opportunities of social rehabilitation. The under world
holds in rigorous bondage every unfortunate or miscreant who has once
‘served time.’ There is often tragic interest in the struggles of the ensnared
wretches to break away from the meshes spun about them. But the
maelstrom has no bowels of mercy; and the would-be fugitives are flung
back again and again into the devouring whirlpool of crime and poverty,
until the end is reached on the dissecting-table, or in the Potter’s Field.
What can the moralist or scientist do by way of resuscitation? Very little at
best. The flotsam and jetsam are mere shreds and fragments of wasted lives.
Such a ministry must begin at the sources—is necessarily prophylactic,
nutritive, educational. On these islands there are no flexible twigs, only
gnarled, blasted, blighted trunks, insensible to moral or social influences.”
Sad words, but true. The commonest keeper soon learns to pick out almost
at sight the “cases” that will leave the penitentiary, the workhouse, the
almshouse, only to return again and again, each time more hopeless, to
spend their wasted lives in the bondage of the island.
The alcoholic cells in Bellevue Hospital are a way-station for a goodly
share of them on their journeys back and forth across the East River. Last
year they held altogether 3,694 prisoners, considerably more than one-
fourth of the whole number of 13,813 patients that went in through the
hospital gates. The daily average of “cases” in this, the hospital of the poor,
is over six hundred. The average daily census of all the prisons, hospitals,
workhouses, and asylums in the charge of the Department of Charities and
Correction last year was about 14,000, and about one employee was
required for every ten of this army to keep its machinery running smoothly.
The total number admitted in 1889 to all the jails and institutions in the city
and on the islands was 138,332. To the almshouse alone 38,600 were
admitted; 9,765 were there to start the new year with, and 553 were born

with the dark shadow of the poorhouse overhanging their lives, making a
total of 48,918. In the care of all their wards the commissioners expended
$2,343,372. The appropriation for the police force in 1889 was
$4,409,550.94, and for the criminal courts and their machinery $403,190.
Thus the first cost of maintaining our standing army of paupers, criminals,
and sick poor, by direct taxation, was last year $7,156,112.94.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MAN WITH THE KNIFE.

A man stood at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street the other
day, looking gloomily at the carriages that rolled by, carrying the wealth and
fashion of the avenues to and from the big stores down town. He was poor,
and hungry, and ragged. This thought was in his mind: “They behind their
well-fed teams have no thought for the morrow; they know hunger only by
name, and ride down to spend in an hour’s shopping what would keep me
and my little ones from want a whole year.” There rose up before him the
picture of those little ones crying for bread around the cold and cheerless
hearth—then he sprang into the throng and slashed about him with a knife,
blindly seeking to kill, to revenge.
The man was arrested, of course, and locked up. To-day he is probably in a
mad-house, forgotten. And the carriages roll by to and from the big stores
with their gay throng of shoppers. The world forgets easily, too easily, what
it does not like to remember.
Nevertheless the man and his knife had a mission. They spoke in their
ignorant, impatient way the warning one of the most conservative,
dispassionate of public bodies had sounded only a little while before: “Our
only fear is that reform may come in a burst of public indignation
destructive to property and to good morals.”[24] They represented, one
solution of the problem of ignorant poverty versus ignorant wealth that has
come down to us unsolved, the danger-cry of which we have lately heard in
the shout that never should have been raised on American soil—the shout of
“the masses against the classes”—the solution of violence.
There is another solution, that of justice. The choice is between the two.
Which shall it be?
“Well!” say some well-meaning people; “we don’t see the need of putting it
in that way. We have been down among the tenements, looked them over.

There are a good many people there; they are not comfortable, perhaps.
What would you have? They are poor. And their houses are not such hovels
as we have seen and read of in the slums of the Old World. They are decent
in comparison. Why, some of them have brown-stone fronts. You will own
at least that they make a decent show.”
Yes! that is true. The worst tenements in New York do not, as a rule, look
bad. Neither Hell’s Kitchen, nor Murderers’ Row bears its true character
stamped on the front. They are not quite old enough, perhaps. The same is
true of their tenants. The New York tough may be ready to kill where his
London brother would do little more than scowl; yet, as a general thing he
is less repulsively brutal in looks. Here again the reason may be the same:
the breed is not so old. A few generations more in the slums, and all that
will be changed. To get at the pregnant facts of tenement-house life one
must look beneath the surface. Many an apple has a fair skin and a rotten
core. There is a much better argument for the tenements in the assurance of
the Registrar of Vital Statistics that the death-rate of these houses has of late
been brought below the general death-rate of the city, and that it is lowest in
the biggest houses. This means two things: one, that the almost exclusive
attention given to the tenements by the sanitary authorities in twenty years
has borne some fruit, and that the newer tenements are better than the old—
there is some hope in that; the other, that the whole strain of tenement-
house dwellers has been bred down to the conditions under which it exists,
that the struggle with corruption has begotten the power to resist it. This is a
familiar law of nature, necessary to its first and strongest impulse of self-
preservation. To a certain extent, we are all creatures of the conditions that
surround us, physically and morally. But is the knowledge reassuring? In
the light of what we have seen, does not the question arise: what sort of
creature, then, this of the tenement? I tried to draw his likeness from
observation in telling the story of the “tough.” Has it nothing to suggest the
man with the knife?
I will go further. I am not willing even to admit it to be an unqualified
advantage that our New York tenements have less of the slum look than
those of older cities. It helps to delay the recognition of their true character
on the part of the well-meaning, but uninstructed, who are always in the
majority.

The “dangerous classes” of New York long ago compelled recognition.
They are dangerous less because of their own crimes than because of the
criminal ignorance of those who are not of their kind. The danger to society
comes not from the poverty of the tenements, but from the ill-spent wealth
that reared them, that it might earn a usurious interest from a class from
which “nothing else was expected.” That was the broad foundation laid
down, and the edifice built upon it corresponds to the groundwork. That this
is well understood on the “unsafe” side of the line that separates the rich
from the poor, much better than by those who have all the advantages of
discriminating education, is good cause for disquietude. In it a keen
foresight may again dimly discern the shadow of the man with the knife.
Two years ago a great meeting was held at Chickering Hall—I have spoken
of it before—a meeting that discussed for days and nights the question how
to banish this spectre; how to lay hold with good influences of this
enormous mass of more than a million people, who were drifting away
faster and faster from the safe moorings of the old faith. Clergymen and
laymen from all the Protestant denominations took part in the discussion;
nor was a good word forgotten for the brethren of the other great Christian
fold who labor among the poor. Much was said that was good and true, and
ways were found of reaching the spiritual needs of the tenement population
that promise success. But at no time throughout the conference was the real
key-note of the situation so boldly struck as has been done by a few far-
seeing business men, who had listened to the cry of that Christian builder:
“How shall the love of God be understood by those who have been nurtured
in sight only of the greed of man?” Their practical programme of
“Philanthropy and five per cent.” has set examples in tenement building that
show, though they are yet few and scattered, what may in time be
accomplished even with such poor, opportunities as New York offers to-day
of undoing the old wrong. This is the gospel of justice, the solution that
must be sought as the one alternative to the man with the knife.
“Are you not looking too much to the material condition of these people,”
said a good minister to me after a lecture in a Harlem church last winter,
“and forgetting the inner man?” I told him, “No! for you cannot expect to
find an inner man to appeal to in the worst tenement-house surroundings.
You must first put the man where he can respect himself. To reverse the

argument of the apple: you cannot expect to find a sound core in a rotten
fruit.”

