How the Other Half Lives..................................................................................................................................1

Jacob Riis .................................................................................................................................................1

PREFACE. ...............................................................................................................................................1

INTRODUCTION...................................................................................................................................2

CHAPTER I. GENESIS OF THE TENEMENT.....................................................................................4

CHAPTER II. THE AWAKENING. .......................................................................................................6

CHAPTER III. THE MIXED CROWD. ..................................................................................................8

CHAPTER IV. THE DOWN TOWN BACKALLEYS......................................................................10

CHAPTER V. THE ITALIAN IN NEW YORK. ..................................................................................17

CHAPTER VI. THE BEND..................................................................................................................19

CHAPTER VII. A RAID ON THE STALEBEER DIVES. ................................................................23

CHAPTER VIII. THE CHEAP LODGINGHOUSES........................................................................26

CHAPTER IX. CHINATOWN.............................................................................................................29

CHAPTER X. JEWTOWN. ...................................................................................................................33

CHAPTER XI. THE SWEATERS OF JEWTOWN.............................................................................38

CHAPTER XII. THE BOHEMIANSTENEMENTHOUSE CIGARMAKING. ............................43

CHAPTER XIII. THE COLOR LINE IN NEW YORK.......................................................................47

CHAPTER XIV. THE COMMON HERD............................................................................................50

CHAPTER XV. THE PROBLEM OF THE CHILDREN. ....................................................................56

CHAPTER XVI. WAIFS OF THE CITY'S SLUMS............................................................................59

CHAPTER XVII. THE STREET ARAB..............................................................................................62

CHAPTER XVIII. THE REIGN OF RUM...........................................................................................66

CHAPTER XIX. THE HARVEST OF TARES....................................................................................68

CHAPTER XX. THE WORKING GIRLS OF NEW YORK...............................................................73

CHAPTER XXI. PAUPERISM IN THE TENEMENTS. .....................................................................76

CHAPTER XXII. THE WRECKS AND THE WASTE.......................................................................80

CHAPTER XXIII. THE MAN WITH THE KNIFE.............................................................................83

CHAPTER XXIV. WHAT HAS BEEN DONE. ...................................................................................84

CHAPTER XXV. HOW THE CASE STANDS. ...................................................................................89

1. 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 many 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

1. 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

2. 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

twentyfive years ago, "every hidingplace 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

today nurseries of crime, and of the vices and disorderly courses which lead to crime. By far the largest

parteighty per cent. at leastof crimes against properly 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 ate 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 earls stage of the inquiry: the boundary line of the Other Half lies

3. It is ten years and over, now, since that line divided New York's population evenly. Today threefourths

of its people live in the tenements, and the nineteenth century drift of the population to the cities is sending

everincreasing multitudes to crowd them. The fifteen thousand tenant houses that were the despair of the

sanitarian in the past generation have swelled into thirtyseven thousand, and more than twelve hundred

thousand persons call them home. The one way out he sawrapid transit to the suburbshas brought no

relief. We know now that these is no way out; that the "system" that was the evil offspring of public neglect

and private greed has come to stay, a stormcentre forever of our civilization. Nothing is left but to make the

4. 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 badit were not well otherwisein the tenements all the

influences make for evil; because they are the hotbeds 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.

5. What are you going to do about it? is the question of today. It was asked once of our city in taunting

defiance by a band of political cutthroats, the legitimate outgrowth of life on the tenementhouse 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 onehalf of the tenements with twothirds of their population

were held by owners veto trade 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

smeared 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 upastree. 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

6. If this is true from a purely economic point of view, what then of the outlook front 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

[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 percent. and over.

1. THE first tenement New York knew bore the mark of Cain from its birth, though a generation passed

before the waiting was deciphered. It was the "rear house," infamous ever after in our city's history. There

had been tenanthouses 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.

2. It was the stir and bustle of trade, together with the tremendous immigration that followed upon the war of

1812 that dislodged them. In thirtyfive 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

realestate agents and boardinghouse keepers; and here, says the report to the Legislature of 1857, when the

evils engendered had excited just alarm, "in its beginning, the tenanthouse 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 role, 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

tenanthouse system, as it spread its localities from year to year; while redress slovenliness, discontent,

privation, and ignorance were left to work out their invariable results, until the entire premises reached the

level of tenanthouse dilapidation, containing, but sheltering not, the miserable hordes that crowded beneath

smouldering, waterrotted 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."

3. 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 lop 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 shellpaved 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.

4. 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

underletting." 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

ninetyfive to the thousand of population; which forced the general mortality of the city up front l 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 tenementhouses in

which are lodged several hundred people that have a pro rata allotment of ground area scarcely equal to

twosquare yards upon the city lot, courtyards and all included." The tenementhouse 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.[1] 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 twentyfive 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 Stellar that contained eight or ten loads of manure; or "one room 12 x 19 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

5. 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 tenementhouse life that came under

my notice. One was the burning of a rear house in Mott Street, from appearances one of the original

tenanthouses that made their owners rich. The fire made homeless ten families, who had paid an average of

$5 a month for their mean little cubbyholes. 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 hardworking 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 topstory, 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.

6. 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 houseroom 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 lodginghouses 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."

7. 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 [3] converted into dwellings, though scarcely

fit to shelter brutes, are habitations of thousands of our fellowbeings 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

[1] It was not until the winter of 1867 that owners of swine were prohibited by ordinance from letting them

[2] This "unventilated and feverbreeding 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 livingrooms and

twentyone 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 livingroom; being utterly dark, close, and unventilated.

[3] "A lot 50x 60, contained twenty stables, rented for dwellings at $15 a year each; cost of the whole $600."

1. 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

"TenementHouse 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

smallpox, 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 fortysix thousand windows in interior rooms, chiefly for ventilationfor little or no light was to

be had from the dark hallways. Airshafts 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 "cavedwellers" and closing some five hundred and fifty cellars

south of Houston Street, many of them below tidewater, that had been used as living apartments. In many

2. 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 wellknown 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 today 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 threw 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 tenementhouse 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.

3. 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 airshaft 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, invitescompels 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

4. Today, 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 door, so living and

cooking and having a common right in the halls, stairways, yards, etc." That is the legal meaning, and

includes flats and apartmenthouses, 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 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 today as ten years ago, and will be for a long time to come. The dim light admitted by the

airshaft 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 brownstone trimmings, plateglass and mosaic vestibule floors, the water does not rise in

summer to the second story, while the beer flows unchecked to the allnight picnics on the roof. The saloon

with the sidedoor and the landlord divide the prosperity of the place between them, and the tenant, in sullen

5. Where are the tenements of today? 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, pentup multitudes, they hold within their clutch the wealth and business of New York,

hold them at their mercy in the day of mobrule and wrath. The bulletproof shutters, the stacks of

handgrenades, and the Gatling guns of the SubTreasury are tacit admissions of the fact and of the quality

of the mercy expected. The tenements today are New York, harboring threefourths 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?

1. 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, thirtyeight Italian, and two that spoke the German

tongue. Barring th e agent herself, there was not a nativeborn 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 I talian, 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 Was

hington 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

2. 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 o ne 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 ove r 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 I talian 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 twentyfive

dollars a month for three small rooms in a ramshackle rear tenementmore than twice what they were

worthand expressed his astonishment to the tenant, an ignorant Sicilian laborer. He replied that he had

4. "'Damma, man!' he said; 'if you speaka thata way to me, I fira you and your things in the streeta.'" And the

5. 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, reenacting, 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,

6. 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

7. New York's wageearners 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 b etter, 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 ragpicker of thirty years ago, quite as low in

the scale as his Italian successor, is the thrifty tradesman or prosperous farmer of today.[1]

8. The Italian scavenger of our time is fast graduating into exclusive control of the corner fruitstands, while

his blackeyed boy monopolizes the bootblacking industry in which a few years ago he was an intruder.

The Irish hodcarri er in the second generation has become a bricklayer, 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 houses in

which his kind are housed there could be no better answer. The truth is, his half chance has too long been

9. As emigration from east to west follows the latitude, so does the foreign influx in New York distribute

itself along certain welldefined lines that waver and break only under the stronger pressure of a more

gregarious race or the e ncroachments 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

10. The Irishman is the true cosmopolitan immigrant. Allpervading, 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 ten ement 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 crazyquilt. 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 Fi fth 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 re d 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 M

ulberry 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 draftriots

drove the negroes out of reac h of Cherry Street and the Five Points. Within the past decade the advance wave

of the Italian onset reached it, and today the arms of United Italy adorn its front. The negroes have made a

stand at several points along Seventh and Eighth Avenues; but the ir main body, still pursued by the Italian

foe, is on the march yet, and the black mark will be found overshadowing today many blocks on the East

Side, with One Hundredth Street as the centre, where colonies of them have settled recently.

