Podcasts about other half lives

On this week's episode of Out of Office: A Travel Podcast, Ryan chats with Greg Young, one half of the creative team behind the New York City history podcast “The Bowery Boys”—one of Kiernan and Ryan's absolute favorites. Greg talks to us about the new spinoff podcast “The Gilded Gentleman” and where folks can explore the legacy of the Gilded Age around New York City and in Newport, Rhode Island. Things we talked about in today's episode: Bowery Boys Podcast https://www.boweryboyshistory.com/ The Gilded Gentleman Podcast https://thegildedgentleman.com/ The Gilded Age https://www.hbo.com/the-gilded-age 5th Avenue Millionaire's Row https://untappedcities.com/2021/10/18/the-gilded-age-5th-avenue-mansions-of-millionaires-row/?displayall=true The Frick Collection https://www.frick.org/  The Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum https://www.cooperhewitt.org/  The Gilded Age Filming Locations https://www.housebeautiful.com/design-inspiration/a38820056/the-gilded-age-hbo-filming-locations-historic-house-museums/ Newport Mansions  https://www.newportmansions.org/  The Knick https://www.hbomax.com/series/urn:hbo:series:GVyD7qQNv6oKWYQEAAAHj “How The Other Half Lives” book https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/How_the_Other_Half_Lives  The Tenement Museum “Hard Times: 1880s” https://www.tenement.org/tour/hardtimes1880s/ The International Tennis Hall of Fame https://www.halloffameopen.com/tournament-history 

Housing policy in America is inextricably linked with employment opportunities, small business ventures, education access, and a host of other issues that directly impact economic opportunity. Understanding the history of low income housing in America is key to understanding and reimagining housing policy today. On this episode of Hardly Working, I am joined by Howard Husock to discuss his new book, The Poor Side of Town and Why We Need It. The book lays out a history of American housing policy and a thesis on how low-income housing that allows for private ownership can serve as a gateway to upward mobility, rather than the concentrated and intergenerational poverty that characterizes low-income housing today. Husock is a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute where he focuses on urban housing policy, civil society, and municipal government. He has held positions at the Manhattan Institute, the Harvard Kennedy School, and has worked as Emmy-winning documentary filmmaker. We discuss the history of low income residencies in America, the loss of social capital in low income neighborhoods, how much of this is due to public policy interventions, and solutions to rethink housing policy. You can find Howard's book on the AEI website. I hope you enjoy the conversation. Mentioned During the Show https://www.aei.org/research-products/book/the-poor-side-of-town-and-why-we-need-it/ (The Poor Side of Town and Why We Need It) https://spia.princeton.edu/ (Princeton School of Public and International Affairs) https://www.amazon.com/Unheavenly-City-Nature-Future-Crisis/dp/B000K0AZGO (Edward Banfield: The Unheavenly City) https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/How-the-Other-Half-Lives/Jacob-A-Riis/9781625584250 (Jacob Riis: How the Other Half Lives) https://www.econlib.org/library/Topics/College/marketfailures.html (Market Failure) https://www.amazon.com/Modern-Housing-Catherine-Bauer/dp/1517909066 (Catherine Bauser: Modern Housing) https://www.brooklinema.gov/264/Town-Meeting (Brookline, Mass. Town Meeting) https://www.investopedia.com/terms/z/zoning-ordinance.asp#:~:text=A%20zoning%20ordinance%20is%20a,and%20the%20height%20of%20structures. (Zoning) https://www.oregonmetro.gov/urban-growth-boundary-maps (Portland Urban Growth Boundary) https://www.pps.org/article/jjacobs-2 (Jane Jacobs Bio) https://www.amazon.com/Death-Life-Great-American-Cities/dp/067974195X (Jane Jacobs: Death and Life of American Cities) https://www.amazon.com/Economy-Cities-Jane-Jacobs/dp/039470584X#:~:text=the%20Back%20Cover-,%22The%20Economy%20of%20Cities%20is%20an%20astonishing%20book.,should%20prove%20of%20major%20importance.%22&text=New%20York%20Times-,%22This%20book%20is%20radiant%20with%20ideas%20about%20what%20makes%20cities,city%20growth%20affects%20national%20economies.%22 (Jane Jacobs: The Economy of Cities) https://www.amazon.com/Cities-Wealth-Nations-Principles-Economic/dp/0394729110 (Jane Jacobs: Cities and the Wealth of Nations) https://www.smartcitiesdive.com/ex/sustainablecitiescollective/urban-designer-series-robert-moses/54826/ (Robert Moses (housing projects)) https://www.idealist.org/en/days/what-is-a-mutual-aid-network (Mutual aid definition) https://www.deturbanleague.org/ (Detroit Urban League) https://www.banking.senate.gov/imo/media/doc/Husock%20Testimony%204-13-21.pdf (Howard's Senate Banking Committee Testimony) https://scholar.harvard.edu/hendren/publications/effects-exposure-better-neighborhoods-children-new-evidence-moving-opportunity#:~:text=The%20Moving%20to%20Opportunity%20(MTO,administrative%20data%20from%20tax%20returns. (Raj Chetty Moving to Opportunity Study) https://www.hks.harvard.edu/publications/moving-opportunity-and-tranquility-neighborhood-effects-adult-economic-self (Jeff Liebman Moving to Opportunity Study)

Historian Keith Greenwood shares the story of muckraker Jacob Riis and his famous photography examining How the Other Half Lives. Show transcripts are available at https://journalism-history.org/podcast/

If you were a corrupt or incompetent official in 19th century New York City, Philip Merkle was your worst nightmare: an idealistic German immigrant with subpoena power. As city coroner from 1881-1885, he investigated murders, suicides, and gruesome accidents, seeking to right every wrong and improve every aspect of the system he encountered. He was also a champion for social order and progress, founding aid organizations dedicated to advancing his fellow immigrants. Implacable foe of Tammany Hall and Boss Tweed, friend to Teddy Roosevelt and Jacob Riis, Merkle's story is ripe for dramatization and greater renown. We are talking today with Suffolk County Community College librarian Bruce Seger, the man who is shining a light on Merkle and compelling us to take an episode away from Long Island to investigate. Bruce's new book, Matters of Life and Death: The Remarkable Journey of Dr. Philip Merkle, is a fictionalized retelling of the five years of research Bruce put into uncovering this eventful life. Merkle is a distant relative along the Seger family tree and once he started looking, Bruce couldn't believe what he found. Further Research Matters of Life and Death: The Remarkable Journey of Dr. Philip Merkle Bruce Seger New York City Research NYS Historic Newspapers database Brooklyn Daily Eagle New York Municipal Archives collections Related New York City-themed shows The Knick The Alienist Copper Jacob Riis: Revealing "How the Other Half Lives" exhibition from the Library of Congress Dan Sickles Trial: 1859 Freinsheim, Germany

Jacob Riis was famous for his work “How the Other Half Lives.” It exposed the gritty and impoverished underbelly of New York City during the height of the “Gilded Age”.  He has an interesting quote, “It is a dreary old truth that those who would fight for the poor must fight the poor to do it.” In this episode, Drew and Alex dive into the more broad concept that sometimes the disadvantaged vote against their own interests and preservation. They look at how layers like populism, messaging, identity politics, culture, and fear, all can cause people to elect leaders that aren’t in their own interest. They talk about issues like gun deaths, health care, the New Deal, the Southern Strategy, and more. Can ideology or group dynamics be more important to some than self preservation? 

Kyle and Alex are both here and they are pivotal to the plot, Detective Maria is slaying the job, Jim is saucy and protective all wrapped up in one Sherif, and Isabel is experiencing some freakin trauma!!! Today, hosts Aliza and LaRena are diving into Roswell Season Two, Episode Fourteen: How the Other Half Lives!!! For more information, you can find us at roswellhotsauce.com, or on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram @roswellhotsauce. Have a question or just want to share your thoughts? Email us at  roswellhotsauce@gmail.com. We'd love to hear from you!

On this 245th episode of "Marketing Today," host Alan Hart speaks with Mauro Gatti, the chief creative officer at JibJab. Gatti is driven by his love for creativity and a desire to use that creativity to make the world a better place for all living beings that call this planet home. We start our conversation by diving into Gatti's life growing up in Northern Italy, an area full of workaholics, where he began working in his uncle's butcher shop as a 10-year-old boy. Though he grew up in a small town, Gatti believes that "the best part of Italy is the drive between different cities because there are so many different gems" and "driving around is a great way to discover the real soul of Italy." Gatti then discusses his meteoric rise in the creative advertising industry that took him from creating artwork for CDs in Italy to his current position as the chief creative officer for JibJab in Los Angeles, California. "We all have a gift. Maradona had that gift, Michael Angelo had that gift," and Gatti's gift is being a creative person. JibJab believes that "creativity can inspire and mobilize people," an important concept in a year that has brought the world to a halt. Gatti also discusses The Happy Broadcast project in which he does his best to promote the good things that are happening in the world while media outlets seem only to promote the bad. "The challenge is not to erase the past; it's just to create a new present!"   Highlights from this week's "Marketing Today": Mauro grew up in a small town out in the country in Northern Italy, a very different place than what most people think of Italy. 1:55 Growing up in an area where everyone was a workaholic, Mauro's dad taught him how to make a living at only 10-years-old. 3:00 Alan knows first-hand that Italy looks very different depending on where you are, having proposed to his wife there. 5:52 Mauro believes that the most amazing part of Italy is the drive between cities because you get to see everything that is not mainstream. 7:10 Besides a short time when he wanted to be a doctor, Mauro has always been passionate about commercial design and creativity. 9:08 At the age of 15, Mauro created some illustrations for CDs, which was his first creative position. 10:30 When most advertising agencies in Europe were still using the same old methods, Mauro saw an opportunity to start a digital advertising agency. 11:23 With the creation of the first iPhone, Mauro's digital agency became one of Italy's first to create apps. 12:27 After spending his entire life in Italy, Mauro decided to move to California to lead Story Bots' digital expansion. 13:48 The creators of Story Bot asked Mauro to work on JibJab before selling the company to Catapult, where he stayed on as Chief Creative Officer. 14:58 A variety of different projects provide Mauro with an outlet to express his creativity. 18:09 Though it will always be remembered for the dancing elves, JibJab tries to offer consumers a way to connect and share happiness with loved ones. 19:02 JibJab believes that there is nothing better than making someone you love happy. 21:20 Today, JibJab tries to create content that provides laughter in a year that has seemingly halted life for many people. 22:17 Happiness is very subjective, differing in how it shows itself or how it is defined from person to person. 26:01 Mauro sees happiness in his work and how it allows him to use his creativity to bring happiness to others. 26:55 Every company around the world has had its culture tested this year, with most not working in the office. 29:24 Mauro does not believe in motivation, but rather he believes in sharing a vision with his team. 30:18 At JibJab, creators have the freedom to do whatever they want within the rules they work under. 32:00 A couple of years ago, Mauro decided to start The Happy Broadcast project because of the anxiety that he was getting from the news. 34:13 Digging deep to find the good news in the world, Mauro creates basic illustrations to go with them and then posts. 36:40 The Happy Broadcast doesn't just help other people; it helps Mauro stay positive in his world. 39:47 Mauro has experienced self-doubts and challenges related to learning about the market when creating children's books. 41:08 Finding a way to continue after his many failures have shaped Mauro into the person that he is today. 45:48 Looking back, Mauro wishes he would have cared more about the journey than the result. 48:17 Mauro suggests that everyone follows the Human Society because of his love of animals. 55:18 After decades of working with marketers, Mauro believes that honesty is the best way to promote a product. 57:29   Resources Mentioned: JibJab Mauro Gatti - https://maurogatti.com/ Northern Italy Vegan Ask the Story Bots on Netflix | Emmy Award Catapult buys JibJab Dancing Elves Year in Review Video Go Vote Video Quarantine Birthday Song The Happy Broadcast - https://maurogatti.com/thb | Instagram Books Mauro has published Italian Flour No One Likes a Fart (book) How the Other Half Lives (book) Humane Society (cause) Beauty 2 the Streetz (cause)   Subscribe to the podcast: Listen in iTunes (link: http://apple.co/2dbdAhV) Listen in Google Podcasts (link: http://bit.ly/2Rc2kVa) Listen in Spotify (Link: http://spoti.fi/2mCUGnC ) Connect with the Guest: https://www.linkedin.com/in/gattimauro https://twitter.com/maurogatti https://twitter.com/JibJab Connect with Marketing Today and Alan Hart: http://twitter.com/abhart https://www.linkedin.com/in/alanhart http://twitter.com/themktgtoday https://www.facebook.com/themktgtoday/ https://www.linkedin.com/company/marketing-today-with-alan-hart/   Support the show: https://www.patreon.com/marketingtoday See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

On this edition of our show, we listen back to an interview from 2018 about a book called "Nomadland: Surviving America in the Twenty-First Century." This book is the basis for a forthcoming feature-film starring Frances McDormand. Our guest is the author of the book, Jessica Bruder. As was noted of "Nomadland" in a starred review in Booklist: "What photographer Jacob Riis did for the tenement poor in 'How the Other Half Lives' (1890) and what novelist Upton Sinclair did for stockyard workers in 'The Jungle' (1906), journalist Bruder now does for a segment of today's older Americans forced to eke out a living as migrant workers.... [A] powerhouse of a book.... In the best immersive-journalism tradition, Bruder records her misadventures driving and living in a van.... Visceral and haunting reporting."