CHAPTER XXIV.
WHAT HAS BEEN DONE.

In twenty years what has been done in New York to solve the tenement-
house problem?
The law has done what it could. That was not always a great deal, seldom
more than barely sufficient for the moment. An aroused municipal
conscience endowed the Health Department with almost autocratic powers
in dealing with this subject, but the desire to educate rather than force the
community into a better way dictated their exercise with a slow
conservatism that did not always seem wise to the impatient reformer. New
York has its St. Antoine, and it has often sadly missed a Napoleon III. to
clean up and make light in the dark corners. The obstacles, too, have been
many and great. Nevertheless the authorities have not been idle, though it is
a grave question whether all the improvements made under the sanitary
regulations of recent years deserve the name. Tenements quite as bad as the
worst are too numerous yet; but one tremendous factor for evil in the lives
of the poor has been taken by the throat, and something has unquestionably
been done, where that was possible, to lift those lives out of the rut where
they were equally beyond the reach of hope and of ambition. It is no longer
lawful to construct barracks to cover the whole of a lot. Air and sunlight
have a legal claim, and the day of rear tenements is past. Two years ago a
hundred thousand people burrowed in these inhuman dens; but some have
been torn down since. Their number will decrease steadily until they shall
have become a bad tradition of a heedless past. The dark, unventilated
bedroom is going with them, and the open sewer. The day is at hand when
the greatest of all evils that now curse life in the tenements—the dearth of
water in the hot summer days—will also have been remedied, and a long
step taken toward the moral and physical redemption of their tenants.

Old Style Tenement. Single Lot Tenement of To-day.
EVOLUTION OF THE TENEMENT IN TWENTY YEARS.

Public sentiment has done something also, but very far from enough. As a
rule, it has slumbered peacefully until some flagrant outrage on decency
and the health of the community aroused it to noisy but ephemeral
indignation, or until a dreaded epidemic knocked at our door. It is this
unsteadiness of purpose that has been to a large extent responsible for the
apparent lagging of the authorities in cases not involving immediate danger
to the general health. The law needs a much stronger and readier backing of
a thoroughly enlightened public sentiment to make it as effective as it might
be made. It is to be remembered that the health officers, in dealing with this
subject of dangerous houses, are constantly trenching upon what each
landlord considers his private rights, for which he is ready and bound to
fight to the last. Nothing short of the strongest pressure will avail to
convince him that these individual rights are to be surrendered for the clear

benefit of the whole. It is easy enough to convince a man that he ought not
to harbor the thief who steals people’s property; but to make him see that he
has no right to slowly kill his neighbors, or his tenants, by making a death-
trap of his house, seems to be the hardest of all tasks. It is apparently the
slowness of the process that obscures his mental sight. The man who will
fight an order to repair the plumbing in his house through every court he
can reach, would suffer tortures rather than shed the blood of a fellow-man
by actual violence. Clearly, it is a matter of education on the part of the
landlord no less than the tenant.
In spite of this, the landlord has done his share; chiefly perhaps by yielding
—not always gracefully—when it was no longer of any use to fight. There
have been exceptions, however: men and women who have mended and
built with an eye to the real welfare of their tenants as well as to their own
pockets. Let it be well understood that the two are inseparable, if any good
is to come of it. The business of housing the poor, if it is to amount to
anything, must be business, as it was business with our fathers to put them
where they are. As charity, pastime, or fad, it will miserably fail, always and
everywhere. This is an inexorable rule, now thoroughly well understood in
England and continental Europe, and by all who have given the matter
serious thought here. Call it poetic justice, or divine justice, or anything
else, it is a hard fact, not to be gotten over. Upon any other plan than the
assumption that the workman has a just claim to a decent home, and the
right to demand it, any scheme for his relief fails. It must be a fair exchange
of the man’s money for what he can afford to buy at a reasonable price. Any
charity scheme merely turns him into a pauper, however it may be
disguised, and drowns him hopelessly in the mire out of which it proposed
to pull him. And this principle must pervade the whole plan. Expert
management of model tenements succeeds where amateur management,
with the best intentions, gives up the task, discouraged, as a flat failure.
Some of the best-conceived enterprises, backed by abundant capital and
good-will, have been wrecked on this rock. Sentiment, having prompted the
effort, forgot to stand aside and let business make it.
Business, in a wider sense, has done more than all other agencies together
to wipe out the worst tenements. It has been New York’s real Napoleon III.,
from whose decree there was no appeal. In ten years I have seen plague-
spots disappear before its onward march, with which health officers, police,

and sanitary science had struggled vainly since such struggling began as a
serious business. And the process goes on still. Unfortunately, the crowding
in some of the most densely packed quarters down town has made the
property there so valuable, that relief from this source is less confidently to
be expected, at all events in the near future. Still, their time may come also.
It comes so quickly sometimes as to fairly take one’s breath away. More
than once I have returned, after a few brief weeks, to some specimen
rookery in which I was interested, to find it gone and an army of workmen
delving twenty feet underground to lay the foundation of a mighty
warehouse. That was the case with the “Big Flat” in Mott Street. I had not
had occasion to visit it for several months last winter, and when I went
there, entirely unprepared for a change, I could not find it. It had always
been conspicuous enough in the landscape before, and I marvelled much at
my own stupidity until, by examining the number of the house, I found out
that I had gone right. It was the “flat” that had disappeared. In its place
towered a six-story carriage factory with business going on on every floor,
as if it had been there for years and years.
This same “Big Flat” furnished a good illustration of why some well-meant
efforts in tenement building have failed. Like Gotham Court, it was
originally built as a model tenement, but speedily came to rival the Court in
foulness. It became a regular hot-bed of thieves and peace-breakers, and
made no end of trouble for the police. The immediate reason, outside of the
lack of proper supervision, was that it had open access to two streets in a
neighborhood where thieves and “toughs” abounded. These took advantage
of an arrangement that had been supposed by the builders to be a real
advantage as a means of ventilation, and their occupancy drove honest folk
away. Murderers’ Alley, of which I have spoken elsewhere, and the sanitary
inspector’s experiment with building a brick wall athwart it to shut off
travel through the block, is a parallel case.
The causes that operate to obstruct efforts to better the lot of the tenement
population are, in our day, largely found among the tenants themselves.
This is true particularly of the poorest. They are shiftless, destructive, and
stupid; in a word, they are what the tenements have made them. It is a
dreary old truth that those who would fight for the poor must fight the poor
to do it. It must be confessed that there is little enough in their past
experience to inspire confidence in the sincerity of the effort to help them. I

