CHAPTER XX

IN THE GREAT CITY OF NEW YORK

"_The day-laborer is reckoned as standing at the foot of the social scale. Yet he is saturated with the laws of the world._" --EMERSON.

When my investigations on the Pacific coast were over I felt that the strenuous part of my work,--that is the work of coming down to the personal level of destitute men,--was over. But from the South came such an appeal that I was prompted to continue my study at first hand for another year. So late in the summer of 1910, I found myself, a penniless man again, drifting along the docks on the west side of New York, seeking work as a longshoreman.

I was unsuccessful until about 10 A. M. Then a flag was run up at pier forty-three indicating that a fruit ship from the south was docked. Just then a young man hurrying along asked, as he passed me, "Are you looking for work?" I answered in the affirmative.

"Hurry along then and we will get in on the job."

Running breathlessly we reached the dock. There were two hundred ahead of us. After an hour of jostling, pushing, crowding and clashing with upraised hands we succeeded in getting near enough to the distributor to arrest his attention long enough to receive a work-check which entitled us to work at the wage scale of twenty-five cents an hour.

I noticed among the workers as we continually passed and re-passed one another, a pale, slim young man. He had a hectic flush on his cheeks and wore colored eye-glasses. The work was extremely laborious, so much so that, after working approximately an hour and being unaccustomed to such work, I began to tremble and to have frequent sensations of dizziness. I realized that I must desist, so cashed in, receiving twenty-five cents for my work. Just ahead of me, cashing in also, was the pale young man, whose whole frame seemed to shake involuntarily, while the flush on his cheeks had turned purple. It was evident that he also had no strength left to continue the work. As we left the pier and strolled down West Street to Battery Park, he told me his story:

"I need money bad, but I couldn't do that work. I am a Swiss, a watchmaker by trade, but because of my failing eyesight a specialist declared I must absolutely change my occupation or go blind. What can I do? I am fitted for nothing but my trade. While struggling for a comfortable existence for myself and young wife my health failed. I feel that the only hope of regaining it is an absolute change of climate. I have a friend in Texas who writes me of the opportunity offered to the truck gardener there, but it takes money to go and it takes money to establish yourself when you reach there. You see I have no money. I believe, even here in New York State, if I could have an out-door, country life, I would speedily get well. I am living with my sister in Brooklyn. She is poor, also, but it is a home. I suppose I might start out and work for enough to eat on my way, and steal my passage to some health-giving climate. I may eventually be forced to do this. But even if the railroads had not created State laws making it a criminal offense in all States to travel that way, I could not go now."

He showed me a letter from the Johnsbury State Sanitarium for the Insane he had received that morning, stating that his wife was no better. She was laboring under an hallucination, demanding continually that mass be said for her. Her little babe was expected in about a week, and it was expected of him as soon as possible to send clothing for it.

I sat and pondered for awhile, looking far out to the Statue of Liberty Enlightening the World. Passing time had pierced it full of holes, letting the daylight through. I left the young man, and a little later was strolling around the docks on the East Side. Finally I came to Wall Street. Here at the entrance of this street I came upon the quartermaster's department of the United States Army. Over the door was the Coat of Arms,--the Eagle for Uncle Sam, the Sword for Defense, the Key for Security. Walking about half the length of Wall Street, I came to the great sub-treasury of the United States, and directly across the street, almost in hand-shaking distance, the powerful banking concern of J. Pierpont Morgan & Co. Going on, I came to the other end of this world-renowned street where stands Old Trinity. I was weary beyond words to express. So I sat down on the steps to rest. Presently, high up in its tower, the chimes began to ring. A little later, from within the church rang out an old familiar hymn, one stanza of which seemed peculiarly appropriate.

"What num'rous crimes increasing rise Through this apostate isle! What land so favored of the skies, And yet, what land so vile!"

"Good heavens!" I said to myself, "what ails that old bell ringer? Is he stone deaf or gone mad? Is there not someone to arrest him?" I knew how useless it would be to try to find that someone, for those with the will to do so were in Europe, or in Newport, or up the Hudson, or in the Adirondacks. As I took my weary way up Broadway, I heard in every step on the pavement the familiar melody, familiar words:--

"What land so favored of the skies, And yet, what land so vile!"

Leaving Broadway I turned into a large "scoop joint" (saloon). In the corner where the free lunch was served a large brindle bull-dog was chained near a big stack of bread. I realized that I was on the Bowery. A little further up the street, just as I was passing a door-way, a man with a bundle came rolling down the stairs. From the sound of a voice above I knew he had been forcefully thrown out. He was about fifty years of age, almost helpless from the effects of alcohol or some other poison. Only slightly bruised, he regained his feet, but was hopelessly unable to gather his effects. His bundle had burst open and the contents were scattered about promiscuously. His helpless condition attracted the attention of the many passers-by and a group soon gathered to watch his futile efforts to regain his lost possessions. It was a sight too sad to be amusing. Suddenly a workingman stepped forward, gathered the belongings together, and fastened them securely. In the dull dazed face of the abandoned man there was a look of deepest gratitude. As his new friend had gathered up his belongings a small book with an inscription in gold letters fell from among them. As he held up the book I, too, could read the title: _The New Testament_. That poor unfortunate impressed me as being as great as the greatest man that ever lived, _for he had tried_.

