Podcasts about sister carrie

We're joined by a very special guest host: Paige Zukauskas! Paige brings her knowledge and passion for Dreiser to this week's episode as we explore another mostly midwest author, discuss Sister Carrie, and track adventures across political and social ideologies! Dreiser wrote many groundbreaking novels but isn't often celebrated as other authors from this period. We speculate on this and celebrate his legacy, it's a trip! 

Join our host, Bromo, from 96.5 The Walleye in Bismarck for "There Is A Way Out". For anyone who may feel there is no hope. I have felt the anguish of having to drink every day, and at times it was impossible to think of staying sober one day. I want to share my strength, hope, and experience with others.

Everyone says Henry's wife, Phoebe, has died. But to Henry, she's still alive. Theodore Dreiser, today on The Classic Tales Podcast.  Welcome to this Vintage Episode of The Classic Tales Podcast. Thank you for listening. Two Vintage Episodes are released each week, so be sure to check your feed regularly. New episodes will be available every Friday. If you like the Vintage Episodes, please let us know by going to http://classictalesaudiobooks.com. Become a supporter, tell your friends, order an audiobook, or send us an email. You can also give us a review on Apple Podcasts. We'd love to hear if you like the older episodes.  Theodore Dreiser was a leading figure of a new literary movement in America, replacing the observances of the Victorian days with new social problems that reflected the industrialization of America. His best known works are Sister Carrie (1922), and An American Tragedy (1925).  Dreiser's works are far from perfect, and tend to get longer as you read them. However, like many who brave new paths, the writers before Dreiser were remarkably different than those who followed him. While perhaps not a perfect guidepost, he nevertheless showed a new path and took a few wavering steps. The Lost Phoebe is the only one of Dreiser's titles in the Classic Tales canon. I've tried to return to him over the past 16 years and it just hasn't worked out. Strange, because The Lost Phoebe has some absolutely masterful moments.  And now, The Lost Phoebe, by Theodore Dreiser. Follow this link to become a monthly supporter: Follow this link to subscribe to our YouTube Channel: Follow this link to subscribe to the Arsène Lupin Podcast:   Follow this link to follow us on Instagram:  Follow this link to follow us on Facebook:  Follow this link to follow us on TikTok:    

In this episode, host Douglas Cowie and his guest, Dr. Katie McGettigan, Senior Lecturer in American Literature at Royal Holloway, University of London, discuss Sister Carrie, a novel by Theodore Dreiser. Published in 1900, it tells the story of a young woman seduced by the material trappings of Chicago and its men

In this episode of Money Tales, our guest is Sylvie Sadarnac. Sylvie made an extreme career pivot in her third act of life. She had a career in corporate communications, and in her mid-40s she decided to pursue comedy writing. As a matter of fact, Sylvie was the only middle-aged woman in her Second City writing class. She blossomed in that environment, and has been facing the ultimate question ever since: How much is she willing to give up to live a creative life? Sylvie is an actor, writer, and content strategist. After a decade in corporate communications, she opened her own practice helping small- to mid-sized businesses connect with their audiences through tight messaging and positioning. As she neared the third third of life, she decided to go back to doing what she is most passionate about: writing and later, acting. In 2016, Sylvie was cast as a recurring character on Amazon's Patriot, which took her to Prague and Paris for filming. She also appears in Dan Nearing's Sister Carrie, currently on the festival circuit. While prepping to produce a short that she wrote and will act in soon, Sylvie continues to develop web content strategies for individuals and small companies. See all episodes >