recall the discomfiture of a certain well-known philanthropist, since
deceased, whose heart beat responsive to other suffering than that of human
kind. He was a large owner of tenement property, and once undertook to fit
out his houses with stationary tubs, sanitary plumbing, wood-closets, and all
the latest improvements. He introduced his rough tenants to all this
magnificence without taking the precaution of providing a competent
housekeeper, to see that the new acquaintances got on together. He felt that
his tenants ought to be grateful for the interest he took in them. They were.
They found the boards in the wood-closets fine kindling wood, while the
pipes and faucets were as good as cash at the junk shop. In three months the
owner had to remove what was left of his improvements. The pipes were
cut and the houses running full of water, the stationary tubs were put to all
sorts of uses except washing, and of the wood-closets not a trace was left.
The philanthropist was ever after a firm believer in the total depravity of
tenement-house people. Others have been led to like reasoning by as
plausible arguments, without discovering that the shiftlessness and
ignorance that offended them were the consistent crop of the tenement they
were trying to reform, and had to be included in the effort. The owners of a
block of model tenements uptown had got their tenants comfortably settled,
and were indulging in high hopes of their redemption under proper
management, when a contractor ran up a row of “skin” tenements, shaky
but fair to look at, with brown-stone trimmings and gewgaws. The result
was to tempt a lot of the well-housed tenants away. It was a very
astonishing instance of perversity to the planners of the benevolent scheme;
but, after all, there was nothing strange in it. It is all a matter of education,
as I said about the landlord.
That the education comes slowly need excite no surprise. The forces on the
other side are ever active. The faculty of the tenement for appropriating to
itself every foul thing that comes within its reach, and piling up and
intensifying its corruption until out of all proportion to the beginning, is
something marvellous. Drop a case of scarlet fever, of measles, or of
diphtheria into one of these barracks, and, unless it is caught at the very
start and stamped out, the contagion of the one case will sweep block after
block, and half people a graveyard. Let the police break up a vile dive,
goaded by the angry protests of the neighborhood—forthwith the outcasts
set in circulation by the raid betake themselves to the tenements, where in

their hired rooms, safe from interference, they set up as many independent
centres of contagion, infinitely more destructive, each and every one, than
was the known dive before. I am not willing to affirm that this is the police
reason for letting so many of the dives alone; but it might well be. They are
perfectly familiar with the process, and entirely helpless to prevent it.
This faculty, as inherent in the problem itself—the prodigious increase of
the tenement-house population that goes on without cessation, and its
consequent greater crowding—is the chief obstacle to its solution. In 1869
there were 14,872 tenements in New York, with a population of 468,492
persons. In 1879 the number of the tenements was estimated at 21,000, and
their tenants had passed the half-million mark. At the end of the year 1888,
when a regular census was made for the first time since 1869, the showing
was: 32,390 tenements, with a population of 1,093,701 souls. To-day we
have 37,316 tenements, including 2,630 rear houses, and their population is
over 1,250,000. A large share of this added population, especially of that
which came to us from abroad, crowds in below Fourteenth Street, where
the population is already packed beyond reason, and confounds all attempts
to make matters better there. At the same time new slums are constantly
growing up uptown, and have to be kept down with a firm hand. This drift
of the population to the great cities has to be taken into account as a steady
factor. It will probably increase rather than decrease for many years to
come. At the beginning of the century the percentage of our population that
lived in cities was as one in twenty-five. In 1880 it was one in four and one-
half, and in 1890 the census will in all probability show it to be one in four.
Against such tendencies, in the absence of suburban outlets for the
crowding masses, all remedial measures must prove more or less
ineffective. The “confident belief” expressed by the Board of Health in
1874, that rapid transit would solve the problem, is now known to have
been a vain hope.
Workingmen, in New York at all events, will live near their work, no matter
at what sacrifice of comfort—one might almost say at whatever cost, and
the city will never be less crowded than it is. To distribute the crowds as
evenly as possible is the effort of the authorities, where nothing better can
be done. In the first six months of the present year 1,068 persons were
turned out of not quite two hundred tenements below Houston Street by the
sanitary police on their midnight inspections, and this covered only a very

small part of that field. The uptown tenements were practically left to take
care of themselves in this respect.
The quick change of economic conditions in the city that often out-paces all
plans of relief, rendering useless to-day what met the demands of the
situation well enough yesterday, is another cause of perplexity. A common
obstacle also—I am inclined to think quite as common as in Ireland, though
we hear less of it in the newspapers—is the absentee landlord. The home
article, who fights for his rights, as he chooses to consider them, is bad
enough; but the absentee landlord is responsible for no end of trouble. He
was one of the first obstructions the sanitary reformers stumbled over, when
the Health Department took hold. It reported in 1869 that many of the
tenants were entirely uncared for, and that the only answer to their requests
to have the houses put in order was an invitation to pay their rent or get out.
“Inquiry often disclosed the fact that the owner of the property was a
wealthy gentleman or lady, either living in an aristocratic part of the city, or
in a neighboring city, or, as was occasionally found to be the case, in
Europe. The property is usually managed entirely by an agent, whose
instructions are simple but emphatic: Collect the rent in advance, or, failing,
eject the occupants.” The Committee having the matter in charge proposed
to compel owners of tenements with ten families or more to put a
housekeeper in the house, who should be held responsible to the Health
Department. Unluckily the powers of the Board gave out at that point, and
the proposition was never acted upon. Could it have been, much trouble
would have been spared the Health Board, and untold suffering the tenants
in many houses. The tribe of absentee landlords is by no means extinct in
New York. Not a few who fled from across the sea to avoid being crushed
by his heel there have groaned under it here, scarcely profiting by the
exchange. Sometimes—it can hardly be said in extenuation—the heel that
crunches is applied in saddening ignorance. I recall the angry indignation of
one of these absentee landlords, a worthy man who, living far away in the
country, had inherited city property, when he saw the condition of his slum
tenements. The man was shocked beyond expression, all the more because
he did not know whom to blame except himself for the state of things that
had aroused his wrath, and yet, conscious of the integrity of his intentions,
felt that he should not justly be held responsible.

The experience of this landlord points directly to the remedy which the law
failed to supply to the early reformers. It has since been fully demonstrated
that a competent agent on the premises, a man of the best and the highest
stamp, who knows how to instruct and guide with a firm hand, is a
prerequisite to the success of any reform tenement scheme. This is a plain
business proposition, that has been proved entirely sound in some notable
instances of tenement building, of which more hereafter. Even among the
poorer tenements, those are always the best in which the owner himself
lives. It is a hopeful sign in any case. The difficulty of procuring such
assistance without having to pay a ruinous price, is one of the obstructions
that have vexed in this city efforts to solve the problem of housing the poor
properly, because it presupposes that the effort must be made on a larger
scale than has often been attempted.
The readiness with which the tenants respond to intelligent efforts in their
behalf, when made under fair conditions, is as surprising as it is gratifying,
and fully proves the claim that tenants are only satisfied in filthy and
unwholesome surroundings because nothing better is offered. The moral
effect is as great as the improvement of their physical health. It is clearly
discernible in the better class of tenement dwellers to-day. The change in
the character of the colored population in the few years since it began to
move out of the wicked rookeries of the old “Africa” to the decent
tenements in Yorkville, furnishes a notable illustration, and a still better one
is found in the contrast between the model tenement in the Mulberry Street
Bend and the barracks across the way, of which I spoke in the chapter
devoted to the Italian. The Italian himself is the strongest argument of all.
With his fatal contentment in the filthiest surroundings, he gives undoubted
evidence of having in him the instinct of cleanliness that, properly
cultivated, would work his rescue in a very little while. It is a queer
contradiction, but the fact is patent to anyone who has observed the man in
his home-life. And he is not alone in this. I came across an instance, this
past summer, of how a refined, benevolent personality works like a leaven
in even the roughest tenement-house crowd. This was no model tenement;
far from it. It was a towering barrack in the Tenth Ward, sheltering more
than twenty families. All the light and air that entered its interior came
through an air-shaft two feet square, upon which two bedrooms and the hall
gave in every story. In three years I had known of two domestic tragedies,

