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.”