We're picking back up with the tenements.  More importantly, how the first tenements evolved into the dreaded dumbbell tenement, and how an immigrant from Denmark helped start housing reform with a future president. Every man's experience has to be worth something. Tenement House Actshttps://www.history.com/topics/immigration/tenements#:~:text=The%20Tenement%20House%20Act%20of,or%20privy)%20per%2020%20people.https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_State_Tenement_House_Acthttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Law_Tenement Dumbbell Tenement Part Ihttp://livingcityarchive.org/htm/themes/tenements/1879.htmhttps://americanexperience.si.edu/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Tenement-Life_.pdfhttps://www.6sqft.com/a-short-history-of-new-york-citys-foul-air-shafts/ Jacob Riis HTOHL Part Ihttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/How_the_Other_Half_Lives#:~:text=How%20the%20Other%20Half%20Lives%3A%20Studies%20among%20the%20Tenements%20of,City%20slums%20in%20the%201880s.https://mymodernmet.com/jacob-riis-how-the-other-half-lives/https://www.loc.gov/exhibits/jacob-riis/writer.htmlhttps://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/pioneering-social-reformer-jacob-riis-revealed-how-other-half-lives-america-180951546/https://www.biography.com/writer/jacob-riis

CMO favorites Johnathan Aaron Baker and Chris Hudson are back! In this episode they discuss Urbanism, Suburbanism, and Ruralism in works of fiction. Books discussed: The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, The City in History by Lewis Mumford, The Swimmer by John Cheever, How the Other Half Lives by Jacob Riis

In 2017, writer, photographer, and reformed-Wall-Streeter-turned-social-critic Chris Arnade appeared as a guest on the Strong Towns Podcast, in an episode that has been one of our most popular and was featured in our Greatest Hits series (listen to it here). Today we've brought him back for another conversation. Arnade became a journalist by accident—the culmination of a journey that began as a series of long walks in his city of New York to “the places they tell you not to go,” talking to anyone who would talk to him. Since then, through photographic essays that approximate a 21st-century version of Jacob Riis’s How the Other Half Lives, he has become possibly the most powerful chronicler working today of what he calls “back row America”—those dealing with poverty, addiction, homelessness, unemployment, social disintegration in communities that are rarely heard from and even more rarely really heard. Dignity, Arnade’s new book about the people in the “back row” (as opposed to the front row of the college-educated elite) has rapidly become one of the most talked-about releases of 2019. Combining photos, interviews, and narrative segments, Dignity intentionally foregrounds the voices of the people that Arnade interviews, rather than Arnade’s own interpretation of their situations or needs. Why “Just Move” Isn’t an Answer A central theme of Arnade’s work is the differences in value system and priorities that make policies promulgated by Front Row experts with elite credentials often a poor fit for the challenges of Back Row America. For example, to America’s educated and mobile elite, it might seem intuitive that the best solution to the lack of jobs or upward mobility in a place like Appalachia or inner-city Baltimore is, “Just move.” And policies might be designed to help people acquire the means to move—providing institutional social services, or lowering the barriers (such as housing cost) to living in places with booming job markets and good schools. Many of Arnade’s subjects see it differently, and he wants his reader to understand why. Maybe they’re helping a family member stay sober. Maybe they’re supporting a friend or relative or don’t want to be far from their children. Maybe it’s something more intangible than that: “Often, place—and the value of place—and it can be as simple as the metaphysical greatness you get from the lakes or hills or trees in your yard. Those things are free to people. The idea of continuity, of being in a place and knowing it values you and you value it: that doesn’t cost anything…. It’s very hard to measure the importance of staying in a community all your life, the network of connections you have, the fact that you wake up every morning and you look out and you see the same lake, and you know every nook and cranny of the lake, or you know the people around the lake. That’s hard to put a price tag on, so we tend to think about it as, “Oh, that’s not very important. People can just find another lake.” Arnade’s subjects span the full spectrum of the American “back row” experience, from rural whites to inner-city people of color. And he doesn’t shy away from the uglier sides of this experience—the vicious cycle of addiction, or the resurgence of overt racism—but he does urge us to avoid platitudes and facile moral judgments, in favor of understanding the systemic reasons that a community is in disarray. Listen to this week’s episode of the Strong Towns Podcast for more about Dignity, the overlap of Arnade’s themes with the Strong Towns movement, and what kind of policy-making process might be more responsive to the needs of all Americans and not just the preferences of elites. (Hint: it sounds a lot like the Strong Towns approach!)

Nomadland: Surviving America in the Twenty-First Century (W.W. Norton & Company) In recent years, many Americans have had to face tough new realities in the midst of massive changes in the economy and a widening wealth gap. One particularly hard-hit demographic is senior citizens, a proportion of whom saw their stable middle-class lives disappear in the wake of the Great Recession and suddenly, in their retirement years, found themselves in need of a job in a new economy low on steady manufacturing and retail jobs and high on short-term seasonal labor. As a result, to survive they join an expanding group of modern nomads: men and women who have given up the stability—and costs—of a home life and have hit the road in RVs, campervans, and trailers. In Nomadland: Surviving America in the Twenty-First Century, award-winning journalist Jessica Bruder delivers a comprehensive and compelling portrait of this set of fighters, idealists, and adventurers trying to carve out a peripatetic existence. “Millions of Americans are wrestling with the impossibility of a traditional middle-class existence,” writes Bruder. “In the widening gap between credits and debits hangs a question: What parts of this life are you willing to give up, so you can keep on living?” The answer, Bruder finds, can vary tremendously, but for those who abdicate thecomforts of home for life on the road, there is both risk and reward in the undertaking, as well as an affirming side effect: an eclectic community that comes together both online and in person to commiserate over the struggles of living on the road, to tell jokes and share puns (their vans get names like “Vansion,” “Van Go,” “DonoVan,” and “Vantucket”), and to support one another in their alternative lifestyles. They work for employers seeking them out for low-wage seasonal gigs, from picking fruit to staffing roadside stalls that sell Halloween pumpkins, Christmas trees, or Fourth of July fireworks; scrubbing toilets in National Forest campgrounds; guarding the gates of Texas oil fields and running the rides at theme parks. (Adventureland in Altoona, Iowa, made headlines last year after one workamper, a former pastor in his sixties, was killed in an on-the- job accident.) And some serve the community, by blogging or by arranging places to gather, organizing teach-ins and potluck meals. To write this affecting book, Bruder immersed herself in this diverse community, buying a van she dubbed “Halen” and driving more than 15,000 miles over the course of two years, meeting modern nomads. She worked alongside them in Amazon’s CamperForce team of low-wage, seasonal workers at the company’s fulfillment centers and at the grueling annual sugar beet harvest in North Dakota. And she followed them through stints of precarious employment in national parks, where they served as campground custodians in exchange for a place to park their houses-on- wheels and a near-minimum wage. As Bruder discovers, much of the population of Nomadland is made up of resourceful Americans with a strong spirit of independence, and many of them are single women, as well as senior citizens, reflecting some of the hardest-hit members of the middle class. They gather in places like Quartzsite, Arizona, where the land is vast and available, and the local authorities are generally tolerant of long-term campers and their vehicles. But these modern nomads can also be found living in Walmart parking lots, and even on city streets, hoping that no police officer will come knocking. On her travels Bruder meets a fascinating collective of colorful itinerants, people like Linda, a 65-year- old grandmother who lives in a trailer called “the Squeeze Inn,” and LaVonne, a 67-year- old former journalist who “found her people” among the nomads, “a ragtag bunch of misfits who surrounded me with love and acceptance.” They all have a story, a clear reason for their transition from middle-class lives to the open road, for living out of a traveling box, for driving and working and persevering in a permanent state of flux in a world where homelessness is frowned upon, if not actually considered criminal behavior. Elegantly crafted and compassionate in its approach, Nomadland is a singular work of in-depth narrative journalism, a view from the inside of the new American heartland—a land without a physical center, scattered across the country, in nearly constant motion. Praise for Nomadland “What photographer Jacob Riis did for the tenement poor in How the Other Half Lives (1890) and what novelist Upton Sinclair did for stockyard workers in The Jungle (1906), journalist Bruder now does for a segment of today’s older Americans forced to eke out a living as migrant workers. . . . [A] powerhouse of a book. . . . Visceral and haunting reporting.”—Booklist, STARRED review “Excellent. . . . Engaging, highly relevant immersion journalism.”—Kirkus Reviews, STARRED review “A must-read that is simultaneously hopeless and uplifting and certainly unforgettable.”—Library Journal, STARRED review “Tracing individuals throughout their journeys from coast to coast, Bruder conveys the phenomenon’s human element, making this sociological study intimate, personal, and entertaining, even as the author critiques the economic factors behind the trend.”—Publishers Weekly “People who thought the 2008 financial collapse was over a long time ago need to meet the people Jessica Bruder got to know in this scorching, beautifully written, vivid, disturbing (and occasionally wryly funny) book. Nomadland is a testament both to the generosity and creativity of the victims of our modern-medieval economy, hidden in plain sight, and to the blunt-end brutality that put them there. Is this the best the wealthiest nation on earth can do for those who’ve already done so much?”—Rebecca Solnit, author of The Mother of All Questions “In the early twentieth century, men used to ride the rails in search of work, sharing camps at night. Today, as Bruder brilliantly reports, we have a new class of nomadic workers who travel in their RVs from one short-term job to another. There’s a lot to cringe at here—from low pay and physically exhausting work to constant insecurity. But surprisingly, Nomadland also offers its residents much-needed camaraderie and adventure, which makes this book a joy to read.”—Barbara Ehrenreich, author of Nickel and Dimed “The campsite as the home of last resort, the RV used not for vacation but for survival: these are the makings of a new dystopia. Nomadland is a smart road book for the new economy, full of conviviality and dark portent.”—Ted Conover, author of Rolling Nowhere and Immersion Jessica Bruder is an award-winning journalist whose work focuses on subcultures and the dark corners of the economy. She teaches at the Columbia School of Journalism and is the author of Burning Book.

, please? All feedback greatly appreciated. Thank you.  Here 's speaks with Jessica Bruder  about her book, . In this, tells the stories of these nomadic laborers navigating a changing economic landscape for America’s retirees. A new labor force is growing across the country: “workampers,” older Americans who have turned to short-term transient work when Social Security and their retirement cushions have fallen short.  In its review, Kirkus stated that "What photographer Jacob Riis did for the tenement poor in How the Other Half Lives (1890) and what novelist Upton Sinclair did for stockyard workers in The Jungle (1906), journalist Bruder now does for a segment of today’s older Americans forced to eke out a living as migrant workers." Jessica Bruder is an award-winning journalist whose work focuses on subcultures and the dark corners of the economy. She has written for Harper’s, the New York Times and the Washington Post. Bruder teaches narrative writing at the Columbia School of Journalism.