11. Hardly less aggressive than the Italian, the Russian and Polish Jew, having over run the district between

Rivington and Division Streets, east of the Bowery, to the point of suffocation, is filling, the tenements of the

old Sevent h 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 beehives of the East Side. Colonies of his people extend northward, with long lapses

of space, from below the Cooper Institute more than three m iles. 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

12. 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 goddes s 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 tendencyknows how to drag even the barracks

upward a part of the way at least toward the ideal plane of the homethe 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 simpl y 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, un happily

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,

[1] The Sheriff Street Colony of ragpickers, 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 t he whole colony moved out there in a body. There need be no doubt about their thriving

1. 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

2. 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 Streetproud and fashionable Cherry Hill that wastheir 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 afterthought 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 pothouse is next doorwhere is it not next door in these slums?have worn away

the brownstone 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 fireplaceswhere 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 daydreams 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 lifetide of two great cities, one might drop a

3. 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 boxlike 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

meatbone may show up in the role of "It." Vain hope, truly ! Nothing more appetizing than a barelegged

ragamuffin appears. Meatbones, not long since picked clean, are as scarce in Blind Man's Alley as

elbowroom in any Fourth Ward backyard. The shouts of the children come hushed over the housetops, 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 fortunehe told me once four hundred thousand

dollarsout 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

4. "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

5. 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 homefeeling of the alley; many of the blind people moved away and did

6. 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 flashlight 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

7. Sunless and joyless though it be, Blind Man's Alley has that which its compeers of the slums vainly yearn

for. It has a payday. Once a year sunlight shines into the lives of its forlorn crew, past and present. In June,

when the Superintendent of Outdoor Poor distributes the twenty thousand dollars annually allowed the poor

blind by the city, in halfhearted 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 longforgotten songs. Even the

8. 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 Courts 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

fivestory tenements back to back under a common roof, extending back from the street two hundred and

thirtyfour 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." Alleysone wider by a couple of feet than the other, whence the

distinction Single and Double Alleyskirt 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 fairsized 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.

9. 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 smallpox

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

sewergrating, so constructed, as the official report patiently puts it, "as to prevent the ingress of persons

disposed to make a hidingplace" of the sewer and the cellars into which they opened. The fact was that the

big vaulted sewers had long been a runway for thievesthe Swamp Angelswho through them easily

escaped when chased by the police, as well as a storehouse for their plunder. The sewers are there today; 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 sewerif 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 80 are

most of those whose secrets they might betray. The floodgates 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.

10. Halfway 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 Mulling, 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

11. 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 byways, 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

12. 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 allpervading. 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.

13. 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 archthief, worked in a brushshop

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, oldlooking 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

fivestory house on one side that gets its light and airGod 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

fireescapes 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 dirtcart 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

14. 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 fireescapes, 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 troubleof the imminent kind, not

the everyday sort that excites neither interest nor commiserationrun 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 brownstone

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 brownstone 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

15. 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 districtthey 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

16. Here comes a pleasure party, as gay as any on the avenue, though the carryall is an ashcart. The father

is the driver and he has taken his brownlegged 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 alongside 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.

17. 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 halldoor 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 accessand all be poisoned alike by their summer stenches. Hear the pump squeak! It is the lullaby of

tenementhouse 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 wailwhat do they

mean? They mean that the soiled bow of white you saw on the door downstairs will have another story to

tellOh! a sadly familiar storybefore the day is at an end. The child is dying with measles. With half a

18. "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

19. 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 doorssome 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 babyit is a baby, spite of its rags and

dirtunder these iron bridges called fireescapes, but loaded down, despite the incessant watchfulness of the

firemen, with broken household goods, with washtubs and barrels, over which no man could climb from a

fire. This gap between dingy brickwalls is the yard. That strip of smokecolored 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,

darkerwe will not say more cheerless. The word is a mockery. A hundred thousand people lived in Tear

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 washtub. "I try to keep the childer clean," she says, apologetically, but with

a hopeless glance around. The spice of hot soapsuds 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 pulleyline 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 clothesline. With it begins

the effort to be clean that is the first and the best evidence of a desire to be honest.

20. 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 ham mock. The father, a

seaman, had been obliged to give up that calling because he was in consumption, and was unable to provide

21. 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 eatingroom,

the other a small hallroom 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 breadwinner 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 alone 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 usdo 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

1. CERTAINLY a picturesque, if not very tidy, element has been added to the population in the "assisted"

Italian immigrant who claims so large a shale 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

framework of Mediterranean exuberance, are the delight of the artist, but in a matteroffact 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.[1] 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 orderloving German, that is to say: is content to live in a

pigsty and submits to robbery at the hands of the rentcollector 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.

2. 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 padronethe "banker," is nothing elsehaving made his ten per cent. Out of him en

route, receives him at the landing and turns him to double account as a wageearner and a rentpayer. In

each of these roles 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 middleman, 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

3. The discovery was made by earlier explorers that there is money in New York's ashbarrel, 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 ragpicking was carried on in a desultory and

irresponsible sort of way, the city hired gangs of men to trim the ashscows 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. Today 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 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 ashbarrels 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 selfgovernment 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

4. 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 authorityalways 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 redhanded, 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

5. With all his conspicuous faults, the swarthy Italian immigrant has his redeeming traits. He is as honest as

he is hotheaded. There are no Italian burglars in the Rogues' Gallery; the exbrigand toils peacefully with

pickaxe and shovel on American ground. His boy occasionally shows, as a pickpocket, 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, lighthearted and, if his fur is not stroked the wrong way, inoffensive as a child. His worst

offense is that he keeps the stalebeer 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

[1] The process can be observed in the Italian tenements in Harlem (Little Italy), which, since their

1. 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 homecoming of the ragpicker's cart. In the memory of man the old

cowpath has never been other than a vast human pigsty. 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 ashbarrels 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 ragpicker.

2. It is not much more than twenty years since a census of "the Bend" district returned only twentyfour of

the six hundred and nine tenements as in decent condition. Threefourths 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 musterroll, together with the inrush 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 passagewaysnecessarily, for there is

scarce a lot that has not two, three, or four tenements upon it, swarming with unwholesome crowds. What a

birdseye 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.

3. 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 marketplace in some

town in Southern Italy than a street in New Yorkall 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 lovemaking 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 headcovering, pad or turban, that is their badge of servitudeher's

to bear the burden as long as she liveshaggling over baskets of frowsy weeds, some sort of salad probably,

stale tomatoes, and oranges not above suspicion. Ashbarrels 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 anothera 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 bedtick. 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,

peter 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 offalcart 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

4. 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

ashbarrels 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 shopkeeper, 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 redthere is not a shop, a stand, or an

ashbarrel doing duty for a counter, that has not its patron saintthe other is a fishstand full of slimy,

oddlooking creatures, fish that never swam in American waters, or if they did, were never seen on an

American fishstand, 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 firewood 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 wheelbarrow load of secondhand 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

5. 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 savingsbanks, all in one. So

are the toddling youngsters bowlegged 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

6. 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 ragpickers 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 [1] 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. 59 1/2, 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 thirtynine people lived in No. 59 1/2 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

Deaths and Deathrates in 1888 in Baxter and Mulberry Streets, between Park and Bayard Streets.

POPULATION. DEATHS. DEATHRATE. Five years old and over Under five years Total Five years old

and over Under five years Total Five years old and over Under five years General 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

8. 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 standpoints. It is the standpoint that makes the differenceand the

9. 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 an) where, stood associated on the taxbooks 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

10. 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 pitchdark coops called bedrooms. Truly, the bed is all there is room for. The

family teakettle is on the stove, doing duty for the time being as a washboiler. 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 barelegged girl with the bright face counts on her

12. "Only five," she says with a smile, swathing the little one on her lap in its cruel bandage. There is another

15. 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 doctor's

thermometer ran up to 115 degrees! 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 [2]

that "no one asked for Italian children," and hence he could not send any to the country?