prompted by poverty and justifiable disgust with life, occurring in the
house, and had come to look upon it as a typically bad tenement, quite
beyond the pale of possible improvement. What was my surprise, when
chance led me to it once more after a while, to find the character of the
occupants entirely changed. Some of the old ones were there still, but they
did not seem to be the same people. I discovered the secret to be the new
housekeeper, a tidy, mild-mannered, but exceedingly strict little body, who
had a natural faculty of drawing her depraved surroundings within the
beneficent sphere of her strong sympathy, and withal of exacting respect for
her orders. The worst elements had been banished from the house in short
order under her management, and for the rest a new era of self-respect had
dawned. They were, as a body, as vastly superior to the general run of their
class as they had before seemed below it. And this had been effected in the
short space of a single year.
My observations on this point are more than confirmed by those of nearly
all the practical tenement reformers I have known, who have patiently held
to the course they had laid down. One of these, whose experience exceeds
that of all of the rest together, and whose influence for good has been very
great, said to me recently: “I hold that not ten per cent. of the people now
living in tenements would refuse to avail themselves of the best improved
conditions offered, and come fully up to the use of them, properly
instructed; but they cannot get them. They are up to them now, fully, if the
chances were only offered. They don’t have to come up. It is all a gigantic
mistake on the part of the public, of which these poor people are the
victims. I have built homes for more than five hundred families in fourteen
years, and I have been getting daily more faith in human nature from my
work among the poor tenants, though approaching that nature on a plane
and under conditions that could scarcely promise better for
disappointment.” It is true that my friend has built his houses in Brooklyn;
but human nature does not differ greatly on the two shores of the East
River. For those who think it does, it may be well to remember that only
five years ago the Tenement House Commission summed up the situation in
this city in the declaration that, “the condition of the tenants is in advance of
the houses which they occupy,” quite the severest arraignment of the
tenement that had yet been uttered.

The many philanthropic efforts that have been made in the last few years to
render less intolerable the lot of the tenants in the homes where many of
them must continue to live, have undoubtedly had their effect in creating a
disposition to accept better things, that will make plainer sailing for future
builders of model tenements. In many ways, as in the “College Settlement”
of courageous girls, the Neighborhood Guilds, through the efforts of the
King’s Daughters, and numerous other schemes of practical mission work,
the poor and the well-to-do have been brought closer together, in an every-
day companionship that cannot but be productive of the best results, to the
one who gives no less than to the one who receives. And thus, as a good
lady wrote to me once, though the problem stands yet unsolved, more
perplexing than ever; though the bright spots in the dreary picture be too
often bright only by comparison, and many of the expedients hit upon for
relief sad makeshifts, we can dimly discern behind it all that good is
somehow working out of even this slough of despond the while it is
deepening and widening in our sight, and in His own good season, if we
labor on with courage and patience, will bear fruit sixty and a hundred fold.

CHAPTER XXV.
HOW THE CASE STANDS.

What, then, are the bald facts with which we have to deal in New York?
I. That we have a tremendous, ever swelling crowd of wage-earners which
it is our business to house decently.
II. That it is not housed decently.
III. That it must be so housed here for the present, and for a long time to
come, all schemes of suburban relief being as yet utopian, impracticable.
IV. That it pays high enough rents to entitle it to be so housed, as a right.
V. That nothing but our own slothfulness is in the way of so housing it,
since “the condition of the tenants is in advance of the condition of the
houses which they occupy” (Report of Tenement-house Commission).
VI. That the security of the one no less than of the other half demands, on
sanitary, moral, and economic grounds, that it be decently housed.
VII. That it will pay to do it. As an investment, I mean, and in hard cash.
This I shall immediately proceed to prove.
VIII. That the tenement has come to stay, and must itself be the solution of
the problem with which it confronts us.
This is the fact from which we cannot get away, however we may deplore
it. Doubtless the best would be to get rid of it altogether; but as we cannot,
all argument on that score may at this time be dismissed as idle. The
practical question is what to do with the tenement. I watched a Mott Street
landlord, the owner of a row of barracks that have made no end of trouble
for the health authorities for twenty years, solve that question for himself
the other day. His way was to give the wretched pile a coat of paint, and put
a gorgeous tin cornice on with the year 1890 in letters a yard long. From

where I stood watching the operation, I looked down upon the same dirty
crowds camping on the roof, foremost among them an Italian mother with
two stark-naked children who had apparently never made the acquaintance
of a wash-tub. That was a landlord’s way, and will not get us out of the
mire.
The “flat” is another way that does not solve the problem. Rather, it extends
it. The flat is not a model, though it is a modern, tenement. It gets rid of
some of the nuisances of the low tenement, and of the worst of them, the
overcrowding—if it gets rid of them at all—at a cost that takes it at once out
of the catalogue of “homes for the poor,” while imposing some of the evils
from which they suffer upon those who ought to escape from them.
There are three effective ways of dealing with the tenements in New York:
I. By law.
II. By remodelling and making the most out of the old houses.
III. By building new, model tenements.
Private enterprise—conscience, to put it in the category of duties, where it
belongs—must do the lion’s share under these last two heads. Of what the
law has effected I have spoken already. The drastic measures adopted in
Paris, in Glasgow, and in London are not practicable here on anything like
as large a scale. Still it can, under strong pressure of public opinion, rid us
of the worst plague-spots. The Mulberry Street Bend will go the way of the
Five Points when all the red tape that binds the hands of municipal effort
has been unwound. Prizes were offered in public competition, some years
ago, for the best plans of modern tenement-houses. It may be that we shall
see the day when the building of model tenements will be encouraged by
subsidies in the way of a rebate of taxes. Meanwhile the arrest and
summary punishment of landlords, or their agents, who persistently violate
law and decency, will have a salutary effect. If a few of the wealthy
absentee landlords, who are the worst offenders, could be got within the
jurisdiction of the city, and by arrest be compelled to employ proper
overseers, it would be a proud day for New York. To remedy the
overcrowding, with which the night inspections of the sanitary police
cannot keep step, tenements may eventually have to be licensed, as now the