This week on StoryWeb: Theodore Dreiser’s novel Sister Carrie. In 1899, as the soon-to-be-novelist Theodore Dreiser was starting work on Sister Carrie, he was also working on two articles about America’s up-and-coming photographer Alfred Stieglitz. Impressed by Stieglitz’s realistic photography, Dreiser used similar techniques in Sister Carrie, creating “word pictures” to describe city scenes in both Chicago and New York. Relying on photographic elements in these passages, Dreiser emphasized the weather, qualities of light and darkness, and the spectacle aspect of the scenes, thus underlining the stark reality being presented. Born in 1871 in Terre Haute, Indiana, Dreiser worked until 1899 as a newspaper reporter in Chicago, St. Louis, Toledo, Pittsburgh, and New York and then moved on to magazine work. The amount of work he produced for magazines was phenomenal, with 120 pieces appearing in a three-year period. Much of this journalistic work was not of high quality, later earning Dreiser the reputation of being a “hack” writer. But many of the sketches he turned out for both magazines and newspapers evocatively captured city life during the Gilded Age. He brought all this – his love of the emerging field of photography and his fascination with the city – into his creation of his 1900 novel, Sister Carrie. The story of a young Wisconsin woman who heads to the big city to make her mark on the world, the novel is just as much about the two cities it presents: Chicago and New York. Picture after picture of city scenes unfold in the narrative. Many of Dreiser’s word pictures bring to vivid life the cold, snow, and rain – the general gloom and bleakness such unpleasant elements bring. Often these scenes are heavy in their use of black and white, as though the weather had stripped the city of its color. Early in the novel, Dreiser describes Chicago this way: “Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during the long winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity of color.” Similarly, near the end of the novel, Dreiser describes New York City: Already, at four o’clock, the sombre hue of night was thickening the air. A heavy snow was falling – a fine picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swift wind in long, thin lines. The streets were bedded with it – six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned to a dirty brown by the crush of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway men picked their way in ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, men slouched through it with collars and hats pulled over their ears. In the former thoroughfare business men and travelers were making for comfortable hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted past dingy stores, in the deep recesses of which lights were already gleaming. There were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatter was reduced by the mantle of the wheels. The whole city was muffled by this fast-thickening mantle. With these winter scenes, one can’t help but think of such Stieglitz photographs as The Terminal and Winter, Fifth Avenue, both taken in 1893. So connected are Dreiser and Steiglitz, in fact, that Winter, Fifth Avenue graces the cover of the Norton Critical Edition of Sister Carrie. (If you want a hard copy, this is by all means the version to buy!) In his writings about his approach to fiction, Dreiser said that “True Art Speaks Plainly” (the title of one of his essays). Many years later in an interview, he said that an author needs to be a “sensitive mechanism” so that he can respond to all the life presented to his eyes. “The business of the writer,” he said, “is to hold a mirror up to nature.” Dreiser did that so well for the cities he knew and the people who lived and died in them. To learn more about Dreiser’s life and work, visit Penn Libraries’ Dreiser Web Source, which includes a virtual exhibit on Sister Carrie. I don’t want to give away the intricate and sometimes hair-raising plot of Sister Carrie, but I will say that the Gilded Age is presented in all its gory glory in the rise of its heroine, Carrie Meeber, and the fall of its antihero, Hurstwood. Sister Carrie – named by The Guardian as one of the best 100 novels ever – is a must-read. Visit thestoryweb.com/dreiser for links to all these resources. Listen now as I read Chapter XLV of Sister Carrie. Here, in describing the downfall of Carrie’s former lover, Hurstwood, Dreiser drew heavily on a piece he wrote in 1899 for Demorest’s magazine: “Curious Shifts of the Poor.” It will remind you of Jacob Riis’s photos and writing in How the Other Half Lives as well as Stephen Crane’s magazine sketch “An Experiment in Misery.”     CHAPTER XLV of Theodore Dreiser’s novel Sister Carrie: “CURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POOR”   The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken refuge with seventy dollars--the price of his furniture-- between him and nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading.  He was not wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping away.  As fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's lodging he became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room--thirty-five cents a day--to make his money last longer.  Frequently he saw notices of Carrie.  Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, and an old "Herald" he found in a chair informed him that she had recently appeared with some others at a benefit for something or other.  He read these things with mingled feelings.  Each one seemed to put her farther and farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it receded from him.  On the billboards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her as the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty.  More than once he stopped and looked at these, gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way.  His clothes were shabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed to be.           Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had never any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious comfort for him--he was not quite alone.  The show seemed such a fixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was still running.  In September it went on the road and he did not notice it.  When all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as some chairs.  Here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew upon him.  It was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life.  As the present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that concerned it stood in relief.        He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of his friends.  They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he stood in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking to Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estate in which the latter was about to invest.        "How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrison say.        "Not me," he answered, just as he had years before.  "I have my hands full now."        The movement of his lips aroused him.  He wondered whether he had really spoken.  The next time he noticed anything of the sort he really did talk.        "Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying.  "Jump!"        It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of actors.  Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling.  A crusty old codger, sitting near by, seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most pointed way.  Hurstwood straightened up.  The humour of the memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed.  For relief, he left his chair and strolled out into the streets.        One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he saw where a new play was at the Casino.  Instantly, he came to a mental halt.  Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs.  Curiously, this fact shook him up.  He had almost to admit that somehow he was depending upon her being in the city. Now she was gone.  He wondered how this important fact had skipped him.  Goodness knows when she would be back now. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall,where he counted his remaining money, unseen.  There were but ten dollars in all.        He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him got along.  They didn't seem to do anything.  Perhaps they begged--unquestionably they did.  Many was the dime he had given to such as they in his day.  He had seen other men asking for money on the streets.  Maybe he could get some that way.  There was horror in this thought.            Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty cents.  He had saved and counted until his health was affected. His stoutness had gone.  With it, even the semblance of a fit in his clothes.  Now he decided he must do something, and, walking about, saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last twenty cents--not enough to eat for the morrow.        Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the Broadway Central hotel.  Within a block he halted, undecided.  A big, heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side entrances, looking out.  Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up, he was upon him before he could turn away.        "My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man's inferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get to do?"        The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk.        "I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something,-- it doesn't matter what.  I don't care to talk about what I've been, but if you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to you.  It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now.  I've got to have something."        The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent.  Then, seeing that Hurstwood was about to go on, he said:        "I've nothing to do with it.  You'll have to ask inside."        Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort.        "I thought you might tell me."        The fellow shook his head irritably.        Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's desk.  One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there.  Hurstwood looked him straight in the eye.        "Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "I'm in a position where I have to get something at once."        The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well, I should judge so."        "I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've been a manager myself in my day.  I've had bad luck in a way but I'm not here to tell you that.  I want something to do, if only for a week."        The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye.        "What hotel did you manage?" he inquired.        "It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood.  "I was manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years."        "Is that so?" said the hotel man.  "How did you come to get out of that?"        The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact.        "Well, by foolishness of my own.  It isn't anything to talk about now.  You could find out if you wanted to.  I'm 'broke' now and, if you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day."        The hotel man was slightly interested in this story.  He could hardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness made him wish to do something.        "Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk.        In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head porter, appeared.        "Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you could find for this man to do? I'd like to give him something."        "I don't know, sir," said Olsen.  "We have about all the help we need.  I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like."        "Do.  Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something to eat."        "All right, sir," said Olsen.        Hurstwood followed.  Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's manner changed.        "I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed.        Hurstwood said nothing.  To him the big trunk hustler was a subject for private contempt.        "You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook.        The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and intellectual in his eyes, said:        "Well, sit down over there."        Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for long.  He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists about the foundation of every hotel.  Nothing better offering, he was set to aid the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and everything that might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks--all were over him.  Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals--his temper was toolonely--and they made it disagreeable for him.        With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he endured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house, eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which he tried to save.  His constitution was in no shape to endure.        One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large coal company's office.  It had been snowing and thawing and the streets were sloppy.  He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling dull and weary.  All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat about as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admired energy in others.        In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new culinary supplies.  He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a big box, he could not lift it.        "What's the matter there?" said the head porter.  "Can't you handle it?"        He was straining to lift it, but now he quit.        "No," he said, weakly.        The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale.        "Not sick, are you?" he asked. "I think I am," returned Hurstwood.        "Well, you'd better go sit down, then."        This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse.  It seemed all he could do to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day.        "That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the night clerk.        "What's the matter with him?"        "I don't know.  He's got a high fever."        The hotel physician looked at him.        "Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended.  "He's got pneumonia."        Accordingly, he was carted away.        In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of May before his strength permitted him to be turned out.  Then he was discharged.        No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring sunshine than the once hale, lusty manager.  All his corpulency had fled.  His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby.  Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty- five pounds.  Some old garments had been given him--a cheap brown coat and misfit pair of trousers.  Also some change and advice. He was told to apply to the charities.        Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where to look.  From this it was but a step to beggary.        "What can a man do?" he said.  "I can't starve."        His first application was in sunny Second Avenue.  A well-dressed man came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park. Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near.        "Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly.  "I'm in a position where I must ask some one."      The man scarcely looked at him, fished in his vest pocket and took out a dime.        "There you are," he said.        "Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more attention to him.        Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he decided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since that would be sufficient.  He strolled about sizing up people, but it was long before just the right face and situation arrived. When he asked, he was refused.  Shocked by this result, he took an hour to recover and then asked again.  This time a nickel was given him.  By the most watchful effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful.        The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a variety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions.  At last it crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a man could pick the liberal countenance if he tried.        It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by. He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be arrested.  Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that indefinite something which is always better.        It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one morning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss Carrie Madenda." He had thought of her often enough in days past.  How successful she was--how much money she must have! Even now, however, it took a severe run of ill luck to decide him to appeal to her.  He was truly hungry before he said:        "I'll ask her.  She won't refuse me a few dollars."        Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it several times in an effort to locate the stage entrance.  Then he sat in Bryant Park, a block away, waiting.  "She can't refuse to help me a little," he kept saying to himself.        Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the Thirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object.  He was slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified.  At last he saw that the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous tension increased, until it seemed as if he could not stand much more.        Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to see that he was mistaken.        "She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to encounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might have gone in by another way.  His stomach was so empty that it ached.        Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed, almost all indifferent.  He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing with ladies--the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of theatres and hotels.        Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door.  Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walk and disappeared in the stage door.  He thought he saw Carrie, but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell.  He waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that the stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience was arriving, he concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away.        "Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the more fortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something."           At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway--a spot which is also intersected by Fifth Avenue.  This was the hour when the theatres were just beginning to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcing the night's amusements blazed on every hand.  Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like yellow eyes,pattered by.  Couples and parties of three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing and jesting.  On Fifth Avenue were loungers--a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some club-men passing from one smoking-room to another. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with acomfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng.  All about was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration--the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways.        This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man.  The form of aid which he chose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation for himself.  Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways learned the nature of his charity.  For a while he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an ever- fascinating scene.  On the evening in question, a policeman passing saluted him as "captain," in a friendly way.  An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze.  All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling for his own amusement.        As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared.  Here and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer edging interestedly near.  A slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction.  Another came down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general survey, and hobbled off again.  Two or three noticeable Bowery types edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over.  The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and fro,indifferently whistling.          As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour passed.  The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too, was colder.  On every hand curious figures were moving--watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to enter--a dozen in all.  Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward.  It crossed Broadway from out the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close to the waiting figure.  There was something shamefaced or diffident about themovement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment.  Then suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt.        The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting.  The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits for gifts.  The other simply motioned to-ward the edge of the walk.        "Stand over there," he said.        By this the spell was broken.  Even while the soldier resumed his short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward.  They did not so much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and scraping their feet.        "Gold, ain't it?"        "I'm glad winter's over."        "Looks as though it might rain."        The motley company had increased to ten.  One or two knew each other and conversed.  Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd and yet not counted out.  They were peevish, crusty, silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet.        There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance.  Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward.        "Beds, eh, all of you?"        There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval.        "Well, line up here.  I'll see what I can do.  I haven't a cent myself."        They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line.  One might see, now, some of the chief characteristics by contrast.  There was a wooden leg in the line.  Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded.  In the glare of the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands.  A few spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd.  Some one in the line began to talk.        "Silence!" exclaimed the captain.  "Now, then, gentlemen, these men are without beds.  They have to have some place to sleep to- night.  They can't lie out in the streets.  I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed.  Who will give it to me?"        No reply.        "Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve cents isn't so very much for one man."        "Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained eyes.  "It's all I can afford."        "All right.  Now I have fifteen.  Step out of the line," and seizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him up alone.        Coming back, he resumed his place and began again.        "I have three cents left.  These men must be put to bed somehow. There are"--counting--"one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men.  Nine cents more will put the next man to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night.  I go right along and look after that myself.  Who will give me nine cents?"        One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent piece.        "Now, I have eight cents.  Four more will give this man a bed. Come, gentlemen.  We are going very slow this evening.  You all have good beds.  How about these?"        "Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand.        "That," said the captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds for two men and gives me five on the next one.  Who will give me seven cents more?"        "I will," said a voice.        Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue.  He was wholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal extent, weary, and defeated.  How should he get at Carrie now? It would be eleven before the show was over.  If she came in a coach, she would go away in one.  He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances.  Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night.  He had no food and no bed.        When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on.  However, in crossing the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd.  In the glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of his own kind--the figures whom he saw about the streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself.  He wondered what it could be and turned back.        There was the captain curtly pleading as before.  He heard with astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "These men must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise.  What use to contend? He was weary to-night.  It was a simple way out of one difficulty, at least.  To-morrow, maybe, he would do better.        Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed air was apparent.  The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability.  Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters.Vague and rambling observations were made in reply.        There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those who were too dull or too weary to converse.        Standing tells.  Hurstwood became more weary waiting.  He thought he should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other.  At last his turn came.  The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the blessed line of success.  He was now first, and already the captain was talking for him.        "Twelve cents, gentlemen--twelve cents puts this man to bed.  He wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go."        Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat.  Hunger and weakness had made a coward of him.        "Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain.        Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder. "Line up over there," he said.        Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier.  He felt as if the world were not quite so bad with such a good man in it.  Others seemed to feel like himself about this.        "Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead--a little, woebegone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune.        "Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently.        "Huh! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up, leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading.        "Yes.  Must be over a hundred to-night," said another.        "Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third.        A cab had stopped.  Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line.  There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe.        "That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, counting out as many of the line near him.  "Line up over there. Now, then, there are only seven.  I need twelve cents."        Money came slowly.  In the course of time the crowd thinned out to a meagre handful.  Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot passenger, was bare.  Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians.  Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding.        The captain remained stolid and determined.  He talked on, very slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he could not fail.        "Come; I can't stay out here all night.  These men are getting tired and cold.  Some one give me four cents."        There came a time when he said nothing at all.  Money was handed him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other line.  Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground.        The theatres let out.  Fire signs disappeared.  A clock struck eleven.  Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.        "Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen cents will fix us all up for the night.  Eighteen cents.  I have six.  Somebody give me the money.  Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night.  Before that I have to take these men down and put them to bed.  Eighteen cents."        No one responded.  He walked to and fro, looking down for several minutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed as if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the rest had.  Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak.        At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue, accompanied by her escort.  Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own wife in like manner.        While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company, sent her escort over.  He came, holding a bill in his fingers, all elegant and graceful.        "Here you are," he said.        "Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants.  "Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added.        Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting as he went.        "One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced.  "Now, boys, line up.  Right dress there.  We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now."        He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwood moved with the line.  Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue wound the long, serpentine company.  Midnight pedestrians and loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed.  Chatting policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had seen before.  On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was a lodginghouse, closed, apparently, for the night.  They were expected, however.        Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within.  Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a "Steady, now."        Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for keys.  Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad solicitude.  Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into the night.        "I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small, lightless chamber allotted to him.  "I've got to eat, or I'll die."   