16. Half a dozen blocks up Mulberry Street there is a ragpicker's settlement, a sort of overflow from "the

Bend," that exists today in all its pristine nastiness. Something like forty families are packed into five old

twostory 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 stovethere would not have been room for him to sleep had not age crooked his

frame to fit his househad been taken to the "crazyhouse," 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 backroom and one bedroom

17. There is a standing quarrel between the professionalI mean now the officialsanitarian 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 thirtytwo thousand, the whole

number of houses classed as tenements at the census of two years ago, taking no account of the better kind of

fats. 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

18. 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 sixtyseven "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 enoughbut the order means business, and the tenant knows it even if he

understands no word of Englishupon such scenes as the one presented in the picture. It was photographed

by flashlight on just such a visit. In a room not thirteen feet eitherway 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 hallroom, where, in the semidarkness, 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.

19. 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

[1] The term child means in the mortality tables a person under five years of age. Children five years old and

1. MIDNIGHT rollcall was over in the Elizabeth Street policestation, but the reserves were held under

orders. A raid was on foot, but whether on the Chinese fantan games, on the opium joints of Mott and Pell

Streets, or on dens of even worse character, was a matter of guesswork 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

stalebeer 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 Streetthere

was some fun to be gotten out of a raid therethey 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, oursI went along as a kind of war correspondentgroped 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

2. "School is in," said the Sergeant drily as we stumbled down the worn steps of the next cellarway. A kick

3. A room perhaps a dozen feet square, with walls and ceiling that might once have been cleanassuredly

the floor had not in the memory of man, if indeed there was other floor than hardtrodden mudbut 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 beerkeg that was propped on the wreck

of a broken chair, a foul and ragged host of men and women, on boxes, benches, and stools. Tomatocans

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;

4. 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 halffilled 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

5. "Thirteen!" called the sergeant' completing his survey "Take them out. 'Revolvers' all but one. Good for sit

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."

6. At the head of the cellarsteps 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 welltrodden path, as with a fresh complement of men we entered the next stalebeer

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.

Seventyfive 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 newborn 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.

7. 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 seventyfive 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 au 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 twentyfour hours

8. As a thief never owns to his calling, however devoid of moral scruples, preferring to style himself a

speculator, so this real homeproduct of the slums, the stalebeer dive, is known about "the Bend" by the

more dignified name of the twocent 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 womenunutterable horror of the suggestionthe place is

free. The beer is collected from the kegs put on the sidewalk by the saloonkeeper 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 stalebeer 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 stalebeer dive is

like the traditional putting on of the uniform 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.

9. With the gravitation of the Italian tramp landlord toward the old stronghold of the African on the West

Side, a share of the stalebeer 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 divekeeper are

considerable; in fact, barring a slight outlay in the ingredients that serve to give "life" to the beerdregs, 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 stalebeer 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 stalebeer dive and the active backer of others,

is today 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.

10. 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 stalebeer dive, and who have their

reasons for declining the hospitality of the police station lodgingrooms. 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

11. 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

12. 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 ragpickers 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 twoforacent 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

13. Whence these tramps, and why the tramping? are questions oftener asked than answered. Illapplied

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 standpoints 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 aims puts a brand on the ablebodied 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 selfrespect, until he reaches the bottom in "the Bend."

14. 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 defenseless women. In the city the policemen keep

him straight enough. The women rob an occasional clothesline when no one is looking, or steal the pail and

scrubbingbrush with which they are set to clean up in the stationhouse lodgingrooms after their night's

sleep. At the police station the roads of the tramp and the tough again converge. In midwinter, on the coldest

nights, the sanitary police corral the tramps here and in their lodginghouses and vaccinate them, despite

their struggles and many oaths that they have recently been "scraped." The stationhouse 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 lodgingroom to a deckhand's berth on an outgoing 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

1. 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 lodginghouses. In the caravanseries that line Chatham Street and the

Bowery, harboring night ly a population as large as that of many a thriving town, a homemade 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 sligh t account. Within a year they have been stamped

as nurseries of crime by the chief of the Secret Police, [1] the sort of crime that feeds especially on idleness

and lies ready to the hand of fatal opportunity. In the same strain one o f the justices on the police court bench

sums up his long experience as a committing magistrate: "The tencent lodginghouses more than

counterbalance the good done by the free readingroom, lectures, and all other agencies of reform. Such

lodginghouses 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 lodginghouses. The

cost of a night's lodging makes the difference. There is a wider gap between the "hotel "they are all

hotelsthat charges a quarter and the one that furnishes a bed for a dime than between the bridal suit e and

2. 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 ma ny. Nearly all are young men, unsettled in life, manymost of them, perhapsfresh 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

twentyfivecent lodginghouses take them in. In the alleged readingrooms 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: th e 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 se arch 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 sig

ht, and he goes down a step, a long step, to the fifteencent lodginghouse, he is ready for the tempter whom

he finds waiting for him there, reinforced by the contingent of exconvicts returning from the prisons after

having served out their sentences fo r 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 b ecome 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 lodginghouse thieves, that the authoriti es

have been compelled to make a public demand for more effective laws that shall make them subject at all

3. 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 lodginghouses, and that in many cases it was their first step in

crime. He add s his testimony to the notorious fact that threefourths 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, wellknown thieves who lived, when out of jail, at

the Windsor, a wellknown lodginghouse in the Bowery, went to Johnstown after the flood and was shot

4. 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

5. "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 acquai ntance. When Smith offered him a supper and bed he was only too glad to

accept. Smith led the boy to a vile lodginghouse 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 too k 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 trie d 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' wat chful eye. When he went out alone he generally returned

emptyhanded. 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 iro n. The boy screamed

and entreated in vain. The merciless wretch pressed the iron deep into the tender flesh, and afterward applied

6. "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 te ll 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

7. 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 o f his chums revelling on the proceeds of the boy's begging for the day.

8. The twentyfive cent lodginghouse keeps up the pretence of a bedroom, though the headhigh 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 pretenses. The fifteencent bed stands boldly forth without screen in a room full of

bunks with sheets as yellow and blankets as foul. At the tencent level the locker for the sleeper's clothes

disappears. There is no longer need of it. The tramp limi t 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 aris tocratic

purchase of the tramp who, by a lucky stroke of beggary, has exchanged the chance of an empty box or

ashbarrel for shelter on the quality floor of one of these "hotels." A strip of canvas, strung between rough

timbers, without covering of any ki nd, does for the couch of the sevencent lodger who prefers the

questionable comfort of a redhot stove close to his elbow to the revelry of the stalebeer 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 suc h a lodgingroom 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 seas ickness.

The one thing that did not favor the deception was the air; its character could not be mistaken.

9. The proprietor of one of these sevencent 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 ha ndsome 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 uptown 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.

10. There are no licensed lodginghouses 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 lodginghouse, 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 th e platform are simply turned over, and the job is

done, with an occasional coat of whitewash 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, i f report spoke

truly, in certain oldcountry towns. The "bed" was represented by clotheslines stretched across the room

upon which the sleepers hung by the armpits for a penny a night. In the morning the boss woke them up by

simply untying the line at o ne end and letting it go with its load; a laborsaving device certainly, and highly

11. 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 stationhouses,

the total of the homeless army was 5,121,659, an average of over fourteen thousand homeless men [2] for

every night in the year! The health officers, professional optimists always in matters that trench upon their

official jurisdiction, insist that t he 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 t hat 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 lodginghouse stamp upon them. More than half of the lodginghouses are in

th e Bowery district, that is to say, the Fourth, Sixth, and Tenth Wards, and they harbor nearly threefourths

of their crowds. The calculation that more than nine thousand homeless young men lodge nightly along

Chatham Street and the Bowery, between the Cit y 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 onefifth of all the pawnshops in the city and onesixth of all the saloons are located here,

while twentyseven per cent. of all the arrests on the police books have been credited to the district for the

12. About election time, especially in Presidential elections, the lodginghouses 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 o f all others, is distinctly to the general with the strongest battalions, and the lodginghouses 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 i t, 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. Semioccasionally a cham pion offender is caught and

punished, as was, not long ago, the proprietor of one of the biggest Bowery lodginghouses. But such scenes

are largely spectacular, if not prompted by some hidden motive of revenge that survives from the contest.