lodging-houses, to hold so many tenants, and no more; or the State may
have to bring down the rents that cause the crowding, by assuming the right
to regulate them as it regulates the fares on the elevated roads. I throw out
the suggestion, knowing quite well that it is open to attack. It emanated
originally from one of the brightest minds that have had to struggle
officially with this tenement-house question in the last ten years. In any
event, to succeed, reform by law must aim at making it unprofitable to own
a bad tenement. At best, it is apt to travel at a snail’s pace, while the enemy
it pursues is putting the best foot foremost.
In this matter of profit the law ought to have its strongest ally in the
landlord himself, though the reverse is the case. This condition of things I
believe to rest on a monstrous error. It cannot be that tenement property that
is worth preserving at all can continue to yield larger returns, if allowed to
run down, than if properly cared for and kept in good repair. The point must
be reached, and soon, where the cost of repairs, necessary with a house full
of the lowest, most ignorant tenants, must overbalance the saving of the
first few years of neglect; for this class is everywhere the most destructive,
as well as the poorest paying. I have the experience of owners, who have
found this out to their cost, to back me up in the assertion, even if it were
not the statement of a plain business fact that proves itself. I do not include
tenement property that is deliberately allowed to fall into decay because at
some future time the ground will be valuable for business or other purposes.
There is unfortunately enough of that kind in New York, often leasehold
property owned by wealthy estates or soul-less corporations that oppose all
their great influence to the efforts of the law in behalf of their tenants.
There is abundant evidence, on the other hand, that it can be made to pay to
improve and make the most of the worst tenement property, even in the
most wretched locality. The example set by Miss Ellen Collins in her Water
Street houses will always stand as a decisive answer to all doubts on this
point. It is quite ten years since she bought three old tenements at the corner
of Water and Roosevelt Streets, then as now one of the lowest localities in
the city. Since then she has leased three more adjoining her purchase, and so
much of Water Street has at all events been purified. Her first effort was to
let in the light in the hallways, and with the darkness disappeared, as if by
magic, the heaps of refuse that used to be piled up beside the sinks. A few
of the most refractory tenants disappeared with them, but a very

considerable proportion stayed, conforming readily to the new rules, and
are there yet. It should here be stated that Miss Collins’s tenants are
distinctly of the poorest. Her purpose was to experiment with this class, and
her experiment has been more than satisfactory. Her plan was, as she puts it
herself, fair play between tenant and landlord. To this end the rents were put
as low as consistent with the idea of a business investment that must return
a reasonable interest to be successful. The houses were thoroughly refitted
with proper plumbing. A competent janitor was put in charge to see that the
rules were observed by the tenants, when Miss Collins herself was not
there. Of late years she has had to give very little time to personal
superintendence, and the care-taker told me only the other day that very
little was needed. The houses seemed to run themselves in the groove once
laid down. Once the reputed haunt of thieves, they have become the most
orderly in the neighborhood. Clothes are left hanging on the lines all night
with impunity, and the pretty flower-beds in the yard where the children not
only from the six houses, but of the whole block, play, skip, and swing, are
undisturbed. The tenants, by the way, provide the flowers themselves in the
spring, and take all the more pride in them because they are their own. The
six houses contain forty-five families, and there “has never been any need
of putting up a bill.” As to the income from the property, Miss Collins said
to me last August: “I have had six and even six and three-quarters per cent.
on the capital invested; on the whole, you may safely say five and a half per
cent. This I regard as entirely satisfactory.” It should be added that she has
persistently refused to let the corner-store, now occupied by a butcher, as a
saloon; or her income from it might have been considerably increased.
Miss Collins’s experience is of value chiefly as showing what can be
accomplished with the worst possible material, by the sort of personal
interest in the poor that alone will meet their real needs. All the charity in
the world, scattered with the most lavish hand, will not take its place. “Fair
play” between landlord and tenant is the key, too long mislaid, that unlocks
the door to success everywhere as it did for Miss Collins. She has not
lacked imitators whose experience has been akin to her own. The case of
Gotham Court has been already cited. On the other hand, instances are not
wanting of landlords who have undertaken the task, but have tired of it or
sold their property before it had been fully redeemed, with the result that it
relapsed into its former bad condition faster than it had improved, and the

tenants with it. I am inclined to think that such houses are liable to fall even
below the average level. Backsliding in brick and mortar does not greatly
differ from similar performances in flesh and blood.
Backed by a strong and steady sentiment, such as these pioneers have
evinced, that would make it the personal business of wealthy owners with
time to spare to look after their tenants, the law would be able in a very
short time to work a salutary transformation in the worst quarters, to the
lasting advantage, I am well persuaded, of the landlord no less than the
tenant. Unfortunately, it is in this quality of personal effort that the
sentiment of interest in the poor, upon which we have to depend, is too
often lacking. People who are willing to give money feel that that ought to
be enough. It is not. The money thus given is too apt to be wasted along
with the sentiment that prompted the gift.
Even when it comes to the third of the ways I spoke of as effective in
dealing with the tenement-house problem, the building of model structures,
the personal interest in the matter must form a large share of the capital
invested, if it is to yield full returns. Where that is the case, there is even
less doubt about its paying, with ordinary business management, than in the
case of reclaiming an old building, which is, like putting life into a defunct
newspaper, pretty apt to be up-hill work. Model tenement building has not
been attempted in New York on anything like as large a scale as in many
other great cities, and it is perhaps owing to this, in a measure, that a belief
prevails that it cannot succeed here. This is a wrong notion entirely. The
various undertakings of that sort that have been made here under intelligent
management have, as far as I know, all been successful.
From the managers of the two best-known experiments in model tenement
building in the city, the Improved Dwellings Association and the Tenement-
house Building Company, I have letters dated last August, declaring their
enterprises eminently successful. There is no reason why their experience
should not be conclusive. That the Philadelphia plan is not practicable in
New York is not a good reason why our own plan, which is precisely the
reverse of our neighbor’s, should not be. In fact it is an argument for its
success. The very reason why we cannot house our working masses in
cottages, as has been done in Philadelphia—viz., that they must live on
Manhattan Island, where the land is too costly for small houses—is the best

guarantee of the success of the model tenement house, properly located and
managed. The drift in tenement building, as in everything else, is toward
concentration, and helps smooth the way. Four families on the floor, twenty
in the house, is the rule of to-day. As the crowds increase, the need of
guiding this drift into safe channels becomes more urgent. The larger the
scale upon which the model tenement is planned, the more certain the
promise of success. The utmost ingenuity cannot build a house for sixteen
or twenty families on a lot 25 × 100 feet in the middle of a block like it, that
shall give them the amount of air and sunlight to be had by the erection of a
dozen or twenty houses on a common plan around a central yard. This was
the view of the committee that awarded the prizes for the best plan for the
conventional tenement, ten years ago. It coupled its verdict with the
emphatic declaration that, in its view, it was “impossible to secure the
requirements of physical and moral health within these narrow and arbitrary
limits.” Houses have been built since on better plans than any the
committee saw, but its judgment stands unimpaired. A point, too, that is not
to be overlooked, is the reduced cost of expert superintendence—the first
condition of successful management—in the larger buildings.
The Improved Dwellings Association put up its block of thirteen houses in
East Seventy-second Street nine years ago. Their cost, estimated at about
$240,000 with the land, was increased to $285,000 by troubles with the
contractor engaged to build them. Thus the Association’s task did not begin
under the happiest auspices. Unexpected expenses came to deplete its
treasury. The neighborhood was new and not crowded at the start. No
expense was spared, and the benefit of all the best and most recent
experience in tenement building was given to the tenants. The families were
provided with from two to four rooms, all “outer” rooms, of course, at rents
ranging from $14 per month for the four on the ground floor, to $6.25 for
two rooms on the top floor. Coal lifts, ash-chutes, common laundries in the
basement, and free baths, are features of these buildings that were then new
enough to be looked upon with suspicion by the doubting Thomases who
predicted disaster. There are rooms in the block for 218 families, and when
I looked in recently all but nine of the apartments were let. One of the nine
was rented while I was in the building. The superintendent told me that he
had little trouble with disorderly tenants, though the buildings shelter all