This week on StoryWeb: Stephen Crane’s article “An Experiment in Misery.” Many Americans know Stephen Crane as the author of the Civil War novel, The Red Badge of Courage, which made Crane famous at the age of 23 when it was serialized in 1894. It was published as a full-length book in 1895. Some know his first novel, Maggie: A Girl of the Streets, or even the harrowing short story “The Open Boat,” based on a real-life experience when Crane was en route to Cuba and spent 30 hours adrift with others in a lifeboat. Less well-known to most readers is Crane’s work as a journalist. Born in 1871 in Newark, New Jersey, Crane floundered around from college (which he didn’t finish) to one vocational pursuit after another. When he found himself drawn to New York City in the 1890s and took work as a newspaper writer, he appeared to have found his calling. Crane would make a peripatetic living for the rest of his short life as a fiction writer and correspondent from various locations throughout the western hemisphere. He filed stories from the Western United States, from Mexico City, from Cuba during the Spanish-American War, and from the Greco-Turkish War front in Greece, where he was joined in his writing by his common-law wife, Cora Crane, recognized as the first woman war correspondent. Stephen Crane died at age 28 of tuberculosis. But it’s Crane’s writing about New York City in the 1890s that interests me. Working from a home base in nearby Paterson, New Jersey, he made frequent day trips into New York City and spent considerable time in the tenement districts and especially the Bowery. Eventually, he moved into a rooming house in Manhattan. Thus, Crane was one of the journalists – writers, photographers, illustrators – who were on the streets at the height of the Gilded Age. Like Jacob Riis in How the Other Half Lives and like Alfred Stieglitz in such photographs as The Terminal and Winter, Fifth Avenue, Crane offers us a view into New York life at this crucial time in its history. Perhaps Crane’s most famous piece of journalism is “An Experiment in Misery,” which was first published in 1894 in the New York Press and, in a slightly revised version, as part of The Open Boat and Other Tales of Adventure, a volume Crane published in 1898. In this piece – which to today’s readers will read more like a sketch or even a short story than an objective work of “journalism” – Crane imagines what it would be like to disguise oneself as a Bowery bum and go undercover to explore the realities of that grim life. The lengthy headline tells you all you need to know about journalistic style in the 1890s: AN EXPERIMENT IN MISERY An Evening, a Night and a Morning with Those Cast Out. THE TRAMP LIVES LIKE A KING But His Royalty, to the Novitiate, Has Drawbacks of Smells and Bugs. LODGED WITH AN ASSASSIN A Wonderfully Vivid Picture of a Strange Phase of New York Life, Written for “The Press” by the Author of “Maggie.” Newspaper articles on “indigent Americans and the ‘Tramp Menace,’” says the Library of America’s Story of the Week website, were common during the late nineteenth century. A few reporters actually did dress as bums and explore their haunts, but apparently Crane did not himself conduct such an experiment. He did, however, base the imagined experiment on his real-life knowledge of the Bowery, a once-fashionable neighborhood in southern Manhattan now home to saloons, brothels, and rapidly increasing numbers of homeless people in New York City. The result is a vivid account of life as a Bowery bum, as homeless men were known at the time. Just as Crane had never been a soldier in a war yet imagined the Civil War more vividly and “realistically” than any other writer up to that time, so, too, he used his considerable skills of observation and his imagination to conjure up what it would be like to live as a homeless man in New York City. As it turns out, Crane may have had too much exposure to life in the Bowery. Crane spent time, says one source, in the “saloons, dance halls, brothels and flophouses” of the Bowery. While he claimed he did so for research, his scandalous involvement with prostitutes and madams (most notably Cora Crane, who was operating the Hotel de Dream when Crane met her in Jacksonville, Florida) and other close dealings with the shadier set suggests that Crane was personally drawn to these seedy elements that were so far from his strict upbringing among Methodist ministers and temperance leaders. He said once that the slums were “open and plain, with nothing hidden,” and he seemed to find solace in that. You can read the original version of “An Experiment in Misery” at WikiSource. Unlike the later version published in The Open Boat and Other Tales of Adventure, the original version published in the newspaper included a “Foreword” and a “Coda” explaining that the sketch presented is an experiment, that a young man disguises himself as a bum to experience that life directly for himself. To read the version published in The Open Boat, get your hands on a copy of Crane: Prose and Poetry, the outstanding collection published by the Library of America. To learn more about Crane, read the New Yorker’s article “The Red and the Scarlet: The Hectic Career of Stephen Crane.” If you want to go into depth in your exploration of Crane, you can read Paul Sorrentino’s biography, Stephen Crane: A Life of Fire, which tells the story of how Sorrentino and scholar Stanley Wertheim delved deeply into Crane research and archives to debunk common, longstanding myths about Crane. Although Crane’s writing fell into obscurity for some time after his death, interest in his work was resurrected in the 1920s. He had a particularly strong influence on Ernest Hemingway, who himself was a journalist and a novelist of war. Next week, I’ll feature a novel by another journalist-turned-novelist: Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Published in 1900, it is perhaps the masterpiece of the Gilded Age. Tune in next week to learn how Dreiser pulled together the work of Riis, Stieglitz, and Crane to create a complex, multifaceted novel. Visit thestoryweb.com/crane for links to all these resources. Listen now as I read “An Experiment in Misery,” as originally published in the New York Press in 1894.   “Foreword” Two men stood regarding a tramp. "I wonder how he feels," said one, reflectively. "I suppose he is homeless, friendless, and has, at the most, only a few cents in his pocket. And if this is so, I wonder how he feels." The other being the elder, spoke with an air of authoritative wisdom. "You can tell nothing of it unless you are in that condition yourself. It is idle to speculate about it from this distance." "I suppose so," said the younger man, and then he added as from an inspiration: "I think I'll try it. Rags and tatters, you know, a couple of dimes, and hungry, too, if possible. Perhaps I could discover his point of view or something near it." "Well, you might," said the other, and from those words begins this veracious narrative of an experiment in misery. The youth went to the studio of an artist friend, who, from his store, rigged him out in an aged suit and a brown derby hat that had been made long years before. And then the youth went forth to try to eat as the tramp may eat, and sleep as the wanderers sleep.       “An Experiment in Misery” It was late at night, and a fine rain was swirling softly down, causing the pavements to glisten with hue of steel and blue and yellow in the rays of the innumerable lights. A youth was trudging slowly, without enthusiasm, with his hands buried deep in his trouser's pockets, towards the down-town places where beds can be hired for coppers. He was clothed in an aged and tattered suit, and his derby was a marvel of dust-covered crown and torn rim. He was going forth to eat as the wanderer may eat, and sleep as the homeless sleep. By the time he had reached City Hall Park he was so completely plastered with yells of "bum" and "hobo," and with various unholy epithets that small boyshad applied to him at intervals, that he was in a state of the most profound dejection. The sifting rain saturated the old velvet collar of his overcoat, and as the wet cloth pressed against his neck, he felt that there no longer could be pleasure in life. He looked about him searching for an outcast of highest degree that they too might share miseries, but the lights threw a quivering glare over rows and circles of deserted benches that glistened damply, showing patches of wet sod behind them. It seemed that their usual freights had fled on this night to better things. There were only squads of well-dressed Brooklyn people who swarmed towards the bridge. The young man loitered about for a time and then went shuffling off down Park Row. In the sudden descent in style of the dress of the crowd he felt relief, and as if he were at last in his own country. He began to see tatters that matched his tatters. In Chatham Square there were aimless men strewn in front of saloons and lodging-houses, standing sadly, patiently, reminding one vaguely of the attitudes of chickens in a storm. He aligned himself with these men, and turned slowly to occupy himself with the flowing life of the great street.     Through the mists of the cold and storming night, the cable cars went in silent procession, great affairs shining with red and brass, moving with formidable power, calm and irresistible, dangerful and gloomy, breaking silence only by the loud fierce cry of the gong. Two rivers of people swarmed along the side walks, spattered with black mud, which made each shoe leave a scar-like impression. Overhead elevated trains with a shrill grinding of the wheels stopped at the station, which upon its leg-like pillars seemed to resemble some monstrous kind of crab squatting over the street. The quick fat puffings of the engines could be heard. Down an alley there were sombre curtains of purple and black, on which street lamps dully glittered like embroidered flowers. A saloon stood with a voracious air on a corner. A sign leaning against the front of the door-post announced "Free hot soup to-night!" The swing doors, snapping to and fro like ravenous lips, made gratified smacks as the saloon gorged itself with plump men, eating with astounding and endless appetite, smiling in some indescribable manner as the men came from all directions like sacrifices to a heathenish superstition. Caught by the delectable sign the young man allowed himself to be swallowed. A bar-tender placed a schooner of dark and portentous beer on the bar. Its monumental form upreared until the froth a-top was above the crown of the young man's brown derby.     "Soup over there, gents," said the bar-tender affably. A little yellow man in rags and the youth grasped their schooners and went with speed toward a lunch counter, where a man with oily but imposing whiskers ladled genially from a kettle until he had furnished his two mendicants with a soup that was steaming hot, and in which there were little floating suggestions of chicken. The young man, sipping his broth, felt the cordiality expressed by the warmth of the mixture, and he beamed at the man with oily but imposing whiskers, who was presiding like a priest behind an altar. "Have some more, gents?" he inquired of the two sorry figures before him. The little yellow man accepted with a swift gesture, but the youth shook his head and went out, following a man whose wondrous seediness promised that he would have a knowledge of cheap lodging-houses. On the side-walk he accosted the seedy man. "Say, do you know a cheap place to sleep?" The other hesitated for a time gazing sideways. Finally he nodded in the direction of the street, "I sleep up there," he said, "when I've got the price." "How much?" "Ten cents." The young man shook his head dolefully. "That's too rich for me." At that moment there approached the two a reeling man in strange garments. His head was a fuddle of bushy hair and whiskers, from which his eyes peered with a guilty slant. In a close scrutiny it was possible to distinguish the cruel lines of a mouth which looked as if its lips had just closed with satisfaction over some tender and piteous morsel. He appeared like an assassin steeped in crimes performed awkwardly. But at this time his voice was tuned to the coaxing key of an affectionate puppy. He looked at the men with wheedling eyes, and began to sing a little melody for charity.     "Say, gents, can't yeh give a poor feller a couple of cents t' git a bed. I got five, and I gits anudder two I gits me a bad. Now, on th' square, gents, can't yeh jest gimme two cents t' git a bed? Now, yeh know how a respecter'ble gentlm'n feels when he's down on his luck, an' I--" The seedy man, staring imperturbable countenance at a train which clattered oerhead, interrupted in an expressionless voice--"Ah, go t' h--!" But the youth spoke to the prayerful assassin in tones of astonishment and inquiry. "Say, you must be crazy! Why don't yeh strike somebody that looks as if they had money?" The assassin, tottering about on his uncertain legs, and at intervals brushing imaginary obstacles from before his nose, entered into a long explanation of the psychology of the situation. It was so profound that it was unintelligible. When he had exhausted the subject, the young man said to him-- "Let's see th' five cents." The assassin wore an expression of drunken woe at this sentence, filled with suspicion of him. With a deeply pained air he began to fumble in his clothing, his red hands trembling. Presently he announced in a voice of bitter grief, as if he had been betrayed--"There's on'y four." "Four," said the young man thoughtfully. "Well, look-a-here, I'm a stranger here, an' if ye'll steer me to your cheap joint I'll find the other three." The assassin's countenance became instantly radiant with joy. His whiskers quivered with the wealth of his alleged emotions. He seized the young man's hand in a transport of delight and friendliness. "B' Gawd," he cried, "if ye'll do that, b' Gawd, I'd say yeh was a damned good fellow, I would, an' I'd remember yeh all m' life, I would, b' Gawd, an' if I ever got a chance I'd return the compliment"--he spoke with drunken dignity,--"b' Gawd, I'd treat yeh white, I would, an' I'd allus remember yeh." The young man drew back, looking at the assassin coldly. "Oh, that's all right," he said. "You show me th' joint--that's all youv'e got t' do." The assassin, gesticulating gratitude, led the young man along a dark street. Finally he stopped before a little dusty door. He raised his hand impressively. "Look-a-here," he said, and there was a thrill of deep and ancient wisdom upon his face, "I've brought yeh here, an' that's my part, ain't it? If th' place don't suit yeh, yeh needn't git mad at me, need yeh? There won't be no bad feelin', will there?" "No," said the young man. The assassin waved his arm tragically, and led the march up the steep stairway. On the way the young man furnished the assassin with three pennies. At the top a man with benevolent spectacles looked at them through a hole in a board. he collected their money, wrote some names on a register, and speedily was leading the two men along a gloom-shrouded corridor. Shortly after the beginning of this journey the young man felt his liver turn white, for from the dark and secret places of the building there suddenly came to his nostrils strange and unspeakable odors, that assailed him like malignant diseases with wings. They seemed to be from human bodies closely packed in dens; the exhalations from a hundred pairs of reeking lips; the fumes from a thousand bygone debauches; the expression of a thousand present miseries. A man, naked save for a little snuff-coloured under-shirt, was parading sleepily along the corridor. He rubbed his eyes, and, giving vent to a prodigious yawn, demanded to be told the time. "Half-past one." The man yawned again. He opened a door, and for a moment his form was outlined against a black, opaque interior. To this door came the three men, and as it was again opened the unholy odours rushed out like fiends, so that the young man was obliged to struggle against an overpowering wind. It was some time before the youth's eyes were good in the intense gloom within, but the man with benevolent spectacles led him skilfully, pausing but a moment to deposit the limp assassin upon a cot. He took the youth to a coat that lay tranquilly by the window, and showing him a tall locker for clothes that stood near the head with the ominous air of a tombstone, left him. The youth sat on his cot and peered about him. There was a gas-jet in a distant part of the room, that burned a small flickering orange-hued flame. It caused vast masses of tumbled shadows in all parts of the place, save where, immediately about it, there was a little grey haze. As the young man's eyes became used to the darkness, he could see upon the cots that thickly littered the floor the forms of men sprawled out, lying in death-like silence, or heaving and snoring with tremendous effort, like stabbed fish. The youth locked his derby and his shoes in the mummy case near him, and then lay down with an old and familiar coat around his shoulders. A blanket he handled gingerly, drawing it over part of the coat. The cot was covered with leather, and as cold as melting snow. The youth was obliged to shiver for some time on this affair, which was like a slab. Presently, however, his chill gave him peace, and during this period of leisure from it he turned his head to stare at his friend the assassin, whom he could dimly discern where he lay sprawled on a coat in the abandon of a man filled with drink. He was snoring with incredible vigour. His wet hair and beard dimly glistened, and his inflamed nose shone with subdued lustre like a red light in a fog.     Within reach of the youth's hand was one who lay with yellow breast and shoulders bare to the cold drafts. One arm hung over the side of the cot, and the fingers lay full length upon the wet cement floor of the room. Beneath the inky brows could be seen the eyes of the man exposed by the partly opened lids. To the youth it seemed that he and this corpse-like being were exchanging a prolonged stare, and that the other threatened with his eyes. He drew back watching his neighbour from the shadows of his blanket edge. The man did not move once through the night, but lay in this stillness as of death like a body stretched out expectant of the surgeon's knife. And all through the room could be seen the tawny hues of naked flesh, limbs thrust into the darkness, projecting beyond the cots; upreared knees, arms hanging long and thin over the cot edges. For the most part they were statuesque, carven, dead. With the curious lockers standing all about like tombstones, there was a strange effect of a graveyard where bodies were merely flung. Yet occasionally could be seen limbs wildly tossing in fantastic nightmare gestures, accompanied by guttural cries, grunts, oaths. And there was one fellow off in a gloomy corner, who in his dreams was oppressed by some frightful calamity, for of a sudden he began to utter long wails that went almost like yells from a hound, echoing wailfully and weird through this chill place of tombstones where men lay like the dead.     The sound in its high piercing beginnings, that dwindled to final melancholy moans, expressed a red grim tragedy of the unfathomable possibilities of the man's dreams. But to the youth these were not merely the shrieks of a vision-pierced man: they were an utterance of the meaning of the room and its occupants. It was to him the protest of the wretch who feels the touch of the imperturbable granite wheels, and who then cries with an impersonal eloquence, with a strength not from him, giving voice to the wail of a whole section, a class, a people. This, weaving into the young man's brain, and mingling with his views of the vast and sombre shadows that, like mighty black fingers, curled around the naked bodies, made the young man so that he did not sleep, but lay carving the biographies for these men from his meagre experience. At times the fellow in the corner howled in a writing agony of his imaginations. Finally a long lance-point of grey light shot through the dusty panes of the window. Without, the young man could see roofs drearily white in the dawning. The point of light yellowed and grew brighter, until the golden rays of the morning sun came in bravely and strong. They touched with radiant colour the form of a small fat man, who snored in stuttering fashion. His round and shiny bald head glowed suddenly with the valour of a decoration. He sat up, blinked at the sun, swore fretfully, and pulled his blanket over the ornamental splendours of his head. The youth contentedly watched this rout of the shadows before the bright spears of the sun, and presently he slumbered. When he awoke he heard the voice of the assassin raised in valiant curses. Putting up his head, he perceived his comrade seated on the side of the cot engaged in scratching his neck with long finger-nails that rasped like flies. "Hully Jee, dis is a new breed. They've got can-openers on their feet." He continued in a violent tirade.     The young man hastily unlocked his closet and took out his shoes and hat. As he sat on the side of the cot lacing his shoes, he glanced about and saw that daylight had made the room comparatively commonplace and uninteresting. The men, whose faces seemed stolid, serene or absent, were engaged in dressing, while a great crackle of bantering conversation arose. A few were parading in unconcerned nakedness. Here and there were men of brawn, whose skins shone clear and ruddy. They took splendid poses, standing massively like chiefs. When they had dressed in their ungainly garments there was an extraordinary change. They then showed bumps and deficiencies of all kinds. There were others who exhibited many deformities. Shoulders were slanting, humped, pulled this way and pulled that way. And notable among these latter men was the little fat man, who had refused to allow his head to be glorified. His pudgy form, builded like a pear, bustled to and fro, while he swore in fishwife fashion. It appeared that some article of his apparel had vanished. The young man attired speedily, and went to his friend the assassin. At first the latter looked dazed at the sight of the youth. This face seemed to be appealing to him through the cloud wastes of his memory. He scratched his neck and reflected. At last he grinned, a broad smile gradually spreading until his countenance was a round illumination. "Hello, Willie," he cried cheerily. "Hello," said the young man. "Are yeh ready t' fly?" "Sure." The assassin tied his shoe carefully with some twine and came ambling. When he reached the street the young man experienced no sudden relief from unholy atmospheres. He had forgotten all about them, and had been breathing naturally, and with no sensation of discomfort or distress.     He was thinking of these things as he walked along the street, when he was suddenly startled by feeling the assassin's hand, trembling with excitement, clutching his arm, and when the assassin spoke, his voice went into quavers from a supreme agitation. "I'll be hully, bloomin' blowed if there wasn't a feller with a nightshirt on up there in that joint." The youth was bewildered for a moment, but presently he turned to smile indulgently at the assassin's humour. "Oh, you're a d---d liar," he merely said. Whereupon the assassin began to gesture extravagantly, and take oath by strange gods. He frantically placed himself at the mercy of remarkable fates if his tale were not true. "Yes, he did! I cross m'heart thousan' times!" he protested, and at the moment his eyes were large with amazement, his mouth wrinkled in unnatural glee. "Yessir! A nightshirt! A hully white nightshirt!" "You lie!" "No, sir! I hope ter die b'fore I kind git anudder ball if there wasn't a jay wid a hully, bloomin' white nighshirt!" His face was filled with the infinite wonder of it. "A hully white nighshirt," he continually repeated. The young man saw the dark entrance to a basement restaurant. There was a sign which read "No mystery about our hash"! and there were other age-stained and world-batered legends which told him that the place was within his means. He stopped before it and spoke to the assassin. "I guess I'll git somethin' t' eat." At this the assassin, for some reason, appeared to be quite embarrassed. He gazed at the seductive front of the eating place for a moment. Then he started slowly up the street. "Well, good-bye, Willie," he said bravely. For an instant the youth studied the departing figure. Then he called out, "Hol' on a minnet." As they came together he spoke in a certain fierce way, as if he feared that the other would think him to be charitable. "Look-a-here, if yeh wanta git some breakfas' I'll lend yeh three cents t' do it with. But say, look-a-here, you've gota git out an' hustle. I ain't goin' t' support yeh, or I'll go broke b'fore night. I ain't no millionaire." "I take me oath, Willie," said the assassin earnestly, "th' on'y thing I really needs is a ball. Me t'roat feels like a fryin'-pan. But as I can't get a ball, why, th' next bes' thing is breakfast, an' if yeh do that for me, b' Gawd, I say yeh was th' whitest lad I ever see." They spent a few moments in deteroux exchanges of phrases, in which they each protested that the other was, as the assassin had originally said, "a respecter'ble gentlm'n." And they concluded with mutual assurances that they were the souls of intelligence and virtue. Then they went into the restaurant. There was a long counter, dimly lighted from hidden sources. Two or three men in soiled white aprons rushed here and there. The youth bought a bowl of coffee for two cents and a roll for one cent. The assassin purchased the same. the bowls were webbed with brown seams, and the tin spoons wore an air of having emerged from the first pyramid. Upon them were black moss-like encrustations of age, and they were bent and scarred from the attacks of long-forgotten teeth. But over their repast the wanderers waxed warm and mellow. The assassin grew affable as the hot mixture went soothingly down his parched throat, and the young man felt courage flow in his veins. Memories began to throng in on the assassin, and he brought forth long tales, intricate, incoherent, delivered with a chattering swiftness as from an old woman. "--great job out'n Orange. Boss keep yeh hustlin' though all time. I was there three days, and then I went an' ask 'im t' lend me a dollar. 'G-g-go ter the devil,' he ses, an' I lose me job. "South no good. Damn niggers work for twenty-five an' thirty cents a day. Run white man out. Good grub though. Easy livin'. "Yas; useter work little in Toledo, raftin' logs. Make two or three dollars er day in the spring. Lived high. Cold as ice though in the winter. "I was raised in northern N'York. O-o-oh, yeh jest oughto live there. No beer ner whisky though, way off in the woods. But all th' good hot grub yeh can eat. B' Gawd, I hung around there long as I could till th' ol' man fired me. 'Git t' hell outa here, yeh wuthless skunk, git t' hell outa here, an' go die,' he ses. 'You're a hell of a father,' I ses, 'you are,' an' I quit him." As they were passing from the dim eating place, they encountered an old man who was trying to steal forth with a tiny package of food, but a tall man with an indomitable moustache stood dragon fashion, barring the way of escape. They heard the old man raise a plaintive protest. "Ah, you always want to know what I take out, and you never see that I usually bring a package in here from my place of business." As the wanderers trudged slowly along Park Row, the assassin began to expand and grow blithe. "B' Gawd, we've been livin' like kings," he said, smacking appreciative lips. "Look out, or we'll have t' pay fer it t'night," said the youth with gloomy warning. But the assassin refused to turn his gazed toward the future. He went with a limping step, into which he injected a suggestion of lamblike gambols. His mouth was wreathed in a red grin. In the City Hall Park the two wanderers sat down in the little circle of benches sanctified by traditions of their class. They huddled in their old garments, slumbrously conscious of the march of the hours which for them had no meaning. The people of the street hurrying hither and thither made a blend of black figures changing yet frieze-like. They walked in their good clothes as upon important missions, giving no gaze to the two wanderers seated upon the benches. They expressed to the young man his infinite distance from all that he valued. Social position, comfort, the pleasures of living, were unconquerable kingdoms. He felt a sudden awe. And in the background a multitude of buildings, of pitiless hues and sternly high, were to him embelamatic of a nation forcing its regal head into the clouds, throwing no downward glances; in the sublimity of its aspirations ignoring the wretches who may flounder at its feet. The roar of the city in his ear was to him the confusion of strange tongues, babbling heedlessly; it was the clink of coin, the voice of the city's hopes which were to him no hopes. He confessed himself an outcast, and his eyes from nder the lowered rim of his hat began to glance guiltily, wearing the criminal expression that comes with certain convictions.     Coda "Well," said the friend, "did you discover his point of view?" "I don't know that I did," replied the young man; "but at any rate I think mine own has undergone a considerable alteration."    