Beyond a doub t 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 late ly given up, and has

most appropriately been turned into a barfactory, 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 i n 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 wellknown 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 lodginghouses than all the regulations of police and health officers together.

13. The experiment made by a wellknown 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 n umber 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

[1] Inspector Byrnes on Lodginghouses, in the North American Review, September, 1889.

1. 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 wellmeaning, 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 gen eration; of the next

I have, if anything, less hope. Ages of senseless idolatry, a mere grubworship, have left him without the

essential qualities for appreciating the gentle teachings of a faith whose motive and unselfish spirit are alike

beyond his gra sp. 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 Amer ican clothes, with what the politicians would call an

ulterior motive, some sort of gain in the near prospectwashing, a Christian wife, perhaps, anything he

happens to rate for the moment above his cherished pigtail. It may be that I judge him too harsh ly.

Exceptions may be found. Indeed, for the credit of the race, I hope there are such. But I am bound to say my

2. Chinatown as a spectacle is disappointing. Nextdoor neighbor to the Bend, it has little of its outdoor stir

and life, none of its gaylycolored 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 tenementhouse 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 streame rs 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

contradictiontake in washing, or deal out tea and groceries. There are some gimcracks in the second sto ry

fireescape 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 background with its cabalistic trademark, 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 bricabrac. 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, unmeaning stare, suggesting nothing, asking no questions,

and answering none. Fifth Avenu e 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 catlike 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

3. 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 cellarway, 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 footfall of leather soles on the steps the hum of talk ceases, and the group of celestials, crouching

over their game of fan tan, stop playi ng 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, indifferen t 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 layout, 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 un to the white victim upon which his pitiless drug

4. The bloused pedlars who, with arms buried half to the elbow in their trousers' pockets, lounge behind their

stock of watermelon seed and sugarcane, cut in lengths to suit the parse 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 pigtail dangling below the knees , or with hair cropped short above a coat collar of "Melican"

cut. All kinds of men are met, but no womennone 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 a re seldom or never

seen in the street. The "wives" of Chinatown are of a different stock that comes closer home.

5. 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 stalebeer dives

knew, or the "s udden 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 eve ry 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, b ut 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 today honeycombed with

scores of the conventi onal 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 n ame, 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 wit h 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 hi m 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

6. 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, w ho "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

7. 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, a nd 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 rep ort 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 dis charged from au 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

8. 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 h ome 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 broomhandle in a Mott Street cellar. He

9. "S'ppose your wifee bad, you no lickee her?" he asked, as if there could be no appeal from such a

commonsense 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

10. 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 ricepaper

master, unless as once happened, some sacrilegious tramp sneaks in and gets ahead of them. The practical

way in wh ich 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 boththat they might have their re ward 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.

11. 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 newspapermaki ng, 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 gam e through the machination of a rival interest. A constant stream of

plotting and counterplotting 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 gov ernment. 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 unav oidable, 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 meatknife, 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 eit her. 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

12. 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 perh aps, 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 Chinatow n, 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

13. 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 n desirable element of the

population, that they serve no use ful purpose here, whatever they may have done elsewhere in other days, yet

to this it ix a sufficient answer that they are here, and that, having let them ill, we must make the best of it.

This is a time for very plain speaking on this subject. Rather tha n banish the Chinaman, I would have the

door opened widerfor 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

hinge s 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 d eath. 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;

1. 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 pullersillnicknamed 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 latitudeBayard 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 skullcaps,

venerable beard, and the outlandish longskirted kaftan of the Russian Jew, elbow the ugliest and the

handsomest women in the land. The contrast is startling e 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

2. It is said that nowhere in the world are so many people crowded together on a square mile as here. The

average fivestory tenement adds a story or two to its stature in Ludlow Street and an extra building on the

rear lot, and yet th e 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 thirtysix families, but the term has a widely

different meaning here and on the avenues. In this house, w here a case of smallpox was reported, there

were fiftyeight babies and thirtyeight children that were over five years of age. In Essex Street two small

rooms in a sixstory tenement were made to hold a "family" of father and mother, twelve children, an d 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

3. The densest crowding of Old London, I pointed out before, never got beyond a hundred and seventyfive

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 arm y 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 w ithout 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

4. 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 overmastering passion with these people who

come here in d roves 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 fed. 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, a nd 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?"

5. "Immigration," he said, "brings us a lot. In five years it has averaged twentyfive thousand a year, of

which more that seventy per cent. hare stayed in New Cork. Half of them require and receive aid from the

Hebrew Charities from t he 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 t o 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

6. 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." [1] 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 befo re you have

travelled the length of a single block in any of these East Side streets, by the whir of a thousand

sewingmachines, worked at high pressure from earliest dawn till mind and muscle give out together. Every

member of the family, from the younge st to the oldest, bears a hand, shut in the qualmy rooms, where meals

are cooked and clothing washed and dried besides, the livelong day. It is not unusual to find a dozen

personsmen women, and childrenat 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 a way 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 usurpe d by the lodger, who performs the service of the

Irishman's pigpays the rent. In the street the army of hucksters crowd him out. Typhus fever and smallpox

are bred here, and help solve the question what to do with him. Filth diseases both, they sprout n aturally

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 fevernests. Considering that half of the readymade

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 smallpox, and in

the most contagious stage of the disease, has been found crawling among heaps of halffinished clothing that

the next day would be offered for sale on the counter of a Broadway store; or that a typhus fever p atient has

been discovered in a room whence perhaps a hundred coats had been sent home that week, each one with the

7. 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. Be is as ready to fight for his rights, or what he considers his rights, in a business

transactionsynonymous generally with his advantageas if he had not been robbed of them for eighteen

hundred years; One strong impression survives with him from his day s 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 d ay 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

8. These quarrels have sometimes a comic aspect. Thus, with the numerous dancingschools 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 da ytime 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 prefe rences, 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

9. 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 tau ght 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 wellknown minister of an uptown church to me, after such an experience, "I felt justified in

comparing myself to Paul preaching sa lvation 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 Jerusa lem 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 J

ews, 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 swel ls 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

10. 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 shar e of the growing youth. The schoolmaster is not rarely a man of some attainments

who has been stranded there, his native instinct for moneymaking having been smothered in the process that

has made of him a learned man. It was of such a school in Eldridg e 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 fi

nd it necessary to inculcate lessons of cleanliness in the worst cases by practical demonstration with

washbowl 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, "a nd 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

11. "I must keep my skin clean, Wear clean clothes, Breathe pure air, And live in the sunlight."

12. 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 cust om hag 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

13. 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 a nother such conspiracy is on foot. The danger to which these fiends expose their fellowtenants is

appalling. A firepanic at night in a tenement, by no means among the rare experiences in New York, with

the surging, halfsmothered crowds on stairs and fi reescapes, 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.

14. 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 thre w themselves from the windows, or were carried down senseless by the firemen. Thirteen

halfclad, apparently lifeless bodies were laid on the floor of an adjoining coaloffice, and the ambulance

surgeons worked over them with sleeves rolled up to the elbo ws. A halfgrown 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

15. Thursday night and Friday morning are bargain days in the "Pigmarket." 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 treadmill 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 Pigmarket is in Hester Street, extending either way from Ludlow Street, and

up and down the side streets two or three blocks, as the stateof trade demands. The name was given to it

probably in derision, for pork is the one ware that is not on sale in the Pigmarket. 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 doorstep, for thirtyfive'

cents; frowsylooking chickens and halfplucked 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 fowlmarket

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 ha d 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

horseradish 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 pantsat anything that can be

got. There is a knot of half a d ozen "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 wouldbe buyers,

though none of I them has the least idea of investing in a pair. Yes, stop! This baker, fresh from his trough,

bareheaded and with bare arms, has wade 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 th e 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 thirt y, two hundred per cent., were

16. The suspender pedlar is the mystery of the Pigmarket, omnipresent and unfathomable. He is met at

every step with his waves dangling over his shoulder, down his back, and in f ront. 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 suspender s. 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 u p as bricabrac 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

Pigmarket every day than would supply the whole of New York for a year, were they all bought and turn ed

17. The crowds that jostle each other at the wagons and about the sidewalk shops, where a gutter plank on

two ashbarrels does duty for a counter! Pushing, struggling, babbling, and shouting in foreign tongues, a

veritable Babel of co nfusion. 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 backyards and byways, 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 eatablesmusty bread, decayed fish an d

stale vegetablesindifferent 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