In this episode of Money Tales, our guest is Sylvie Sadarnac. Sylvie made an extreme career pivot in her third act of life. She had a career in corporate communications, and in her mid-40s she decided to pursue comedy writing. As a matter of fact, Sylvie was the only middle-aged woman in her Second City writing class. She blossomed in that environment, and has been facing the ultimate question ever since: How much is she willing to give up to live a creative life?Sylvie is an actor, writer, and content strategist. After a decade in corporate communications, she opened her own practice helping small- to mid-sized businesses connect with their audiences through tight messaging and positioning. As she neared the third third of life, she decided to go back to doing what she is most passionate about: writing and later, acting. In 2016, Sylvie was cast as a recurring character on Amazon's Patriot, which took her to Prague and Paris for filming. She also appears in Dan Nearing's Sister Carrie, currently on the festival circuit. While prepping to produce a short that she wrote and will act in soon, Sylvie continues to develop web content strategies for individuals and small companies.Learn more about Money Tale$ > Subscribe to the podcast Recent episodes See all episodes > Form CRS Form ADV Terms of Use Privacy Rights and Policies

episode 11 of season 3: an 80 minute episode from us???? crazy! in responding to a listener submitted hot take from Adin, we discuss our experiences with and how we engage with race/gender/perception and community as gaylor swifties of color, when a lot of the gaylor community seems to be white. Sunny mentions @sillygoofygirlseekinggf on Tik Tok, and Renaissance addresses their apprehension towards Taylor's shifting fan base. We discuss the queerness of hyper femininity and Taylor Swift's queerness, especially in regards to who and why some people recognize it. Simply put, the other pop girlies are not doing it like blondie! Renaissance also references Whitney Houston as an example of a woman existing in the public perception as an icon for the gay community, when she, like many other queer pop icons, was gay herself. Sunny references the Patreon exclusive bonus episode we recorded discussing the 1996 film The Watermelon Woman (dir. Cheryl Dunye.) ( btw join our Patreon for access to 2 bonus episodes a month as well as early access to episodes and the video recordings of episodes! https://www.patreon.com/TheLavenderMenace) For the media analysis portion of this episode, we talk hyperpop and rank + review the new Charli XCX album, CRASH. In our media recommendations, Renaissance pitches the 1927 silent film, Children of Divorce, which is surprisingly non-problematic and leads Sunny to mention Henry James' The Portrait of a Lady and Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie. Sunny's book recommendation this week is the recently released essay collection Girls Can Kiss Now by Jill Gutowitz, whom we discussed in our previous episode's hot take about the New York Post's shitty article about lesbian fashion. Jill, if you're listening, you should come on the podcast after Renaissance reads your book!!! We had the author of The Divines, Ellie Eaton, on the podcast season 1, so hit us up at (and other listeners, send your hot takes here as well) thelavendermenacepodcast@gmail.com. You can find us on Instagram, Twitter, and Letterboxd for more unhinged swiftie ramblings. XOXO

John J. Miller is joined by Miriam Gogol of Mercy College to discuss Theodore Dreiser's book 'Sister Carrie.'

Teaser: Theodore Dreiser (1871-1945), American novelist, author of Sister Carrie and An American Tragedy, on New York City.Song 1: “Old Joe,” written and performed by John V. Modaff.Poem 1: “Halifax, 1917, Then and Never Again,” by Sandra Yanonne from Boats for Women, 2019, Salmon Poetry.Short Story: excerpt from “Words Shimmer” by Lynn C. Miller, Chautauqua Journal, 2016. www.lynncmiller.comFeed the Cat Break: song “New York,” arranged and performed by Tbone Kelly, from Druidbone; Cast an Irish Circle, 2001 based on AE (George Russell) poems about New York and The Cities, Macmillan 1935.Poem 2: “Passerby” by Jack Cooper, from Across My Silence, 2007, World Audience, Inc. Jack CooperSong 2: “Why Not?” written and performed by John V. Modaff.Episode artwork by Lynda MillerTheme and Incidental Music by John V. ModaffRecorded in Albuquerque NM and Morehead KY.  Produced at The Creek Studio.NEXT UP:  The Unruly Muse #13: “Superstition”