This week on StoryWeb: Alfred Stieglitz’s photographs The Terminal and Winter, Fifth Avenue. In the 1890s, as Alfred Stieglitz was beginning his career, photographers were fighting for artistic recognition. Photographers who wanted to go beyond “mere” journalism or documentary photography had to show their critics the value of their “mechanistic” art. Photographers like Stieglitz were trying to prove to skeptics that the camera could be used not only as a journalistic tool (as Jacob Riis used it in How the Other Half Lives) but that photographs could also have value as art. Stieglitz was unquestionably the leader of the movement to gain artistic recognition for photography. A pioneer in subject matter, technique, and treatment, Stieglitz shot many “firsts,” among them the first snow photograph, Winter, Fifth Avenue (shot in 1893), the first rain photo, A Wet Day on the Boulevard [Paris] (taken in 1894), and the first night shot, Reflections – Night [New York] (created in 1896). In 1897, Stieglitz published Picturesque Bits of New York, a volume of his New York scenes; it sold for the then-whopping price of $15. Stieglitz was concerned with both seeing life as it was and interpreting it morally. Scholar Doris Bry says of him: “To define and fix a moment of reality, to realize the potential of black and white, through photography, fascinated Stieglitz.” But objectivity to Stieglitz was not enough. In a 1908 article in the New York Herald, Stieglitz stressed the importance of the “personal touch” and the “individual expression” of the artist. He said, “I saw what others were doing was to make hard, cold copies of hard, cold subjects in hard, cold light. . . . I did not see why a photograph should not be a work of art, and I studied to make it one.” Though Stieglitz hailed from Hoboken, New Jersey, New York was his adopted city. As Bry says, “he came to love [the city], it became home to him.” Art critic Neil Leonard says, “Stieglitz’s photographs of these years held strong emotional meaning for him, yet they realistically captured . . . the sights, rhythms, and moods of the city.” Two of Stieglitz’s New York photos are particularly compelling to me, both shot in 1893: The Terminal and Winter, Fifth Avenue. Stieglitz said, “From 1893 to 1895 I often walked the streets of New York downtown, near the East River, taking my hand camera with me.” According to The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Stieglitz’s small Folmer and Schwing 4 x 5 plate film camera was “an instrument not considered at the time to be worthy of artistic photography.” Stieglitz threw away his “unwieldy” 8 x 10 view camera and its tripod, choosing the 4 x 5 camera, which, says The Met, “gave [him] greater freedom and mobility to roam the city and respond quickly to the ever-changing street life around him.” The Terminal was captured at the southern end of the Harlem streetcar line, which traveled up and down Fifth Avenue. One day, said Stieglitz, “I found myself in front of the old Post Office. . . . It was extremely cold. Snow lay on the ground. A driver in a rubber coat was watering his steaming car horses. How fortunate the horses seemed, having a human being to tend them. The steaming horses being watered on a cold winter day, the snow-covered streets . . . [expressed] my own sense of loneliness in my own country.” In another description of The Terminal, Stieglitz said, “I used to walk around the streets disconsolately, until one night during a blizzard, I happened to see a man, watering a couple of horse-car horses, and I thought, ‘Well, there at any rate is the human touch; ‘ that made me feel better.” Of the same incident, Stieglitz told biographer Dorothy Norman, “There seemed to me to be something closely related to my deepest feeling in what I saw . . . and I decided to photograph what was within me.” Winter, Fifth Avenue was taken the same year, also with a 4 x 5 box camera. Journalist and novelist Theodore Dreiser, who was heavily influenced by Stieglitz, said of this photograph: “The driving sleet and uncomfortable atmosphere issued out of the picture with uncomfortable persuasion. It had the tone of reality.” What seems to have impressed Dreiser most about Stieglitz’s photography, however, was the huge amount of time and effort Stieglitz took in making the final prints. Patience was necessary at all stages: setting up the scene, working with the negative, making the print. Indeed, according to The Art Story website, Stieglitz “stalked Fifth Avenue for three frigid hours waiting for the perfect moment.” Stieglitz himself told the story this way: On Washington’s birthday in 1893, a great blizzard raged in New York. I stood on a corner of Fifth Avenue, watching the lumbering stagecoaches appear through the blinding snow and move northward on the avenue. The question formed itself: could what I was experiencing, seeing, be put down with the slot plates and lenses available? The light was dim. Knowing that where there is light, one can photograph, I decided to make an exposure. After three hours of standing in the blinding snow, I saw the stagecoach come struggling up the street with the driver lashing his horses onward. At that point, I was nearly out of my head, but I got the exposure I wanted. Often, the negatives produced were discouraging. Such was the case with Winter, Fifth Avenue, the original negative of which was so blurry that a fellow photographer said, “For God’s sake, Stieglitz, throw that thing away.” But Stieglitz focused on a portion of the negative that he felt was usable and managed to manipulate it in the darkroom until he got what he wanted. The result is a stunning photograph indeed. Good overviews of Stieglitz’s work can be found at The Metropolitan Museum of Art website and the PBS American Masters website. The New York Times review of “Alfred Stieglitz New York,” a 2010 exhibit at the Seaport Museum, offers additional insights into Stieglitz’s depictions of his adopted city. Books you might want to add to your collection include Alfred Stieglitz: Masters of Photography Series (which features The Terminal on the cover) and Alfred Stieglitz: Photographs & Writings. Alfred Stieglitz: A Biography offers a comprehensive look at Stieglitz’s immense influence on photography. To explore the artistic connections between Stieglitz and his wife, painter Georgia O’Keeffe, check out Two Lives: A Conversation in Paintings and Photographs – and to learn more about their personal lives, dip into My Faraway One: Selected Letters of Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz. Visit thestoryweb.com/Stieglitz for links to all these resources and to watch the PBS American Masters episode: “Alfred Stieglitz: The Eloquent Eye.” Tune in next week for an exploration of Stephen Crane and his journalistic essays about New York life during the 1890s.