1. ANYTHING like an exhaustive discussion of the economical problem presented by the Tenth Ward [1] 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

2. 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 [2] 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

3. 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 subcontractor, 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 clothinghouses. Of workmen he can always get enough. Every shipload 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

4. The sweater knows well that the isolation of the workman in his helpless ignorance is his sure foundation,

and he has done what he couldwith merciless severity where he couldto 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 cooperation, 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 firstfruits of the

5. 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 daycrowds 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 workday in the factories,

and nine o'clock the closing hour at the latest. Fortyfive 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

6. 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, halfnaked. 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

workroom 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 sidedoor labelled "Family Entrance;" a tin sign in a storewindow 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

7. Up two fights 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, "kneepants" in the Ludlow Street dialect. The floor is littered ankledeep with halfsewn

garments In the alcove, on a couch of many dozens of "pants" ready for the finisher, a barelegged baby with

pinched face is asleep. A fence of piledup 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

8. 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 [3] 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 childrenthere are four of themare not old enough to work. The oldest is

only six. They turn out one hundred and twenty dozen "kneepants" 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 twentyfive 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, smokebegrimed 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 rentcollecting. It is the

way the savings of Jewtown are universally invested, and with the natural talent of its people for commercial

9. On the next floor, in a dimly lighted room with a big redhot stove to keep the pressing irons ready for use,

is a family of man, wife, three children, and a boarder. "Kneepants" 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

sixtyfive cents a week. He is really only a lodger, getting his meals outside. The rent is two dollars and

twentyfive 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 strongplan 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 sweetfaced 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.

10. A companion picture from across the hall. The man works on the machine for his sweater twelve hours a

day, turning out three dozen "kneepants," for which he receives fortytwo 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

11. Turning the corner into Hester Street, we stumble upon a nest of cloakmakers in their busy season. Six

months of the year the cloakmaker is idle, or nearly so. Now is his harvest. Seventyfive 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 storecounter. 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: "comedown" to this. The other cloakmakers 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 accountbook

with a Ludlow Street sweater. It shows that he and his partner, working on firstclass 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. [4] 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 twentyseven cents a coat,

12. Turning back, we pass a towering double tenement in Ludlow Street, owned by a wellknown 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 footboard, 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

coalbin of a family on the fourth floor was on the roof of the adjoining tenement. A quarter of a ton of coal

13. We have reached Broome Street. The hum of industry in this sixstory tenement on the corner leaves no

doubt of the aspect Sunday wears within it. One fight 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 suspendermaker

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 Door. Coal at ten cents a small pail, meat

at twelve cents a pound, one and a half pound of butter a week at thirtysix cents, and a quarter of a pound of

tea in the same space of time, are items of their housekeeping 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 suspendermaker 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

14. 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 holemaker two and a quarter, leaving a cent and

threequarters 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. A11 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 workbench,

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, meatstew, 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 thirteencent 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 twentyfive 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. Be does it, too, so long as work is to be had at any price, and by the

15. It has thousands upon thousands of lodgers who help to pay its extortionate rents. At night there is scarce

a room inall 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 middleground of average earnings. Yet even the direst

apparent poverty in Jewtown, unless dependent on absolute lack of work, would, were the truth known, in

16. 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 $1.12 1/2. With the material at fifteen cents a yard, he

said, children's suits of assorted sizes can be sold at wholesale for seventyfive 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 publicspirited 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

17. 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 halfhour's rest in the open air before sleep

closes the eyes weary with incessant working. Crowds of halfnaked 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 garmentyet a sweet, human little baby despite its dirt and tatterstumbles off

the lowest step, rolls over once, clutches my leg with unconscious grip, and goes to sleep on the flagstones,

[1] 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.

[2] An invention that cuts many garments at once, where the scissors could cut only a few.

[3] 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 bean fruitless; even with him

[4] The strike of the cloakmakers last summer, that ended in victory, raised their wages considerably, at least

1. 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 role. 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, threefourths of the miseries of the poor. In

the Bohemian quarter it is made the vehicle for enforcing upona 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.

2. 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 wedgelike 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 muchabused 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

countercharge that they are the first cause of his attitude to the labor question.

3. 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 Thirtyeighth Street is reached.

Fiftyfourth and Seventythird 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 socalled 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.

4. 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 Do 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 clothingmakers

in the Tenth Ward, and in spite of their sallow look, that may be due to the allpervading smell of tobacco,

they do not appear to be less healthy than other indoor 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.

5. Take a row of houses in East Tenth Street as an instance. They contained thirtyfive 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 ill 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

6. 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.

7. 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

8. The very ashbarrels that stand in front of the big rows of tenements in Seventyfirst 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 workbench with its stumpy knife and queer pouch of bedtick, worn brown and greasy, fastened in front

the whole length of the bench to receive the scraps of waste. This landlordemployer 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 barefooted 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 bet fore 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 bedtime." Bedtime 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 tenementhouse cigarmaker in summer. In winter it is at least onefourth

less. In spite of it all, the rooms are cleanly kept. From the bedroom farthest back the woman brings out a pile

of moist tobaccoleaves 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,

9. In a house around the corner that is not a factorytenement, lives now the cigarmaker I spoke of as

suffering from consumption which the doctor said was due to the tobaccofumes. Perhaps the lack of healthy

exercise had as much to do with it. His case is interesting from its own standpoint. He too is one with

afor a Bohemianlarge 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 Seventysecond Street supplies their cooking,

which the wife and mother fetches in a basket, her husband being too weak. Breakfast of coffee and

hardtack, 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 togethersausage 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

10. But what of his being an Anarchist, this Bohemianan infidelI hear somebody say. Almost one might

be persuaded by such facts as theseand they are everyday facts, not fancyto retort: what more natural?

With every hand raised against him in the old land and the new, in the land of his hopedfor 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

landlordrobbery, 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.

11. 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

1. 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 pretense, 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 superfluou s to tell you, is what he is there

2. 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. Natu ral 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 defenseless Black the lowest leve l 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,

3. 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 industri al 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 ye t 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 timesthe 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 so

cial top and bottom to itthe top in the tenements on the line of Seventh Avenue as far north as

Thirtysecond 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. Today

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 Ninetyninth Street "flat" is

a very different individual from the "nigger" his predecessor count ed in the blackandtan 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.

4. 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 leve l with what was asked for the same number and size of

rooms in the average tenement, were in the case of tumbledown rookeries in which no one else would live,

and were always coupled with the condition that the landlord should "make no repairs." It can r eadily 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 tha t 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

5. 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 des troy 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 fourstory tenement on our books on Thirtyth ird Street, between

Sixth and Seventh Avenues, with four rooms per floora 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 co nsequence, the

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 "

6. An increased rental of $17 per month, or $204 a year, and an advance of nearly thirteen and onehalf per

7. 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 fo r 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 downtown tenements, of a mo vement 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 occasio n 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 so rt of henladder that went by the name of stairs. For these she paid ten dollars a

month out of her hardearned wages as a scrubwoman. 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 ap peared, 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 moneyshe owes Mr. (her husband, the agent) a

lot of rent." Needless to sta te 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" a nd 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

8. Poverty, abuse, and injustice alike the negro accepts with imperturbable cheerfulness. His philosophy is of

the kind that has no room for repining. Whether he lives in an Eighth Ward barrack or in a tenement with a

brownstone fron t 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 gailycolored prints of his beloved "Abe Li nkum," 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 how ls 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

holidaymakers would turn a pessimist black with wrath. The negro's great ambition is to rise in the social

scale t o 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 clawhammer coat and white tie of a waiter in a

firstclass summer hotel, with the chance of t aking 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, preeminently his

cakewalks, 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 faul ts 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 newfound citizenship. He is at least as

easily moulded for good as for evil. His churc hes 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 assistanc e 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

9. 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 fortuneteller and the policy shop, closely

allied frauds always, the wages of many a hard day's work are wa sted 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 number s,

41144, come out on the slips of the alleged daily drawings, that are supposed to be held insome faroff

Western town, intense excitement reigns in Thompson Street and along the Avenue, where someone is

always the winner. An immense impetus is given t hen 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 t o the backer's

10. 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 Dot seem to have wrought any change for the better. The borderland

where the white and black races meet in common debauch, the aptlynamed blackandtan saloon, has never

been debatable ground from a moral standpoint. It has alwa ys 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 lawbreakers and all the human wrecks

within reach. When a fight breaks out during the dance a dozen razors are handy in as many bootlegs, and

there is always a job for the s urgeon 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

bootleg, and on occasion does as much execution with it as both of the others together. More than

threefourths of the business the police have with the col ored people in New York arises in the

11. 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 twentyfive 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 whi ch 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 whiteskinned fellowcitizens, had any right to expect.