This week, Rev. Dr. Barbara Gorsky brings us a Broad who has greatly influenced her personally - Sister Carrie Miller, of Sisters of the Living Word! The founder of Faith Community Homes (now Family Forward), for decades she has served the homeless and poverty stricken communities of the northwest Chicago suburbs. Her service to the community is legendary and she's transformed so many people's lives, not only those that she's served, but also those she's taught to serve, like Rev. Gorsky! — A Broad is a woman who lives by her own rules. Broads You Should Know is the podcast about the Broads who helped shape our world! 3 Ways you can help support the podcast: Write a review on iTunes Share your favorite episode on social media / tell a friend about the show! Send us an email with a broad suggestion, question, or comment at BroadsYouShouldKnow@gmail.com — Broads You Should Know is hosted by Sara Gorsky. IG: @SaraGorsky Web master / site design: www.BroadsYouShouldKnow.com — Broads You Should Know is produced by Sara Gorsky & edited by Chloe Skye

Happy New Year to all our listeners! It's 2022, and Lobo and Trash discuss Gothic and erotic literature, the role literature plays in our lives, and the future of this planet. And they recommend some more items for the FDF list – try at your own risk! Marquis de Sade https://www.amazon.com/Marquis-de-Sade/e/B004MPDPZG?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2&qid=1640638993&sr=8-2 Theodore Dreiser, Sister Carrie https://www.amazon.com/Sister-Carrie-Theodore-becoming-actress/dp/1975828836 Catherine Millet – The Sexual Life of Catherine M. https://www.amazon.com/Sexual-Life-Catherine-Serpents-Classics-ebook/dp/B008LRLVTI/ref=sr_1_2?crid=8PSNQ2HWSI4U&keywords=catherine+millet&qid=1640639055&s=digital-text&sprefix=catherine+millet%2Cdigital-text%2C119&sr=1-2 Exterminate All the Brutes -- https://www.hbo.com/exterminate-all-the-brutes Hellbound -- https://www.netflix.com/title/81256675 Angeline's Louisiana Kitchen -- https://angelineskitchen.com/index.html Koronet Pizza -- https://www.koronetpizzany.com/ As always, you can reach us at trashandlobo@gmail.com

A conversation with my dear sister Carrie. She is a lawyer and currently co-CEO of Clue. We talk about differences and similarities in our fields.

Dreiser was born in Indiana, America. His parents were of German origin. They were very poor. He spent his childhood in poverty. He went to university but didn't take a degree. In 1892 he started to work as a reporter for Chicago newspapers. His first novel Sister Carrie is about a young woman who doesn't want to live in the countryside. She goes to the city and becomes a famous actress. The novel makes people think about morality and lifestyle. It was called the greatest of all American urbal novels. In his other novels he shows different situations where young people want to have a lot of money. Some of such people become criminals. People killed for money, married for money and it was called the American kind of crime. Dreiser also was a poet. He wrote about poverty and ambition. He understood the social injustice of the working class and joined the Communist party USA in 1945. His business novels make people think about life and goals in life. There is a Dreiser college in New York. Also, you can see his name in a Chicago Literary Hall of Fame. He is one of the greatest unique American writers, who showed some important aspects of social life.

疫情把城市的一些問題凸顯出來，給了我們聊“城市”這個話題的機會。城市曾經是邪惡、誘惑和具有摧毀力量的地方，這一點在文學和電影中多有表現。 美國的作家德萊塞的《嘉莉妹妹》(Sister Carrie) 被認爲是這個主題的經典。辛克萊的《叢林》(The Jungle) 則反映了東歐移民在大城市的悲慘生活。兩部長篇小説都以芝加哥為背景，但意義深遠。 法國作家巴爾扎克的作品，也不乏探討城市主題。 電影《第凡内的早餐》(Breakfast at Tiffanity's)、《午夜牛郎》(Midnight Cowboy) 也耐人尋味地表現城市的殺傷力。 最近Netflix的一部西班牙影片《平台》(The Platform) 多少表現了人類社會的殘酷。但城市也有它的輝煌和對人類永久的貢獻。改變世界的人多在城市。現在城市有什麽問題？