This week on StoryWeb: Jacob Riis’s book How the Other Half Lives. Photojournalism can be an extraordinarily powerful way to raise the public’s concern about extreme situations. An early pioneer in this realm was Jacob Riis, whose 1890 book, How the Other Half Lives, exposed the underbelly of life in New York City during the Gilded Age, with a particular focus on the Lower East Side. Though Riis has been occasionally criticized for asking some of his subjects to pose for the photographs, the truth of their surroundings and the veracity of the degradation they faced on a daily basis cannot be denied. Along with the photographs is Riis’s text – chapters about the various ethnic groups that lived together on the mean, intensely crowded streets of Manhattan. The book achieved its purpose as it successfully provoked a public outcry about living and working conditions in the slums of New York. Most notably, Theodore Roosevelt, then the city’s police commissioner, answered Riis’s call to address the dire situations in which newly arrived immigrants found themselves. In fact, so taken was Roosevelt with Riis and his work that he dubbed Riis “the most useful citizen of New York” and “the best American I ever knew.” Roosevelt said Riis had “the great gift of making others see what he saw and feel what he felt.” Riis’s book stripped the gilding off the era of extreme wealth and conspicuous consumption to reveal the extreme poverty and squalid living conditions that lay underneath. No longer could upper- and middle-class New Yorkers ignore the “other half” who lived just a few short miles from the Fifth Avenue mansions of the Upper East Side. The title of the book is taken from a quote from French writer François Rabelais: “one half of the world does not know how the other half lives.” Riis himself was an immigrant (he hailed from Denmark) and lived for a time in the slums of the Lower East Side. Getting a job as a police reporter for the New York Tribune, he began to photograph crime scenes to augment his reporting. “I was a writer and a newspaper man,” Riis said, “and I only yelled about the conditions which I saw. My share in the work of the slums has been that. I have not had a ten-thousandth part in the fight, but I have been in it.” In addition to facing charges of staging his photos, Riis also comes in for some criticism for indulging in ethnic slurs and stereotypes in his text. But very importantly, Riis saw that it was the conditions surrounding the immigrants that made their lives wretched – their ill-fated position in New York City was not due to their ethnicity or nationality but to unscrupulous tenement landlords and sweatshop bosses. To learn more about life in the Lower East Side tenements, visit the Tenement Museum online or – better yet! – in person. And to learn more about Riis, take a look at an exhibit from the Library of Congress and the Museum of the City of New York: “Jacob Riis: Revealing How the Other Half Lives” offers a deep exploration of and numerous resources related to this groundbreaking book. An article in the Smithsonian Magazine explains how innovations in flash photography helped Riis in his efforts to use photos as a tool for social reform. Finally, the third episode of Ric Burns’s outstanding series, New York: A Documentary Film, offers a great segment on Riis and his book. If you’re ready to read this book that was so central in the history of U.S. social reform, you can check it out online on the History on the Net website. If you want a hard copy for your collection (highly recommended so that you can pore over the powerful photographs), there’s a special edition you’llwant to check out. And finally if you’re curious about the ways another photographer was chronicling life in New York City at this same time, stay tuned for next week’s StoryWeb episode on Alfred Stieglitz. Visit thestoryweb.com/riis for links to all these resources. Listen now as I read Chapter IV: “The Down Town Back-Alleys.”   Jacob Riis, How the Other Half Lives, Chapter IV: “The Down Town Back-Alleys”   DOWN below Chatham Square, in the old Fourth Ward, where the cradle of the tenement stood, we shall find New York’s Other Half at home, receiving such as care to call and are not afraid. Not all of it, to be sure, there is not room for that; but a fairly representative gathering, representative of its earliest and worst traditions. There is nothing to be afraid of. In this metropolis, let it be understood, there is no public street where the stranger may not go safely by day and by night, provided he knows how to mind his own business and is sober. His coming and going will excite little interest, unless he is suspected of being a truant officer, in which case he will be impressed with the truth of the observation that the American stock is dying out for want of children. If he escapes this suspicion and the risk of trampling upon, or being himself run down by the bewildering swarms of youngsters that are everywhere or nowhere as the exigency and their quick scent of danger direct, he will see no reason for dissenting from that observation. Glimpses caught of the parents watching the youngsters play from windows or open doorways will soon convince him that the native stock is in no way involved.    1       Leaving the Elevated Railroad where it dives under the Brooklyn Bridge at Franklin Square, scarce a dozen steps will take us where we wish to go. With its rush and roar echoing yet in our ears, we have turned the corner from prosperity to poverty. We stand upon the domain of the tenement. In the shadow of the great stone abutments the old Knickerbocker houses linger like ghosts of a departed day. Down the winding slope of Cherry Street—proud and fashionable Cherry Hill that was—their broad steps, sloping roofs, and dormer windows are easily made out; all the more easily for the contrast with the ugly barracks that elbow them right and left. These never had other design than to shelter, at as little outlay as possible, the greatest crowds out of which rent could be wrung. They were the bad after-thought of a heedless day. The years have brought to the old houses unhonored age, a querulous second childhood that is out of tune with the time, their tenants, the neighbors, and cries out against them and against you in fretful protest in every step on their rotten floors or squeaky stairs. Good cause have they for their fretting. This one, with its shabby front and poorly patched roof, what glowing firesides, what happy children may it once have owned? Heavy feet, too often with unsteady step, for the pot-house is next door—where is it not next door in these slums?—have worn away the brown-stone steps since; the broken columns at the door have rotted away at the base. Of the handsome cornice barely a trace is left. Dirt and desolation reign in the wide hallway, and danger lurks on the stairs. Rough pine boards fence off the roomy fire-places—where coal is bought by the pail at the rate of twelve dollars a ton these have no place. The arched gateway leads no longer to a shady bower on the banks of the rushing stream, inviting to day-dreams with its gentle repose, but to a dark and nameless alley, shut in by high brick walls, cheerless as the lives of those they shelter. The wolf knocks loudly at the gate in the troubled dreams that come to this alley, echoes of the day’s cares. A horde of dirty children play about the dripping hydrant, the only thing in the alley that thinks enough of its chance to make the most of it: it is the best it can do. These are the children of the tenements, the growing generation of the slums; this their home. From the great highway overhead, along which throbs the life-tide of two great cities, one might drop a pebble into half a dozen such alleys.    2        One yawns just across the street; not very broadly, but it is not to blame. The builder of the old gateway had no thought of its ever becoming a public thoroughfare. Once inside it widens, but only to make room for a big box-like building with the worn and greasy look of the slum tenement that is stamped alike on the houses and their tenants down here, even on the homeless cur that romps with the children in yonder building lot, with an air of expectant interest plainly betraying the forlorn hope that at some stage of the game a meat-bone may show up in the role of “It.” Vain hope, truly! Nothing more appetizing than a bare-legged ragamuffin appears. Meatbones, not long since picked clean, are as scarce in Blind Man’s Alley as elbow-room in any Fourth Ward back-yard. The shouts of the children come hushed over the 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 fortune— he told me once four hundred thousand dollars— out of his alley and the surrounding tenements, only to grow blind himself in extreme old age, sharing in the end the chief hardship of the wretched beings whose lot he had stubbornly refused to better that he might increase his wealth. Even when the Board of Health at last compelled him to repair and clean up the worst of the old buildings, under threat of driving out the tenants and locking the doors behind them, the work was accomplished against the old man’s angry protests. He appeared in person before the Board to argue his case, and his argument was characteristic.    3    “I have made my will,” he said. “My monument stands waiting for me in Calvary. I stand on the very brink of the grave, blind and helpless, and now (here the pathos of the appeal was swept under in a burst of angry indignation) do you want me to build and get skinned, skinned? These people are not fit to live in a nice house. Let them go where they can, and let my house stand.”    4    In spite of the genuine anguish of the appeal, it was downright amusing to find that his anger was provoked less by the anticipated waste of luxury on his tenants than by distrust of his own kind, the builder. He knew intuitively what to expect. The result showed that Mr. Murphy had gauged his tenants correctly. The cleaning up process apparently destroyed the home-feeling of the alley; many of the blind people moved away and did not return. Some remained, however and the name has clung to the place.    5    Some idea of what is meant by a sanitary “cleaning up” in these slums may be gained from the account of a mishap I met with once, in taking a flash-light picture of a group of blind beggars in one of the tenements down here. With unpractised hands I managed to set fire to the house. When the blinding effect of the flash had passed away and I could see once more, I discovered that a lot of paper and rags that hung on the wall were ablaze. There were six of us, five blind men and women who knew nothing of their danger, and myself, in an atticroom with a dozen crooked, rickety stairs between us and the street, and as many households as helpless as the one whose guest I was all about us. The thought: how were they ever to be got out? made my blood run cold as I saw the flames creeping up the wall, and my first impulse was to bolt for the street and shout for help. The next was to smother the fire myself, and I did, with a vast deal of trouble. Afterward, when I came down to the street I told a friendly policeman of my trouble. For some reason he thought it rather a good joke, and laughed immoderately at my concern lest even then sparks should be burrowing in the rotten wall that might yet break out in flame and destroy the house with all that were in it. He told me why, when he found time to draw breath. “Why, don’t you know,” he said, “that house is the Dirty Spoon? It caught fire six times last winter, but it wouldn’t burn. The dirt was so thick on the walls, it smothered the fire!” Which, if true, shows that water and dirt, not usually held to be harmonious elements, work together for the good of those who insure houses.    6   Sunless and joyless though it be, Blind Man’s Alley has that which its compeers of the slums vainly yearn for. It has a pay-day. Once a year sunlight shines into the lives of its forlorn crew, past and present. In June, when the Superintendent of Out-door Poor distributes the twenty thousand dollars annually allowed the poor blind by the city, in half-hearted recognition of its failure to otherwise provide for them, Blindman’s Alley takes a day off and goes to “see” Mr. Blake. That night it is noisy with unwonted merriment. There is scraping of squeaky fiddles in the dark rooms, and cracked old voices sing long-for-gotten songs. Even the blind landlord rejoices, for much of the money goes into his coffers.    7                From their perch up among the rafters Mrs. Gallagher’s blind boarders might hear, did they listen, the tramp of the policeman always on duty in Gotham Court, half a stone’s throw away. His beat, though it takes in but a small portion of a single block, is quite as lively as most larger patrol rounds. A double row of five-story tenements, back to back under a common roof, extending back from the street two hundred and thirty-four feet, with barred openings in the dividing wall, so that the tenants may see but cannot get at each other from the stairs, makes the “court.” Alleys—one wider by a couple of feet than the other, whence the distinction Single and Double Alley—skirt the barracks on either side. Such, briefly, is the tenement that has challenged public attention more than any other in the whole city and tested the power of sanitary law and rule for forty years. The name of the pile is not down in the City Directory, but in the public records it holds an unenviable place. It was here the mortality rose during the last great cholera epidemic to the unprecedented rate of 195 in 1,000 inhabitants. In its worst days a full thousand could not be packed into the court, though the number did probably not fall far short of it. Even now, under the management of men of conscience, and an agent, a King’s Daughter, whose practical energy, kindliness and good sense have done much to redeem its foul reputation, the swarms it shelters would make more than one fair-sized country village. The mixed character of the population, by this time about equally divided between the Celtic and the Italian stock, accounts for the iron bars and the policeman. It was an eminently Irish suggestion that the latter was to be credited to the presence of two German families in the court, who “made trouble all the time.”           A Chinaman whom I questioned as he hurried past the iron gate of the alley, put the matter in a different light. “Lem Ilish velly bad,” he said. Gotham Court has been the entering wedge for the Italian hordes, which 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.    8   It is curious to find that this notorious block, whose name was so long synonymous with all that was desperately bad, was originally built (in 1851) by a benevolent Quaker for the express purpose of rescuing the poor people from the dreadful rookeries they were then living in. How long it continued a model tenement is not on record. It could not have been very long, for already in 1862, ten years after it was finished, a sanitary official counted 146 cases of sickness in the court, including “all kinds of infectious disease,” from small-pox down, and reported that of 138 children born in it in less than three years 61 had died, mostly before they were one year old. Seven years later the inspector of the district reported to the Board of Health that “nearly ten per cent. of the population is sent to the public hospitals each year.” When the alley was finally taken in hand by the authorities, and, as a first step toward its reclamation, the entire population was driven out by the police, experience dictated, as one of the first improvements to be made, the putting in of a kind of sewer-grating, so constructed, as the official report patiently puts it, “as to prevent the ingress of persons disposed to make a hiding-place” of the sewer and the cellars into which they opened. The fact was that the big vaulted sewers had long been a runway for thieves—the Swamp Angels—who through them easily escaped when chased by the police, as well as a storehouse for their plunder. The sewers are there to-day; in fact the two alleys are nothing but the roofs of these enormous tunnels in which a man may walk upright the full distance of the block and into the Cherry Street sewer—if he likes the fun and is not afraid of rats. Could their grimy walls speak, the big canals might tell many a startling tale. But they are silent enough, and so are most of those whose secrets they might betray. The flood-gates connecting with the Cherry Street main are closed now, except when the water is drained off. Then there were no gates, and it is on record that the sewers were chosen as a short cut habitually by residents of the court whose business lay on the line of them, near a manhole, perhaps, in Cherry Street, or at the river mouth of the big pipe when it was clear at low tide. “Me Jimmy,” said one wrinkled old dame, who looked in while we were nosing about under Double Alley, “he used to go to his work along down Cherry Street that way every morning and come back at night.” The associations must have been congenial. Probably “Jimmy” himself fitted into the landscape.    