1. 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

brownstone 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 doorbell 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

2. With this introduction we shall not seek it long anywhere in the city. Below Houston Street the doorbell

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 wellpaid labor puts its stamp on a tenement even in spite of the open door, and usually soon supplies the

missing bell. Gashouses, slaughterhouses and the docks, that attract the roughest crowds and support the

vilest saloons, invariably form slumcentres. 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 threecent whiskey, or

its counterpoise at the other end of Thirtyninth Street, on the East River, the home of the infamous Rag

Gang. Cherry Street is not "tougher" than Battle Row in East Sixtythird Street, or "the village" at

Twentyninth 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

3. 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 explainedunless 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 slumsbut to be thankfully accepted as the one gleam of hope in an otherwise hopeless desert.

4. But the relief is not great. In the dull content of life bred on the tenementhouse 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 neighborhoodsthe 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

guidewhere live the great body of hardworking 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

clothesposts and lines; underfoot, a desert of brown, hardbaked 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 selfdefence, 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.

Tenementhouses have no aesthetic 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 airshaft 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.

5. 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 garmentsgirls with the

love of youth for beautiful things, with this hard life before themwho 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 censustaker found two thousand men, women, and children, and over, who

6. 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 shantytown and its original

freesoilers 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 backyard. 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, policebeats 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, beercraving 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.

7. With the first hot nights in June police despatches, that record the killing of men and women by rolling off

roofs and windowsills while asleep, announce that the time of greatest suffering among the poor is at hand.

It is in hot weather, when life indoors is wellnigh 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 housetops, 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 fireescape, becomes a bedroom, infinitely preferable to any

the house affords. A cooling shower on such a night is hailed as a heavensent blessing in a hundred

8. 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.

Freshair excursions run daily out of New York on land and water; but despite all efforts the gravediggers

in Calvary work overtime, and little coffins are stacked mountains high on the deck of the Charity

9. Under the most favorable circumstances, an epidemic, which the welltodo 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 deathmaps in the Bureau of Vital Statistics looked as if a black

hand had been laid across those blocks, overshadowing 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,

10. 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 deathrate 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.

11. 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 deathsentence 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

12. 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 pursestrings. 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 truckdriver 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 cashgirl 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 tailend 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 is 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 selfpreservation impels them to make common cause against the common misery.

13. No doubt intemperance bears a large share of the blame for it; judging from the standpoint 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 vicesand 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 n day, thus earning thirtynine cents. Here is a family of eight persons with rent to pay and an

14. 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 waistbands; to tack three pockets, three corners to each; to

put on two stays and eight buttons, and make six buttonholes; to put the buckle on the back strap and sew on

the ticket, all for seven cents." Better off than the "churchgoing 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 downtown cutting out Hamburg edgings at one

dollar and a half a weektwo and a half cents per hour for ten hours of steady labormaking the total

income of the family two dollars and seventy cents per week." Than the Harlem woman, who was "making

abrave effort to support a sick husband and two children by taking in washing at thirtyfive 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.

15. 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 tomorrow that may never

come. When it does come, with failure to pay and the loss of hardearned 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 washerwoman, 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.

16. 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.

17. 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 tenantvoter 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

18. 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 funeralsI know of no better

classification for it than along with the opium habit and similar grievous plagues of mankindis 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 turnout with a free ride thrown in. It is not at all

uncommon to find the hoards of a whole lifetime of hard work and selfdenial 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 isas 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.

19. 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 strucka few more, a few

[1] 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 beerjug had been the bone of contention, brought me to this

house, a ramshackle tenement on the tailend 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 whitewashed prisoncell

seemed a real palace. A heap of old rags, in which the baby slept serenely, served as the common

sleepingbunk of father, mother, and childrentwo bright and pretty girls, singularly out of keeping in their

clean, if coarse, dresses, with their surroundings. The father, a slowgoing, honest English coalheaver,

earned on the average fire 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 pleasantfaced woman, was cheerful, even lighthearted. 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 disappointmentthe one thing there that was yet to know a greater depth of

1. 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 receiveor do not receivewith 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 illsmelling 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 selfimposed task in despair when I had counted one hundred and twentyeight in forty

families. Thirteen I had missed, or not found in. Applying the average for the forty to the whole fiftythree,

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 alleyan inlet rather to a row of rear tenementsthat 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 sin 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

Yorkit figured not long ago in the official reports as "an outandout hogpen"that had a record of one

hundred and two arrests in four years among its four hundred and seventyeight tenants, fiftyseven 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 milkcan in the hallway. They were of the seven good boys and proved

2. 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 shortsighted despotism

of the trades unions has practically closed that avenue to him. Tradeschools, however excellent, cannot

supply the opportunity thus denied him, and at the outset the boy stands condemned by his own to low and

illpaid 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 pigeonhole 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 al] 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 chanceswith 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 elbowroom, 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 pineboard 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

3. 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 downtown public school on this point, and recorded the result: Out of fortyeight 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 horsecar. The street, with its ashbarrels 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 halfgrown, such lads as these

confront the world with the challenge to give them their due, too long withheld, or. Our jails supply the

4. 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

6. "We don't have no clothes to go to church." And indeed his appearance, as he was, in the door of any New

10. "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

11. 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 stepmother

"because she had five of her own and could not afford to keep her," could not remember ever having been in

church or Sundayschool, 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 homeheathen that

are growing up in New York's streets today, while tenderhearted men and women are busying themselves

with the socks and the hereafter of wellfed 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.

12. By those who lay flattering unction to their souls in the knowledge that today 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 thirtyseven 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 lodginghouses, 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

twentyfive thousand helpless children, and has convicted nearly sixteen thousand wretches of childbeating

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

13. 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 today; 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 ruinis building day by daymay be measured by such results as those quoted above in the

1. 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 twentyfive 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 richlydressed foundlings that are dished up in the newspapers at intervals are pure

fiction. Not one instance of even a welldressed infant having been picked up in the streets is on record. They

come in rags, a newspaper often the only wrap, semioccasionally 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

2. 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 dogdays 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 storybooks 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

uptown lot. But many do not live to be officially registered as a charge upon the county. Seventytwo 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,

3. Most of the foundlings come from the East Side, where they are left by young mothers without

weddingrings 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 bedtick

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 Sixtyeighth 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 selfdefence 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 twentyone 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 deathrate 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 deathrate of Gotham Court in the cholera scourge.

4. 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 nursemothers, 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 homefeeling 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 faraway, unknown

5. An infinitely more fiendish, if to surface appearances less deliberate, plan of childmurder than desertion

has flourished in New York for years under the title of babyfarming. 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 babyfarms. 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. "Babyfarms,"

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

babyfarms 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 pretense of adoptionfor 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 [1] of a baby a week old (Baby "Blue Eyes")

that was offered for saleadoption, the dealer called itin a newspaper. The agent bought it after some

haggling for a dollar, and arrested the woman slavetrader; but the law was powerless to punish her for her

crime. Twelve unfortunate women awaiting dishonored motherhood were found in her house.

6. 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 stepchild. 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 twentyfive 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

7. 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 topheavy, 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 everincreasing measure. Black as the cloud is it has a silver lining, bright with promise. New

York is today a hundredfold cleaner, better, purer, city than it was even ten years ago.

8. Two powerful agents that were among the pioneers in this work of moral and physical regeneration stand

in Paradise Park today 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

nurseryschool 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 nightgowns 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.

[1] Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, Case 42,028, May 16, 1889.

1. 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' Lodginghouse 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.

2. 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 selfreliance, 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.