Through this great human funnel, the Bowery (and it is not the only one in New York through which pours the sin, the shame, the disease and the disgrace of this great city), I wandered on. Seeing a crowd gathered on the pavement in one place, I stopped and saw lying prone upon her face, a wretched creature whose skirt had fallen from her body. She lay there nude, defenseless, uncovered to the view of the morbid throng. The unfortunate, though helpless, was conscious of her shame, and was making futile efforts to hide her disgrace. Just then there happened along a good Samaritan, who, stepping through the crowd, took from his shoulders a blue cotton jumper and covered this wreck of womanhood. Turning to the gaping bystanders, he angrily heaped upon them so scathing a rebuke that with flushed faces and hanging heads they stole away. He asked of some women who stood near by if they would shield the woman until the arrival of an ambulance. One of them kindly consented to do so. I turned away sick at heart for I knew the pathetic finish, that the only open door New York held for this unfortunate one was a prison door.

As I went along, I saw again Old Trinity with its stained glass windows, its old burying ground, worth millions, where the dead have rested for two hundred years, and I thought: "After all, it was the Bowery that revealed to me to-day '_the golden rule of Christ_,' which alone can bring '_the golden rule of man_.'"

With the vanishing of the sunshine and shadows which all day long had been playing in and about Union Square--whose bits of green lawn, sparkling fountains, and many settees welcome the weary and heavy laden, for a little time at least, and invite rest,--came the myriad lights of the great city which follow the active day of toil and care. At evening I found myself resting there. I had taken a seat beside a white-haired, soft-spoken, slightly-bent man, clothed in a discolored suit, badly worn shoes and tattered hat,--a man who seemingly had received all the blows and hardships our tough old world can give. Indifferently I drew him casually into conversation. The information I gained was taken out of the crucible of a pathetic life, and it revealed a story which may be summed up in a few words: Youth, hope, health, success, love, happiness, reverses, crosses, trials, temptations, error, ruin, impaired health, old age, discouragement,--no, not entirely. He still had left a spark of courage. _He still believed in himself._ He spoke of the detriment of his physical weakness, caused by a State institution (I knew it was a prison) into which he was forced; of the prejudice against the man a little beyond middle life who was looking for work; of the past that stood as a barrier between him and an ability to re-establish himself in society. Yet he hopefully added, "I have a job now at seven dollars a week and my board. I shall be able to get the decent clothes so essential in finding better work, with better pay." When he realized that I was apparently in a worse position than himself, for I seemed both workless and penniless, we talked of our mutual vicissitudes. He referred me to the Municipal Lodging House of New York, declaring he had found it both a refuge and a salvation at a time when it almost seemed to him that life meant utter abandonment, even to self-destruction.

I did not go to that beautiful home that night, but I stood instead in the "Bread Line" on the northwest corner of Broadway and Twelfth Street. It was ten o'clock, and although the bread was not to be given out to the starving poor of the city until midnight, a crowd had already begun to collect in front of Old Grace Church, the wealth of which is said to be almost fabulous. Extending up this street, long before the hour of distribution began, was a line in which I counted five hundred men. There were no women among them. There was no jest or laughter. They seemed as mute as "dumb driven cattle." Just at midnight, after the line had been standing several hours, two men appeared with the bread. There was a sudden rush across the street to be the first in line. A police rule seemed to be in force to the effect that no one was allowed to stand on that side of the street until the hour arrived for giving the bread away. After this long wait, my share of this left-over bread was a piece weighing just four ounces. When I remembered that during the throes of that long and bitter winter this one bread line (New York has several) grew from five hundred to two thousand men, the blazing cross which I could see from the high church tower became "the handwriting on the wall."

Should you ask me why these men do not seek shelter in New York's Municipal Home, I could tell you in a few words. Notwithstanding the generous and hospitable character of the institution, it is usually crowded to overflowing.

* * * * *

While studying the character and the aspirations of the honest unemployed in all parts of the country, I found in most of them the desire, the longing for country life. Even the hardened frequenter of saloons and other vicious places seemed anxious to change his environment. They all recognized this to be of great benefit in starting life anew, and in trying to become useful members of society. I found many had gone to the country. Many more desired to go up the Hudson River to work on the farms, in the fruit orchards and the open fields. I determined to follow them and see what it all meant.

So the following day found me again one of that army to whom society is inclined, in fact is fond of referring to, as "men who won't work,"--seeking an existence. I met a great many who, like myself, were looking for work. But, unlike me (for I had money) some were starving, some were ill. Many were crippled from much walking, several showed me blisters on their ankles and feet as large as a twenty-five cent piece. I found work for one of my English tongue exceedingly difficult to obtain. At Tarrytown, I asked for work at an enormous estate with a national reputation. At this time they were employing three hundred men, all Italians. There was no work for me. They had all the help they needed. When I asked for the privilege of working for my dinner, the foreman looked austerely at me and answered, indirectly, "You understand if you did work here you would receive your pay but once a month."