sorts of people. Mr. W. Bayard Cutting, the President of the Association,
writes to me:
“By the terms of subscription to the stock before incorporation, dividends
were limited to five per cent. on the stock of the Improved Dwellings
Association. These dividends have been paid (two per cent. each six
months) ever since the expiration of the first six months of the buildings
operation. All surplus has been expended upon the buildings. New and
expensive roofs have been put on for the comfort of such tenants as might
choose to use them. The buildings have been completely painted inside and
out in a manner not contemplated at the outset. An expensive set of fire-
escapes has been put on at the command of the Fire Department, and a
considerable number of other improvements made. I regard the experiment
as eminently successful and satisfactory, particularly when it is considered
that the buildings were the first erected in this city upon anything like a
large scale, where it was proposed to meet the architectural difficulties that
present themselves in the tenement-house problem. I have no doubt that the
experiment could be tried to-day with the improved knowledge which has
come with time, and a much larger return be shown upon the investment.
The results referred to have been attained in spite of the provision which
prevents the selling of liquor upon the Association’s premises. You are
aware, of course, how much larger rent can be obtained for a liquor saloon
than for an ordinary store. An investment at five per cent. net upon real
estate security worth more than the principal sum, ought to be considered
desirable.”
The Tenement House Building Company made its “experiment” in a much
more difficult neighborhood, Cherry Street, some six years later. Its houses
shelter many Russian Jews, and the difficulty of keeping them in order is
correspondingly increased, particularly as there are no ash-chutes in the
houses. It has been necessary even to shut the children out of the yards upon
which the kitchen windows give, lest they be struck by something thrown
out by the tenants, and killed. It is the Cherry Street style, not easily got rid
of. Nevertheless, the houses are well kept. Of the one hundred and six
“apartments,” only four were vacant in August. Professor Edwin R. A.
Seligman, the secretary of the company, writes to me: “The tenements are
now a decided success.” In the three years since they were built, they have
returned an interest of from five to five and a half per cent. on the capital

invested. The original intention of making the tenants profit-sharers on a
plan of rent insurance, under which all earnings above four per cent. would
be put to the credit of the tenants, has not yet been carried out.

GENERAL PLAN OF THE RIVERSIDE BUILDINGS (A. T. WHITE’S) IN
BROOKLYN.

FLOOR PLAN OF ONE DIVISION IN THE RIVERSIDE BUILDINGS,
SHOWING SIX “APARTMENTS.”

A scheme of dividends to tenants on a somewhat similar plan has been
carried out by a Brooklyn builder, Mr. A. T. White, who has devoted a life
of beneficent activity to tenement building, and whose experience, though it
has been altogether across the East River, I regard asjustly applying to New
York as well. He so regards it himself. Discussing the cost of building, he
says: “There is not the slightest reason to doubt that the financial result of a
similar undertaking in any tenement-house district of New York City would
be equally good.... High cost of land is no detriment, provided the value is
made by the pressure of people seeking residence there. Rents in New York
City bear a higher ratio to Brooklyn rents than would the cost of land and
building in the one city to that in the other.” The assertion that Brooklyn
furnishes a better class of tenants than the tenement districts in New York
would not be worth discussing seriously, even if Mr. White did not meet it
himself with the statement that the proportion of day-laborers and sewing-
women in his houses is greater than in any of the London model tenements,
showing that they reach the humblest classes.
Mr. White has built homes for five hundred poor families since he began his
work, and has made it pay well enough to allow good tenants a share in the
profits, averaging nearly one month’s rent out of the twelve, as a premium
upon promptness and order. The plan of his last tenements, reproduced on
p. 292, may be justly regarded as the beau ideal of the model tenement for a
great city like New York. It embodies all the good features of Sir Sydney
Waterlow’s London plan, with improvements suggested by the builder’s
own experience. Its chief merit is that it gathers three hundred real homes,
not simply three hundred families, under one roof. Three tenants, it will be
seen, everywhere live together. Of the rest of the three hundred they may
never know, rarely see, one. Each has his private front-door. The common
hall, with all that it stands for, has disappeared. The fire-proof stairs are
outside the house, a perfect fire-escape. Each tenant has his own scullery
and ash-flue. There are no air-shafts, for they are not needed. Every room,
under the admirable arrangement of the plan, looks out either upon the
street or the yard, that is nothing less than a great park with a play-ground
set apart for the children, where they may dig in the sand to their heart’s
content. Weekly concerts are given in the park by a brass band. The drying

of clothes is done on the roof, where racks are fitted up for the purpose. The
outside stairways end in turrets that give the buildings a very smart
appearance. Mr. White never has any trouble with his tenants, though he
gathers in the poorest; nor do his tenements have anything of the
“institution character” that occasionally attaches to ventures of this sort, to
their damage. They are like a big village of contented people, who live in
peace with one another because they have elbow-room even under one big
roof.
Enough has been said to show that model tenements can be built
successfully and made to pay in New York, if the owner will be content
with the five or six per cent. he does not even dream of when investing his
funds in “governments” at three or four. It is true that in the latter case he
has only to cut off his coupons and cash them. But the extra trouble of
looking after his tenement property, that is the condition of his highest and
lasting success, is the penalty exacted for the sins of our fathers that “shall
be visited upon the children, unto the third and fourth generation.” We shall
indeed be well off, if it stop there. I fear there is too much reason to believe
that our own iniquities must be added to transmit the curse still further. And
yet, such is the leavening influence of a good deed in that dreary desert of
sin and suffering, that the erection of a single good tenement has the power
to change, gradually but surely, the character of a whole bad block. It sets
up a standard to which the neighborhood must rise, if it cannot succeed in
dragging it down to its own low level.

And so this task, too, has come to an end. Whatsoever a man soweth, that
shall he also reap. I have aimed to tell the truth as I saw it. If this book shall
have borne ever so feeble a hand in garnering a harvest of justice, it has
served its purpose. While I was writing these lines I went down to the sea,
where thousands from the city were enjoying their summer rest. The ocean
slumbered under a cloudless sky. Gentle waves washed lazily over the
white sand, where children fled before them with screams of laughter.
Standing there and watching their play, I was told that during the fierce
storms of winter it happened that this sea, now so calm, rose in rage and
beat down, broke over the bluff, sweeping all before it. No barrier built by

human hands had power to stay it then. The sea of a mighty population,
held in galling fetters, heaves uneasily in the tenements. Once already our
city, to which have come the duties and responsibilities of metropolitan
greatness before it was able to fairly measure its task, has felt the swell of
its resistless flood. If it rise once more, no human power may avail to check
it. The gap between the classes in which it surges, unseen, unsuspected by
the thoughtless, is widening day by day. No tardy enactment of law, no
political expedient, can close it. Against all other dangers our system of
government may offer defence and shelter; against this not. I know of but
one bridge that will carry us over safe, a bridge founded upon justice and
built of human hearts. I believe that the danger of such conditions as are fast
growing up around us is greater for the very freedom which they mock. The
words of the poet, with whose lines I prefaced this book, are truer to-day,
have far deeper meaning to us, than when they were penned forty years ago:
“—Think ye that building shall endure
Which shelters the noble and crushes the poor?”