3. 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 twentyfour 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 ventholes that let out the heat and steam from the underground pressrooms

with their noise and clatter, and in summer playing craps and 711 on the curb for their hardearned 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 fleetfooted 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 boilerroom in the subcellar 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 nightthere was no other way of getting

thereand, landing light 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 shoreend of one

of the East River banana docks, where they had fitted up a regular clubroom that was shared by thirty or

4. 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 outhouse, or a

dugout in a haybarge 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

lodginghouses, and with some difficulty persuaded the boys that their charity was no "pious dodge" to trap

them into a treasonable "Sundayschool racket," its managers overheard a laughable discussion among the

boys in their unwontedly comfortable beds perhaps the first some of them had ever slept inas to the

relative merits of the different styles of their everyday berths. Preferences were divided between the

steamgrating and a sandbox; but the weight of the evidence was decided to be in favor of the sandbox,

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.

5. 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 fear 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 twelveyearold 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 and curses for breakfast, dinner, and supper; all these are recruiting agents

6. "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

7. 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 babywaif, the Children's Aid Society is to the homeless boy at

this real turningpoint in his career. The good it has done cannot easily be overestimated. Its

lodginghouses, 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 lodginghouse 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

8. 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 lodginghouse. 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. Selfhelp is its very keynote, 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

bootblack's kit, or an armful of papers, if he is known or vouched for; but every cent is changed 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 selfhelp, 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.

9. 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 tencent 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 lodginghouses are

crowded. In summer the towpath and the country attract their share of the bigger boys. The "Sundayschool

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.

10. I tried one night, not with the best of success I confess, to photograph the boys in their washroom, 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."

12. "No, b'gosh!" said he, lapsing suddenly from grace under the provocation, "them kids ain't got no sense,

13. 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

lodginghouses 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

lockboxes that are emptied for their benefit once a month. Besides these, the Society has established and

operates in the tenement districts twentyone industrial schools, coordinate with the public schools in

authority, for the children of the poor who cannot find room in the city's schoolhouses, or are too ragged to

go there; two free readingrooms, a dressmaking and typewriting school and a laundry for the instruction of

girls; a sickchildren's mission in the city and two on the seashore, where poor mothers may take their

babies; a cottage by the sea for crippled girls, and a brush factory for crippled boys in Fortyfourth 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.

14. 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 lodginghouses and the schools are drawn the battalions of young emigrants that

go every year to homes in the Far West, to grow up selfsupporting 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 ironbound 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 laud in the fertile West, where they would

never be wanting for a crust. Alas ! for the bestlaid 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 Paints. 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."

15. Mrs. Astor set an example during her noble and useful life in gathering every year a company of homeless

boys fromthe streets and sending them to good homes, with decent clothes on their backsshe had sent out

no less than thirteen hundred when she died, and left funds to carry on her workthat has been followed by

many who, like her, had the means and the heart for such a labor of love. Most of the lodginghouses and

schoolbuildings 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 moneygetting 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' lodginghouse in Thirtyfifth Street. Its

owner was at that moment busy with a surgeon making a census of the crippled lads in the brushshop, the

most miserable of all the Society's charges, as a preliminary to fitting them out with artificial limbs.

16. Farther uptown than any reared by the Children's Aid Society, in Sixtyseventh Street, stands a

lodginghouse 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 twentythree 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, [1] 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

1. WHERE God builds a church the devil builds next doora 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 today. 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

2. 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 tenementhouse 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

streetcrossing, not already so occupied, should thenceforward be licensed for rumselling. 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 readingroom, a cheerful coffeehouse, 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

divekeepers, 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.

3. 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 39,390 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 sixtythree thousand children under five years of age,

lived below that line. Below it, also, were 234 of the cheap lodginghouses 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

twentyseven per cent. of the whole number of arrests for the year. The Eleventh Precinct, that has the

greatest and the poorest crowds of allit is the Tenth Wardand harbored onethird 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 barrooms, in a neighborhood that lately resounded

4. 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 barrooms 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 Eat" in the region of Hell's Kitchen

threecent 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 BlackandTan dives

and dancinghells 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 stalebeer dives, is done through a

sidedoor 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

5. 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 downtown "morgues" that make

the lowest degradation of tramphumanity 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 emptyhanded, 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 tenementhouse 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

6. 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 criminalsit 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

1. 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 balltossers, and there is no room in the backyard. 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

2. Along the waterfronts, in the holes of the dockrats, 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 orders 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 tenementhouse 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 Americanborn 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.

3. 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 Harlemthe

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 supposedand 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.

4. From all this it might be inferred that the New York tough is a very fierce individual, of indomitable

courage and naturally as bloodthirsty 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 pennydreadfuls he can beg, borrow, or

stealand there is never any lack of themand 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. Drank and

foulmouthed, 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, [1] he will resent as an intolerable insult the imputation

that he is "no gentleman." Fighting his battles with the coward's weapons, the brassknuckles and the deadly

sandbag, or with brickbats 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 makeup 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 twinbrother 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 firstclass show, shortly to be followed by that

acme of tenementlife 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

5. The crime that made McGloin famous was the cowardly murder of an unarmed saloonkeeper who came

upon the gang while it was sacking his barroom 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

halfgrown 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

copperbottom washboilers 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 timehe is reasonably certain of itget 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 Thirtyseventh 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 slaughterhouses 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 cigarettepictures, 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

6. 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

7. 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 Thirtyninth 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 sweethearts are in the fight to a man and

need their help. Chimneytops form the staple of ammunition then, and stacks of loose brick and

pavingstones, 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 wholeskinned, 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 gangdistricts. 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 ninetynine cases out

8. 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 nightstick. They have their

"clubrooms" 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 earmark of nightly symposiums, "canrackets" 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. a instance

came under my notice in which valuable property had been wellnigh 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 brickwall 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

9. 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, [2] 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 onequarter 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 Fortyninth

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."

10. 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

masterspirit 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 bestknown 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 cornergroggeries 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 outcrydead men tell no tales.

"Floaters" come ashore every now and then with pockets turned inside out, not always evidence of a

postmortem inspection by dockrats. Police patrol the rivers as well as the shore on constant lookout 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

11. 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 boatload 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

12. In spite of influence and protection, the tough reaches eventually the end of his rope. Occasionallynot

too oftenthere 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 heroworship of his old associates as au 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 goodwill, 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.

[1] 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 Tenementhouse 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

[2] "The percentage of foreignborn 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.

1. 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 toilworn lives of New York's workingwomen.

3. 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 selfmurder: "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

4. 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 wageearners, 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 cashsales amounting to $167 in a

single day, while the receipts of a fifteendollar male clerk in the same department footed up only $195; 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 timekeeper at the end of the year. In one

instance they amounted to $3,000, and "the superintendent was heard to charge the timekeeper 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

5. Cashgirls 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

6. These facts give a slight idea of the hardships and the poor pay of a business that notoriously absorbs

childlabor. The girls are sent to the store before they have fairly entered their teens, because the money they

tan 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 foul teen. 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

saloonkeepers 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

7. 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 sewinggirls came in seeking domestic service, so that

they might get enough to eat. They had been only halffed for some time, and starvation had driven them to

the one door at which the pride of the Americanborn girl will not permit her to knock, though poverty be the

8. 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 needlewomen. The sweater of the East Side has

appropriated the flannel shirt. He turns them out today at fortyfive cents a dozen, paying his Jewish workers

from twenty to thirtyfive 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 today 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 pinmoney sets the rate of wages for thousands of poor sewinggirls in New York. The average

earnings of the worker on underwear today 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

9. Calico wrappers at a dollar and a half a dozenthe 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 lowwater

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 lifework is with the poor, of a widow with two little children she found at

work in an East Side attic, making paperbags. Her father, she told the doctor, had made good wages at it;

but she received only five cents for six hundred of the little threecornered bags, and her fingers had to be

very swift and handle the pastebrush very deftly to bring her earnings up to twentyfive 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

10. I have aimed to set down a few dry facts merely. They carry their own comment. Back of the shop with

its weary, grinding toilthe home in the tenement, of which it was said in a report of the State Labor

Bureau: "Decency and womanly reserve cannot be maintained therewhat 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

oat, 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

poorhouse. And the proud spirits of the sisters, helpless now, quailed at the outlook.

11. 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 eyeswho 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

12. To the everlasting credit of New York's workinggirl 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 heed 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

1. 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 everyday experience that, allowing for those who have died,

moved away, or become for the time being at least selfsupporting, eightyfive 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

2. That is, nearly six and a half per cent. of all were utterly helplessorphans, cripples, or the very aged;

nearly onefourth 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 onesixth were frauds, professional beggars, training their children to

follow in their footstepsa 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.