9   Half-way back from the street in this latter alley is a tenement, facing the main building, on the west side of the way, that was not originally part of the court proper. It stands there a curious monument to a Quaker’s revenge, a living illustration of the power of hate to perpetuate its bitter fruit beyond the grave. The lot upon which it is built was the property of John Wood, brother of Silas, the builder of Gotham Court. He sold the Cherry Street front to a man who built upon it a tenement with entrance only from the street. Mr. Wood afterward quarrelled about the partition line with his neighbor, Alderman Mullins, who had put up a long tenement barrack on his lot after the style of the Court, and the Alderman knocked him down. Tradition records that the Quaker picked himself up with the quiet remark, “I will pay thee for that, friend Alderman,” and went his way. His manner of paying was to put up the big building in the rear of 34 Cherry Street with an immense blank wall right in front of the windows of Alderman Mullins’s tenements, shutting out effectually light and air from them. But as he had no access to the street from his building for many years it could not be let or used for anything, and remained vacant until it passed under the management of the Gotham Court property. Mullins’s Court is there yet, and so is the Quaker’s vengeful wall that has cursed the lives of thousands of innocent people since. At its farther end the alley between the two that begins inside the Cherry Street tenement, six or seven feet wide, narrows down to less than two feet. It is barely possible to squeeze through; but few care to do it, for the rift leads to the jail of the Oak Street police station, and therefore is not popular with the growing youth of the district.    10   There is crape on the door of the Alderman’s court as we pass out, and upstairs in one of the tenements preparations are making for a wake. A man lies dead in the hospital who was cut to pieces in a “can racket” in the alley on Sunday. The sway of the excise law is not extended to these back alleys. It would matter little if it were. There are secret by-ways, and some it is not held worth while to keep secret, along which the “growler” wanders at all hours and all seasons unmolested. It climbed the stairs so long and so often that day that murder resulted. It is nothing unusual on Cherry Street, nothing to “make a fuss” about. Not a week before, two or three blocks up the street, the police felt called upon to interfere in one of these can rackets at two o’clock in the morning, to secure peace for the neighborhood. The interference took the form of a general fusillade, during which one of the disturbers fell off the roof and was killed. There was the usual wake and nothing more was heard of it. What, indeed, was there to say?    11   The “Rock of Ages” is the name over the door of a low saloon that blocks the entrance to another alley, if possible more forlorn and dreary than the rest, as we pass out of the Alderman’s court. It sounds like a jeer from the days, happily past, when the “wickedest man in New York” lived around the corner a little way and boasted of his title.     One cannot take many steps in Cherry Street without encountering some relic of past or present prominence in the ways of crime, scarce one that does not turn up specimen bricks of the coming thief. The Cherry Street tough is all-pervading. Ask Suprintendent 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.    12   But though the “Swamp Angels” have gone to their reward, their successors carry on business at the old stand as successfully, if not as boldly. There goes one who was once a shining light in thiefdom. He has reformed since, they say. The policeman on the corner, who is addicted to a professional unbelief in reform of any kind, will tell you that while on the Island once he sailed away on a shutter, paddling along until he was picked up in Hell Gate by a schooner’s crew, whom he persuaded that he was a fanatic performing some sort of religious penance by his singular expedition. Over yonder, Tweed, the arch-thief, worked in a brush-shop and earned an honest living before he took to politics. As we stroll from one narrow street to another the odd contrast between the low, old-looking houses in front and the towering tenements in the back yards grows even more striking, perhaps because we expect and are looking for it. Nobody who was not would suspect the presence of the rear houses, though they have been there long enough. Here is one seven stories high behind one with only three floors. Take a look into this Roosevelt Street alley; just about one step wide, with a five-story house on one side that gets its light and air—God help us for pitiful mockery!—from this slit between brick walls. There are no windows in the wall on the other side; it is perfectly blank. The fire-escapes of the long tenement fairly touch it; but the rays of the sun, rising, setting, or at high noon, never do. It never shone into the alley from the day the devil planned and man built it. There was once an English doctor who experimented with the sunlight in the soldiers’ barracks, and found that on the side that was shut off altogether from the sun the mortality was one hundred per cent. greater than on the light side, where its rays had free access. But then soldiers are of some account, have a fixed value, if not a very high one. The people who live here have not. The horse that pulls the dirt-cart one of these laborers loads and unloads is of ever so much more account to the employer of his labor than he and all that belongs to him. Ask the owner; he will not attempt to deny it, if the horse is worth anything. The man too knows it. It is the one thought that occasionally troubles the owner of the horse in the enjoyment of his prosperity, built of and upon the successful assertion of the truth that all men are created equal.    13    With what a shock did the story of yonder Madison Street alley come home to New Yorkers one morning, eight or ten years ago, when a fire that broke out after the men had gone to their work swept up those narrow stairs and burned up women and children to the number of a full half score. There were fire-escapes, yes! but so placed that they could not be reached. The firemen had to look twice before they could find the opening that passes for a thoroughfare; a stout man would never venture in. Some wonderfully heroic rescues were made at that fire by people living in the adjoining tenements. Danger and trouble— of the imminent kind, not the everyday sort that excites neither interest nor commiseration— run even this common clay into heroic moulds on occasion; occasions that help us to remember that the gap that separates the man with the patched coat from his wealthy neighbor is, after all, perhaps but a tenement. Yet, what a gap! and of whose making? Here, as we stroll along Madison Street, workmen are busy putting the finishing touches to the brown-stone front of a tall new tenement. This one will probably be called an apartment house. They are carving satyrs’ heads in the stone, with a crowd of gaping youngsters looking on in admiring wonder. Next door are two other tenements, likewise with brown-stone fronts, fair to look at. The youngest of the children in the group is not too young to remember how their army of tenants was turned out by the health officers because the houses had been condemned as unfit for human beings to live in. The owner was a wealthy builder who “stood high in the community.” Is it only in our fancy that the sardonic leer on the stone faces seems to list that way? Or is it an introspective grin? We will not ask if the new house belongs to the same builder. He too may have reformed.    14    We have crossed the boundary of the Seventh Ward. Penitentiary Row, suggestive name for a block of Cherry Street tenements, is behind us. Within recent days it has become peopled wholly with Hebrews, the overflow from Jewtown adjoining, pedlars and tailors, all of them. It is odd to read this legend from other days over the door: “No pedlars allowed in this house.” These thrifty people are not only crowding into the tenements of this once exclusive district— they are buying them. The Jew runs to real estate as soon as he can save up enough for a deposit to clinch the bargain. As fast as the old houses are torn down, towering structures go up in their place, and Hebrews are found to be the builders. Here is a whole alley nicknamed after the intruder, Jews’ Alley. But abuse and ridicule are not weapons to fight the Israelite with. He pockets them quietly with the rent and bides his time. He knows from experience, both sweet and bitter, that all things come to those who wait, including the houses and lands of their Persecutors.    15    Here comes a pleasure party, as gay as any on the avenue, though the carry-all is an ash-cart. The father is the driver and he has taken his brown-legged boy for a ride. How proud and happy they both look up there on their perch! The queer old building they have halted in front of is “The Ship,” famous for fifty years as a ramshackle tenement filled with the oddest crowd. No one knows why it is called “The Ship,” though there is a tradition that once the river came clear up here to Hamilton Street, and boats were moored along-side it. More likely it is because it is as bewildering inside as a crazy old ship, with its ups and downs of ladders parading as stairs, and its unexpected pitfalls. But Hamilton Street, like Water Street, is not what it was. The missions drove from the latter the worst of its dives. A sailors’ mission has lately made its appearance in Hamilton Street, but there are no dives there, nothing worse than the ubiquitous saloon and tough tenements.    16   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 feed your way, if you cannot see it. Close? Yes! What would you have? All the fresh air that ever enters these stairs comes from the hall-door that is forever slamming, and from the windows of dark bedrooms that in turn receive from the stairs their sole supply of the elements God meant to be free, but man deals out with such niggardly hand. That was a woman filling her pail by the hydrant you just bumped against. The sinks are in the hallway, that all the tenants may have access—and all be poisoned alike by their summer stenches. Hear the pump squeak! It is the lullaby of tenement-house babes. In summer, when a thousand thirsty throats pant for a cooling drink in this block, it is worked in vain. But the saloon, whose open door you passed in the hall, is always there. The smell of it has followed you up. Here is a door. Listen! That short hacking cough, that tiny, helpless wail—what do they mean? They mean that the soiled bow of white you saw on the door downstairs will have another story to tell—Oh! a sadly familiar story—before the day is at an end. The child is dying with measles. With half a chance it might have lived; but it had none. That dark bedroom killed it.    17   “It was took all of a suddint,” says the mother, smoothing the throbbing little body with trembling hands. There is no unkindness in the rough voice of the man in the jumper, who sits by the window grimly smoking a clay pipe, with the little life ebbing out in his sight, bitter as his words sound: “Hush, Mary! If we cannot keep the baby, need we complain—such as we?”    18   Such as we! What if the words ring in your ears as we grope our way up the stairs and down from floor to floor, listening to the sounds behind the closed doors—some of quarrelling, some of coarse songs, more of profanity. They are true. When the summer heats come with their suffering they have meaning more terrible than words can tell. Come over here. Step carefully over this baby—it is a baby, spite of its rags and dirt—under these iron bridges called fire-escapes, but loaded down, despite the incessant watchfulness of the firemen, with broken house-hold goods, with wash-tubs and barrels, over which no man could climb from a fire. This gap between dingy brick-walls is the yard. That strip of smoke-colored sky up there is the heaven of these people. Do you wonder the name does not attract them to the churches? That baby’s parents live in the rear tenement here. She is at least as clean as the steps we are now climbing. There are plenty of houses with half a hundred such in. The tenement is much like the one in front we just left, only fouler, closer, darker—we will not say more cheerless. The word is a mockery. A hundred thousand people lived in rear tenements in New York last year. Here is a room neater than the rest. The woman, a stout matron with hard lines of care in her face, is at the wash-tub. “I try to keep the childer clean,” she says, apologetically, but with a hopeless glance around. The spice of hot soap-suds is added to the air already tainted with the smell of boiling cabbage, of rags and uncleanliness all about. It makes an overpowering compound. It is Thursday, but patched linen is hung upon the pulley-line from the window. There is no Monday cleaning in the tenements. It is wash-day all the week round, for a change of clothing is scarce among the poor. They are poverty’s honest badge, these perennial lines of rags hung out to dry, those that are not the washerwoman’s professional shingle. The true line to be drawn between pauperism and honest poverty is the clothes-line. With it begins the effort to be clean that is the first and the best evidence of a desire to be honest.    19   What sort of an answer, think you, would come from these tenements to the question “Is life worth living?” were they heard at all in the discussion? It may be that this, cut from the last report but one of the Association for the Improvement of the Condition of the Poor, a long name for a weary task, has a suggestion of it: “In the depth of winter the attention of the Association was called to a Protestant family living in a garret in a miserable tenement in Cherry Street. The family’s condition was most deplorable. The man, his wife, and three small children shivering in one room through the roof of which the pitiless winds of winter whistled. The room was almost barren of furniture; the parents slept on the floor, the elder children in boxes, and the baby was swung in an old shawl attached to the rafters by cords by way of a hammock. The father, a seaman, had been obliged to give up that calling because he was in consumption, and was unable to provide either bread or fire for his little ones.”    20   Perhaps this may be put down as an exceptional case, but one that came to my notice some months ago in a Seventh Ward tenement was typical enough to escape that reproach. There were nine in the family: husband, wife, an aged grandmother, and six children; honest, hard-working Germans, scrupulously neat, but poor. All nine lived in two rooms, one about ten feet square that served as parlor, bedroom, and eating-room, the other a small hall-room made into a kitchen. The rent was seven dollars and a half a month, more than a week’s wages for the husband and father, who was the only bread-winner in the family. That day the mother had thrown herself out of the window, and was carried up from the street dead. She was “discouraged,” said some of the other women from the tenement, who had come in to look after the children while a messenger carried the news to the father at the shop. They went stolidly about their task, although they were evidently not without feeling for the dead woman. No doubt she was wrong in not taking life philosophically, as did the four families a city missionary found housekeeping in the four corners of one room. They got along well enough together until one of the families took a boarder and made trouble. Philosophy, according to my optimistic friend, naturally inhabits the tenements. The people who live there come to look upon death in a different way from the rest of us—do not take it as hard. He has never found time to explain how the fact fits into his general theory that life is not unbearable in the tenements. Unhappily for the philosophy of the slums, it is too apt to be of the kind that readily recognizes the saloon, always handy, as the refuge from every trouble, and shapes its practice according to the discovery.    21      