APPENDIX.
STATISTICS BEARING ON THE TENEMENT
PROBLEM.

Statistics of population were left out of the text in the hope that the results
of this year’s census would be available as a basis for calculation before the
book went to press. They are now at hand, but their correctness is disputed.
The statisticians of the Health Department claim that New York’s
population has been underestimated a hundred thousand at least, and they
appear to have the best of the argument. A re-count is called for, and the
printer will not wait. Such statistics as follow have been based on the
Health Department estimates, except where the census source is given. The
extent of the quarrel of official figures may be judged from this one fact,
that the ordinarily conservative and careful calculations of the Sanitary
Bureau make the death-rate of New York, in 1889, 25.19 for the thousand of
a population of 1,575,073, while the census would make it 26.76 in a
population of 1,482,273.
Population of New York, 1880 (census) 1,206,299
” London, 1881 ” 3,816,483
” Philadelphia, 1880 ” 846,980
” Brooklyn, 1880 ” 566,689
” Boston, 1880 ” 362,535
” New York, 1889 (estimated) 1,575,073
” London, 1889 ” 4,351,738
” Philadelphia, 1889 ” 1,040,245
” Brooklyn, ” ” 814,505
” Boston, ” ” 420,000
” New York under five years of age, in 1880 140,327
” ” ” ” ” 1889
(estimated) 182,770
Population of tenements in New York in 1869[25] (census) 468,492
” ” ” ” 1888[26] ” 1,093,701
” ” ” ” under five years of age 143,243

Population of New York in 1880(census) 1,206,299
” Manhattan Island in 1880 (census) 1,164,673
” Tenth Ward in 1880 (census) 47,554
” Eleventh Ward in 1880 (census) 68,778
” Thirteenth Ward in 1880 (census) 37,797
” New York in 1890 (census) 1,513,501
” Manhattan Island in 1890 (census) 1,440,101
” Tenth Ward in 1890 (census) 57,514
” Eleventh Ward ” ” 75,708
” Thirteenth Ward in 1890 (census) 45,882
Number of acres in New York City 24,890
” ” Manhattan Island 12,673
” ” Tenth Ward 110
” ” Eleventh Ward 196
” ” Thirteenth Ward 107
Density of population per acre in 1880, New York City 48.4
Density of population per acre in 1880, Manhattan Island 92.6
Density of population per acre in 1880, Tenth Ward 432.3
Density of population per acre in 1880, Eleventh Ward 350.9
Density of population per acre in 1880, Thirteenth Ward 353.2
Density of population per acre in 1890, New York City (census) 60.08
Density of population per acre in 1890, Manhattan Island (census) 114.53
Density of population per acre in 1890, Tenth Ward (census) 522.00
Density of population per acre in 1890, Eleventh Ward (census) 386.00
Density of population per acre in 1890, Thirteenth Ward (census) 428.8
Density of population to the square mile in 1880, New York City (census) 30,976
Density of population to the square mile in 1880, Manhattan Island (census) 41,264
Density of population to the square mile in 1880, Tenth Ward (census) 276,672
Density of population to the square mile in 1880, Eleventh Ward (census) 224,576
Density of population to the square mile in 1880, Thirteenth Ward (census) 226,048
Density of population to the square mile in 1890, New York City (census) 38,451
Density of population to the square mile in 1890, Manhattan Island (census) 73,299
Density of population to the square mile in 1890, Tenth Ward (census) 334,080
Density of population to the square mile in 1890, Eleventh Ward (census) 246,040
Density of population to the square mile in 1890, Thirteenth Ward (census) 274,432
Number of persons to a dwelling in New York, 1880 (census) 16.37
Number of persons to a dwelling in London, 1881 (census) 7.9
Number of persons to a dwelling in Philadelphia, 1880 (census) 5.79
Number of persons to a dwelling in Brooklyn, 1880 (census) 9.11
Number of persons to a dwelling in Boston, 1880 (census) 8.26
Number of deaths in New York, 1880 31,937

” ” London, 1881 81,431
” ” Philadelphia, 1880 17,711
” ” Brooklyn, 1880 13,222
” ” Boston, 1880 8,612
Death-rate of New York, 1880 26.47
” London, 1881 21.3
” Philadelphia, 1880 20.91
” Brooklyn, 1880 23.33
” Boston, 1880 23.75
Number of deaths in New York, 1889 39,679
” ” London, 1889 75,683
” ” Philadelphia, 1889 20,536
” ” Brooklyn, 1889 8,288
” ” Boston, 1889 10,259
Death-rate of New York, 1889 25.19
” London, 1889 17.4
” Philadelphia, 1889 19.7
” Brooklyn, 1889 22.5
” Boston, 1889 24.42

For every person who dies there are always two disabled by illness, so that
there was a regular average of 79,358 New Yorkers on the sick-list at any
moment last year. It is usual to count 28 cases of sickness the year round for
every death, and this would give a total for the year 1889 of 1,111,082 of
illness of all sorts.
Number of deaths in tenements in New York, 1869 13,285
” ” ” ” ” ” 1888 24,842
Death-rate in tenements in New York, 1869 28.35
” ” ” ” ” 1888 22.71

This is exclusive of deaths in institutions, properly referable to the
tenements in most cases. The adult death-rate is found to decrease in the
larger tenements of newer construction. The child mortality increases,
reaching 114.04 per cent. of 1,000 living in houses containing between 60
and 80 tenants. From this point it decreases with the adult death-rate.
Number of deaths in prisons, New York, 1889 85
” ” hospitals, New York, 1889 6,102
” ” lunatic asylums, New York, 1889 448
” ” institutions for children, New York, 1889 522

” ” homes for aged, New York, 1889 238
” ” almshouse, New York, 1889 424
” ” other institutions, New York, 1889 162
Number of burials in city cemetery (paupers), New York, 1889 3,815
Percentage of such burials on total 9.64
Number of tenants weeded out of overcrowded tenements, New York, 1889 1,246
Number of tenants weeded out of overcrowded tenements, in first half of 1890[27] 1,068
Number of sick poor visited by summer corps of doctors, New York, 1890 16,501

Police Statistics.
Males. Females.
Arrests made by the police in 1889 62,274 19,926
Number of arrests for drunkenness and disorderly 20,253 8,981
Number of arrests for disorderly conduct 10,953 7,477
” ” assault and battery 4,534 497
” ” theft 4,399 721
” ” robbery 247 10
” ” vagrancy 1,686 947
Prisoners unable to read or write 2,399 1,281
Number of lost children found in the streets, 1889 2,968
” sick and destitute cared for, 1889 2,753
Found sick in the streets 1,211
Number of pawnshops in city, 1889 110
” cheap lodging-houses, 1889 270
” saloons, 1889 7,884