3. 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 ninetynine 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

dwellinghouse 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 almsseekers. They might almost as safely harbor the

smallpox. That scourge is not more contagious than the almsseeker'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

4. 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 tenementhouse 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.

5. 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. Be has not the pluck to rob even a drunken man. His highest flights take in at most

an unguarded clothesline, 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 kindher kind, rather, in this case:

the beggar was a womancame 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 pursestrings 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, bankbooks 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

6. 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 trampbeggar 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

7. 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

workno 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.

8. 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 schoolmaster 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

9. 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 tenderhearted 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.

10. 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

11. 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 selfsupport: no work, nothing to eat.

12. The message came from one of the Health Department's summer doctors, last July, to the King's

Daughters' Tenementhouse 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 orangebox 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

selfrespect and selfdependence. The experience of the Charity Organization Society in raising, in eight

tears, 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 welldirected 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 causethe tenement that was

built for "a class of whom nothing was expected," and which has come fully up to the expectation.

Tenementhouse 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

1. 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!"

2. Over on the islands that lie strung along the river and far up the Sound the Nether Half hides its deformity,

except on showdays, 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 bale 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 convictband 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 dinnertable 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 saloonsigns 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,

3. This workhouse comes next, with the brokendown hordes from the dives, the lodginghouses, and the

tramps' nests, the "hellbox" [1] rather than the repairshop 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 sweetsmelling box. The work which two score of hired men could do well is

4. Rows of old women, some smoking stumpy, black claypipes, 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

beanpole staffs. They are a "growlergang" 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

5. "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

6. 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,

7. 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 oldcountry 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 deathbed, '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.

8. 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

hundredsbeyond 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 babycarriage and a circuschariot. One crazy woman

is strapped in the seat; forty tug at the rope to which they are securely bound. This is the "chaingang," 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 merrygoround 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"

11. 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, overworked 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 hundredfold, 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." [2] 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 scotfree. These 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 wouldbe 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 muralist 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 sourcesis necessarily prophylactic, nutritive, educational. On these islands there are no flexible

twigs, only gnarled, blasted, blighted trunks, insensible to moral or social influences."

12. 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

13. The alcoholic cells in Bellevue Hospital are a waystation 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

onefourth 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 0 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

[1] In printingoffices the broken, wornout, and useless type is thrown into the "hellbox," to be recast at

[2] 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, l886.

1. 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 wellfed teams have

no thought for the morrow; they know hunger only by name, and ride down to spend in an hours 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 hearththen he sprang into the throng and

2. The man was arrested, of course, and locked up. Today he is probably in a madhouse, forgotten. And the

carriages roll by to and from the big stores with their gay throng of shoppers. The world forgets easily, too

3. 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." [1]

They represented one solution of the problem of ignorant poverty versus ignorant wealth that has come down

to us unsolved, the dangercry of which we have lately heard in the shout that never should have been raised

on American soilthe shout of ''the masses against the classes"the solution of violence.

4. There is another solution, that of justice. The choice is between the two. Which shall it be?

5. "Well!" say some wellmeaning 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 brownstone

6. 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 tenementhouse 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 deathrate of these houses has of late been brought below the general deathrate 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 oldthere is some hope in that; the other, that the whole strain of

tenementhouse 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 selfpreservation. 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?

7. 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 wellmeaning, but uninstructed, who are always in the majority.

8. 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 illspent 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 w those

who have all the advantages of discriminating education, is good cause for disquietude. In it a keen foresight

9. Two years ago a great meeting was held at Chickening HallI have spoken of it beforea 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 keynote of

the situation so boldly struck as has been done by a few farseeing 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 today 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.

10. "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 tenementhouse 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

[1] Fortyfourth Annual Report of the Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor. 1887.

1. IN twenty years what has been done in New York to solve the tenementhouse problem?

2. 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 tenementsthe dearth

of water in the hot summer dayswill also have been remedied, and a long step taken toward the moral and

3. 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 deathtrap 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 fellowman by actual violence. Clearly, it is a matter of

4. In spite of this, the landlord has done his share; chiefly perhaps by yieldingnot always

gracefullywhen 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 pool; 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 bestconceived enterprises, backed by abundant capital and goodwill, have been wrecked on this rock.

Sentiment, having prompted the effort, forgot to stand aside and let business make it.

5. 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 chance, 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 sixstory carriage factory with business going on on every floor, as if it had been there for years

6. This same "Big Flat" furnished a good illustration of why some wellmeant 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 hotbed of thieves and peacebreakers, 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.

7. 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 wellknown 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 it out

his houses with stationary tabs, sanitary plumbing, woodclosets, 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 woodclosets 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 woodclosets not a trace was left. The

philanthropist was ever after a firm believer in the total depravity of tenementhouse 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 brownstone trimmings and gewgaws. The

result was to tempt a lot of the wellhoused 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

8. 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 neighborhoodforthwith

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

9. This faculty, as inherent in the problem itselfthe prodigious increase of the tenementhouse population

that goes on without cessation, and its consequent greater crowdingis 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 halfmillion 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. Today 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 twentyfive. In 1880 it was one in four and onehalf, 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.

10. Workingmen, in New York at all events, will live near their work, no matter at what sacrifice of

comfortone 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.

11. The quick change of economic conditions in the city that often outpaces all plans of relief, rendering

useless today what met the demands of the situation well enough yesterday, is another cause of perplexity.

A common obstacle alsoI am inclined to think quite as common as in Ireland, though we hear less of it in

the newspaperis 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. Be 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 fed from across

the sea to avoid being crushed by his heel there have groaned under it here, scarcely profiting by the

exchange. Sometimesit can hardly be said in extenuationthe 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

12. 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 band, 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

13. 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 today.

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

homelife. 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 tenementhouse 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 airshaft 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, mildmannered, 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 selfrespect 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.

14. 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 y ears 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.

15. 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 welltodo have been brought closer together in an everyday 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

2. I. That we have a tremendous, ever swelling crowd of wageearners which it is our business to house

4. III. That it must be so housed here for the present, and for a long time to come, all schemes of suburban

5. IV. That it pays high enough rents to entitle it to be so housed, as a right.

6. 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 Tenementhouse Commission).

7. VI. That the security of the one no less than of the other half demands, on sanitary, moral, and economic

8. VII. That it will pay to do it. As an investment, I mean, and in hard cash. This I shall immediately proceed

9. VIII. That the tenement has come to stay, and must itself be the solution of the problem with which it

10. 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

starknaked children who had apparently never made the acquaintance of a washtub. That was a landlord's

11. 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 overcrowdingif it gets rid of them at allat 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

16. Private enterpriseconscience, to put it in the category of duties, where it belongsmust 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 tile worst plaguespots. 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

tenementhouses. 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 he licensed, as now the lodginghouses, 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

tenementhouse 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

17. 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 soulless corporations that oppose all their great influence to the efforts of the law in behalf

18. 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

gears sue has had to give very little time to personal superintendence, and the caretaker 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 flowerbeds 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 fortyfive 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

threequarters 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

cornerstore, now occupied by a butcher, as a saloon; or her income from it might have been considerably

19. 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

20. 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 thus given is too apt to be wasted along with the

21. Even when it comes to the third of the ways I spoke of as effective in dealing with the tenementhouse

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 uphill 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

22. From the managers of the two bestknown experiments in model tenement building in the city, the

Improved Dwellings Association and the Tenementhouse Building Company, I have letters dated last

August, declaring their enterprises eminently successful There is Do 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

Philadelphiaviz., that they must live on Manhattan Island, where the land is too costly for small

housesis 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 today. 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 x 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 superintendencethe first condition of successful

23. The Improved Dwellings Association put up its block of thirteen houses in East Seventysecond 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, ashchutes, 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.

24. "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 fireescapes 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 tenementhouse problem. I have no doubt that the experiment could be tried today 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

25. 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 ashchutes 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 profitsharers on

a plan of rent insurance, under which all earnings above four per cent. would be put to the credit of the

26. 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,

as justly 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

tenementhouse 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 daylaborers and sewingwomen in his houses is greater than in any of the London model

27. 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 frontdoor. The common hall, with all that it stands for,

has disappeared. The fireproof stairs are outside the house, a perfect fireescape. Each tenant has his own

scullery and ashflue. There are no airshafts, 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 playground 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

28. 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.

29. 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

30. 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 today,

31. "Think ye that building shall endure Which shelters the noble and crushes the poor?"