Welcome back to Papercuts, our monthly books podcast hosted by Louisa Kasza, Jenna Todd and Kiran Dass.After a few extra weeks off, Papercuts are back to chat the controversial Booker decision, NZ Bookshop Day, the Goldsmith shortlist & some exciting upcoming author events! Book reviews and to be read piles are all divulged as well as some not books too. Settle in with Jenna, Kiran and Louisa - we love your support!Thanks to The Spinoff and the Mātātuhi Foundation for their support.Show notes are below:Book newsJoint winners of the Booker Prize 2019:- The Testaments by Margaret Atwood and Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo.- Article by Galley Beggar Press: https://www.the-tls.co.uk/articles/public/what-happened-booker-prize-ellmann/- New Zealand Bookshop Day is THIS Saturday 26 October https://www.booksellers.co.nz/whats-on- Goldsmiths Shortlist https://www.gold.ac.uk/goldsmiths-prize/- Zadie Smith - Wednesday 13th November James Hay Theatrehttps://wordchristchurch.co.nz/programme/an-evening-with-zadie-smith/- - Patti Smith is coming to Christchurch and Aucklandhttps://www.undertheradar.co.nz/news/16550/Patti-Smith-New-Zealand-Shows-Announced.utr- Verb Wellington's Litcrawl: https://www.verbwellington.nz/Congrats to the winner of Inland by Tea Obreht: Ali Horsley!Thank you to Hachette for making this happen!Book reviewsLK: Scented by Laurence Fearnley- https://www.fragrantica.com/- Sister Carrie by Theodore DreiserJT: The Grammarians by Cathleen Schine- Reunion of Ghosts by Judith Claire MitchellKD: The Country Life by Rachel Cusk- Damascus by Christos Tsiolkas- The Ice Shelf by Anne KennedyOnline picksLK: The Age of Rudeness by Rachel Cusk for the New York TimesKD:‘A Short Run: A Selection of NZ Lathe Cut Records’ at ObjectspaceJT: ‘Downtime’ on iphone (in settings/screentime)The TBR PileKD: Vivian by Christina HesselholdtOutlier by Rachel CuskPatience by Toby LitFace it by Debbie HarryThe River Capture by Mary CostelloSinead GleesonActress by Anne EnrightLK: The Boyfriend by Laura SouthgateGreen Book and Screen Tests by Kate ZambrenoThe Address by Fiona DavisCall Me Evie by J. P. PomareJT: A Sharp Left Turn by Mike ChunnRich Enough? by Mary HolmDucks, Newburyport by Lucy EllmanThank you Alice for recording and the Matatuhi Foundation for your support.Follow us on Instagram: @papercutspod and email us! papercutspod@gmail.com See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

A literary psychological thriller by award-winning author William H. Coles. Two orphaned sisters, facing a future of want and loneliness, quarrel when the older sister, responsible for her dependent teenage sibling, repudiates her sister’s affair with a political activist–older and unacceptable–she bonds with on the internet. Can adolescent love ever transcend innocently ignored incompatibility to ... Go To Episode The post Podcast #35, the novella “Sister Carrie”, by William H. Coles appeared first on Story in Fiction.

Sister Carrie, an opera by American composer Robert Aldridge, was first performed in 2012. Theodore Dreiser’s Sister Carrie, the novel on which the opera was based, was written in 1900. It was one of the first American novels about social status which, for women around the turn of the 20th century, depended almost entirely on men. Marriage and motherhood were for the majority the only life options. For many today, such observations still carry varying degrees of resonance. Aldridge’s powerful music charges up the themes of social standing and the lure of money; a small-town girl’s tortuous path to fame and her lover’s abject descent into despair. Raymond Bisha introduces the work.

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."