Immigration.
Immigrants landed at Castle Garden in 20 years, ending with 1889 5,335,396
Immigrants landed at Castle Garden in 1889 349,233
Immigrants from England landed at Castle Garden in 1889 46,214
Immigrants from Scotland landed at Castle Garden in 1889 11,415
Immigrants from Ireland landed at Castle Garden in 1889 43,090
Immigrants from Germany landed at Castle Garden in 1889 75,458

1883. 1884. 1885. 1886. 1887. 1888. 1889.
Italy 25,485 14,076 16,033 29,312 44,274 43,927 28,810
Russia
7,577 12,432 16,578 23,987 33,203 33,052 31,329
Poland
Hungary 13,160 15,797 11,129 18,135 17,719 12,905 15,678
Bohemia 4,877 7,093 6,697 4,222 6,449 3,982 5,412

Tenements.
Number of tenements in New York, December 1, 1888 32,390
Number built from June 1, 1888, to August 1, 1890 3,733
Rear tenements in existence, August 1, 1890 2,630
Total number of tenements, August 1, 1890 37,316
Estimated population of tenements, August 1, 1890 1,250,000
Estimated number of children under five years in tenements, 1890 163,712

Corner tenements may cover all of the lot, except 4 feet at the rear.
Tenements in the block may only cover seventy-eight per cent. of the lot.
They must have a rear yard 10 feet wide, and air-shafts or open courts equal
to twelve per cent. of the lot.
Tenements or apartment houses must not be built over 70 feet high in streets
60 feet wide.
Tenements or apartment houses must not be built over 80 feet high in streets
wider than 60 feet.

Footnotes

[1] Tweed was born and bred in a Fourth Ward tenement.
[2] Forty per cent. was declared by witnesses before a Senate Committee to be a
fair average interest on tenement property. Instances were given of its being one
hundred per cent. and over.
[3] It was not until the winter of 1867 that owners of swine were prohibited by
ordinance from letting them run at large in the built-up portions of the city.
[4] This “unventilated and fever-breeding structure” the year after it was built was
picked out by the Council of Hygiene, then just organized, and presented to the
Citizens’ Association of New York as a specimen “multiple domicile” in a
desirable street, with the following comment: "Here are twelve living-rooms and
twenty-one bedrooms, and only six of the latter have any provision or possibility
for the admission of light and air, excepting through the family sitting- and living-
room; being utterly dark, close, and unventilated. The living-rooms are but 10 × 12
feet; the bedrooms 6½ × 7 feet.“
[5] “A lot 50 × 60, contained twenty stables, rented for dwellings at $15 a year
each; cost of the whole $600.”
[6] The Sheriff Street Colony of rag-pickers, long since gone, is an instance in
point. The thrifty Germans saved up money during years of hard work in squalor
and apparently wretched poverty to buy a township in a Western State, and the
whole colony moved out there in a body. There need be no doubt about their
thriving there.
[7] The process can be observed in the Italian tenements in Harlem (Little Italy),
which, since their occupation by these people, have been gradually sinking to the
slum level.
[8] The term child means in the mortality tables a person under five years of age.
Children five years old and over figure in the tables as adults.
[9] See City Mission Report, February, 1890, page 77.
[10] Inspector Byrnes on Lodging-houses, in the North American Review,
September, 1889.
[11] Deduct 69,111 women lodgers in the police stations.
[12] Report of Eastern Dispensary for 1889.
[13] I refer to the Tenth Ward always as typical. The district embraced in the
discussion really includes the Thirteenth Ward, and in a growing sense large
portions of the Seventh and contiguous wards as well.

[14] An invention that cuts many garments at once, where the scissors could cut
only a few.
[15] I was always accompanied on these tours of inquiry by one of their own
people who knew of and sympathized with my mission. Without that precaution
my errand would have been fruitless; even with him it was often nearly so.
[16] The strike of the cloakmakers last summer, that ended in victory, raised their
wages considerably, at least for the time being.
[17] Suspicions of murder, in the case of a woman who was found dead, covered
with bruises, after a day’s running fight with her husband, in which the beer jug
had been the bone of contention, brought me to this house, a ramshackle tenement
on the tail-end of a lot over near the North River docks. The family in the picture
lived above the rooms where the dead woman lay on a bed of straw, overrun by
rats, and had been uninterested witnesses of the affray that was an everyday
occurrence in the house. A patched and shaky stairway led up to their one bare and
miserable room, in comparison with which a white-washed prison-cell seemed a
real palace. A heap of old rags, in which the baby slept serenely, served as the
common sleeping-bunk of father, mother, and children—two bright and pretty
girls, singularly out of keeping in their clean, if coarse, dresses, with their
surroundings. The father, a slow-going, honest English coal-heaver, earned on the
average five dollars a week, “when work was fairly brisk,” at the docks. But there
were long seasons when it was very “slack,” he said, doubtfully. Yet the prospect
did not seem to discourage them. The mother, a pleasant-faced woman, was
cheerful, even light-hearted. Her smile seemed the most sadly hopeless of all in the
utter wretchedness of the place, cheery though it was meant to be and really was. It
seemed doomed to certain disappointment—the one thing there that was yet to
know a greater depth of misery.
[18] Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, Case 42,028, May 16, 1889.
[19] Colonel Auchmuty’s own statement.
[20] This very mother will implore the court with tears, the next morning, to let her
renegade son off. A poor woman, who claimed to be the widow of a soldier,
applied to the Tenement-house Relief Committee of the King’s Daughters last
summer, to be sent to some home, as she had neither kith nor kin to care for her.
Upon investigation it was found that she had four big sons, all toughs, who beat
her regularly and took from her all the money she could earn or beg; she was “a
respectable woman, of good habits,” the inquiry developed, and lied only to shield
her rascally sons.
[21] “The percentage of foreign-born prisoners in 1850, as compared with that of
natives, was more than five times that of native prisoners, now (1880) it is less
than double.”—American Prisons in the Tenth Census.
[22] In printing-offices the broken, worn-out, and useless type is thrown into the
“hell-box,” to be recast at the foundry.
[23] Dr. Louis L. Seaman, late chief of staff of the Blackwell’s Island hospitals:
“Social Waste of a Great City,” read before the American Association for the
Advancement of Science, 1886.

[24] Forty-fourth Annual Report of the Association for Improving the Condition of
the Poor. 1887.
[25] In 1869, a tenement was a house occupied by four families or more
[26] In 1888, a tenement was a house occupied by three families or more
[27] These figures represent less than two hundred of the worst tenements below
Houston Street.

Transcriber’s Note

Incidental inconsistencies of punctuation are resolved silently. The following list contains
other textual issues that are encountered. If there were no other correct instances of
misspelled words (in current usage) they were allowed to stand. The hyphenation of
compound words hyphenated at a line break was retained or removed to follow the most
common appearance elsewhere in the text.

p. 74 disenfecting sic

p. 77 loadstone sic

p. 82 caravanseries sic

p. 107 tha[t/n] Corrected.

p. 256 tantilizes sic

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