We rewatch episodes 11-15 and can't help but love it. You can contact us at rvbrewatch@gmail.com   Originally Released November 20th, 2010 Episodes Discussed: S01E11 Knock, knock. Who's there? Pain. S01E12 Down, but not Out S01E13 Human Peer Bonding S01E14 Roomier Than it Looks S01E15 How the Other Half Lives

If you experience any technical difficulties with this video or would like to make an accessibility-related request, please send a message to digicomm@uchicago.edu. Gregory S. Jackson is an assistant professor of English and American Studies at Rutgers University. He has published essays in leading journals (Representations, American Literary History, and PMLA) and is the author of the forthcoming book "The Word and its Witness: The Spiritualization of American Realism" (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009). Jackson's work explores the development of religious media in America. Focusing on the vast, but mostly overlooked, history of evangelical culture that began during the Great Awakening and that helped make Charles Sheldon's "In His Steps" -- with its now familiar question "What would Jesus do?" -- the best-selling novel of the nineteenth century, Jackson demonstrates how the homiletic tradition in Protestantism provided a foundation for the development of visual and literary realism in the nineteenth century. He also reveals how the efforts of evangelical preachers and writers to translate abstract concepts like hell into concrete reality paved the way for Protestantism's embrace of new media, from Jacob Riis' photographs in "How the Other Half Lives" to the contemporary video game "Left Behind: Eternal Forces."

Episode 21 of Second Shift: How the Other Half Lives