"What is the pay?" I asked.

"A dollar and seventy-five cents a day, and you board yourself."

Those Italian workmen were walking several miles a day to and from work for that wage. I heard among them numerous complaints. I wondered why. In the land of the Comorra, on the drive from Sorrento to Pompeii, I had seen these same men in harness, hitched to wagons, hauling loads of stone like beasts of burden.

Someone told me if I wanted farm work I must travel further back in the country, which I did. I was not successful in finding it until the morning of the second day. Just over a stone wall I saw five men at work picking cucumbers for pickles. A little way off stood a very large, beautiful farm house. I was right when I drew the conclusion that the owner was a wealthy old farmer. He was holding his farm at a fabulous sum, believing he would receive it from a certain land owner who would eventually buy at any price. Leaping the wall I confronted the farmer, who needed me exceedingly at one dollar a day and board,--I supposed for not more than ten hours' work, but asked no questions. I soon discovered that beside the old man, my field companions were the old man's son and their hired men. No one spoke. Noiselessly and silently we worked, carrying the pickles in baskets on our shoulders, as fast as we gathered them, into a shed, where we emptied them into barrels. It rained at intervals all day, but that made no difference. We worked on. The mud and wet ground soaked our shoes. The rough basket, in constant contact with my shoulder, wore a hole through my jumper, which was a serious consideration when I reflected on my day's pay.

At noon we were called to dinner. After standing what seemed an interminable time to a hungry man who for half a day had picked cucumbers out on the wet ground, beneath dripping trees, we were allowed to go in to dinner. In a rough outer room there was portioned out to each of the four hired men a bowl of tea, a tin plate containing vegetables and a small piece of meat. We were fed, about as the dog was fed, except that we sat at a table. Not one of my three fellow-workers had yet spoken to me. Turning to the one on my right I smiled and made some off-hand remark about the tough meat, which just at that moment he seemed to be struggling with. He smiled back but made no reply. I looked across the table at the slim, black eyed, busy fellow opposite me and made some non-consequential remark. He grinned with a little more accent than my right hand man. I then spoke to the man on my left, who was an old man of three score years and ten. He had his face very close to his plate and did not raise his head. I then discovered that one of the men was a Hun, the other a Pole. Neither could speak or understand my language, and the old man, a Dutchman, was stone deaf. This was about the most convivial dinner party I had ever attended. The afternoon was about as jovial as the dinner, and was augmented by more showers and a big lot of pickles. Did you ever pick pickles? If not, don't do it, at least not for one dollar a day, unless you must. How your back aches from continual stooping! Your fingers, black, bruised, and sore from the tiny, prickly cucumber points, drive a fellow to saying things he would not dare to say before his dad.

At four o'clock the farmer left, to haul the pickles to the pickle factory. At five o'clock the Dutchman and the Pole went in to milk. These men were working by the month, each receiving fifteen dollars a month. On this farm many cows were milked. At six o'clock the son quit, which made little difference, as he spent most of his time in the shed. As he was leaving I said, "Is it time to quit?" He answered decidedly, "No, I'll tell you when to quit." And so the Austrian and I worked on. The son had mounted his motorcycle and flashed by us like a spark from a trolley. The Hun followed him with an intense look which seemed to say: "When I get my American farm I, too, shall have one."

It was getting dark, and still no call to stop work. If I had known only two words of Slavic it would have been a relief. But I did not. So I did the next best thing. I expressed my feelings by throwing my basket as far as I could send it across the field and started toward the house. The Hun looked amazed. As I drew near, far up in the house somewhere, to the accompaniment of a tinkling piano, one of the old farmer's daughters was singing in a voice absolutely devoid of tune, "I want to go to Heaven right away." I hoped she would. Just then the son rode up on his spinning wheel and asked, "What did you quit for?" I replied, "I came up for a lantern."

He then called the Hun. Our _carte du jour_ for supper was a duplicate of the dinner, only it was stone cold. We plebs slept in an oppressive attic room. We were called at three A. M. to get up and go to milking. Not being a regular man, I supposed I was not included in the call, although I noticed the Hun responded. After my fellow-workers left I turned over for a much-needed, final rest, but just as I was dozing into sleep I heard the old farmer puffing up the stairs.

"Hey, you fellow," he called, "get up there and get out and help those fellers milk."

"All right," I responded. I did get up and out, but it was to the woodshed where my bundle lay, and while I was putting it together the old man passed hurriedly by the window again, headed for the garret stairs with the look of Cain on his face, to see why I still lingered. I heard the heavy tread on the stairs, as I was passing out across the lawn toward the nearest town. Yes, there was one dollar due me, but I sent word back to one of these, my proletaire brothers, that he could have it, and I suggested that it might be well spent toward buying a talking machine to be used while they dined at that bountiful, hilarious table, at the pickle farm.