new york city has one hundred thousand people who, under unfavorable conditions, work with their fingers for so little money that they are understood, even by the uninitiated general public, to form a class by themselves. these are by some called sewing-machine workers, by others tenement toilers, and by still others sweatshop employees; but, in a general sense, the term, tenement workers, includes them all. they form a great section in one place, and in others little patches, ministered to by storekeepers and trade agents who are as much underpaid and nearly as hard-working as they themselves.

go into any one of these areas and you will encounter a civilization that is as strange and un-american as if it were not included in this land at all. pushcarts and market-stalls are among the most distinctive features. little stores and grimy windows are also characteristic of these sections. there is an atmosphere of crowdedness and poverty which goes with both. any one can see that these people are living energetically. there is something about the hurry and enthusiasm of their life that reminds you of ants.

if you stay and turn your attention from the traffic proper, the houses begin to attract your attention. they are nearly all four-story or five-story buildings, with here and there one of six, and still another of seven stories; all without elevators, and all, with the exception of the last,86 exceedingly old. there are narrow entrance-ways, dingy and unlighted, which lead up dark and often rickety stairs. there are other alley-ways, which lead, like narrow tunnels, to rear tenements and back shops. iron fire escapes descend from the roof to the first floor, in every instance, because the law compels it. iron stairways sometimes ascend, where no other means of entrance is to be had. there are old pipes which lead upward and carry water. no such thing as sanitary plumbing exists. you will not often see a gas-light in a hall in as many as two blocks of houses. you will not see one flat in ten with hot and cold water arrangements. other districts have refrigerators and stationary washstands, and bath tubs as a matter of course, but these people do not know what modern conveniences mean. steam heat and hot and cold water tubs and sinks have never been installed in this area.

the houses are nearly all painted a dull red, and nearly all are divided in the most unsanitary manner. originally they were built five rooms deep, with two flats on a floor, but now the single flats have been subdivided and two or three, occasionally four or five, families live and toil in the space which was originally intended for one. there are families so poor, or so saving and unclean, that they huddle with other families, seven or eight persons in two rooms. iron stands covered by plain boards make a bed which can be enlarged or reduced at will. when night comes, four, five, six, sometimes seven such people stretch out on these beds. when morning comes the bedclothes, if such they may be called, are cleared away and the board basis is used as a table. one room87 holds the stove, the cooking utensils, the chairs, and the sewing machine. the other contains the bed, the bed-clothing, and various kinds of stored material. eating, sleeping, and usually some washing are done there.

i am giving the extreme instances, unfortunately common to the point of being numerous. in the better instances three or four people are housed in two rooms. how many families there are that live less closely quartered than this would not be very easy to say. on the average, five people live in two rooms. a peddler or a pushcart man who can get to where he can occupy two rooms, by having his wife and children work, is certain that he is doing well. fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, go out to work. if the father cannot get work and the mother can, then that is the order of procedure. if the daughter cannot get work and the mother and father can, it is the daughter’s duty to take care of the house and take in sewing. if any of the boys and girls are too young to go out and enter the shops, duty compels them to help on the piecework that is taken into the rooms. everything is work, in one form or another, from morning until night.

as for the people themselves, they are a strange mixture of all races and all creeds. day after day you will see express wagons and trucks leaving the immigration station at the battery, loaded to crowding with the latest arrivals, who are being taken as residents to one or another colony of this crowded section. there are greeks, italians, russians, poles, syrians, armenians and hungarians. jews are so numerous that they have to be88 classified with the various nations whose language they speak. all are poverty-stricken, all venturing into this new world to make their living. the vast majority have absolutely nothing more than the ten dollars which the immigration inspectors are compelled to see that they have when they arrive. these people recruit the territory in question.

in the same hundred thousand, and under the same tenement conditions, are many who are not foreign-born. i know personally of american fathers who have got down to where it is necessary to work as these foreigners work. there are home-grown american mothers who have never been able to lift themselves above the conditions in which they find themselves to-day. thousands of children born and reared in new york city are growing up under conditions which would better become a slum section of constantinople.

i know a chamber in this section where, at a plain wooden bench or table, sits a aged" target="_blank">middle-aged hungarian and his wife, with a fifteen-year-old daughter, sewing. the hungarian is perhaps not honestly gentile, for he looks as if he might have hebrew blood in his veins. the mother and the daughter partake of a dark olive tinge, more characteristic of the italian than of anything else. it must be a coincidence, however, for these races rarely mix. between them and upon a nearby chair are piled many pairs of trousers, all awaiting their labor. two buckles and a button must be sewed on every one. the rough edges at the bottom must be turned up and basted,89 and the inside about the top must be lined with a kind of striped cotton which is already set loosely in place. it is their duty to sew closely with their hands what is already basted. no machine worker can do this work, and so it is sent out to such as these, under the practice of tenement distribution. their duty is to finish it.

toilers of the tenements

there would be no need to call attention to these people except that in this instance they have unwittingly violated the law. tenement workers, under the new dispensation, cannot do exactly as they please. it is not sufficient for them to have an innate and necessitous desire to work. they must work under special conditions. thus, it is now written that the floors must be clean and the ceilings whitewashed. there must not be any dirt on the walls. no room in which they work must have such a thing as a bed in it, and no three people may ever work together in one room. law and order prescribe that one is sufficient. these others—father and daughter, or mother and daughter, or mother and father—should go out into the shops, leaving just one here to work. such is the law.

these three people, who have only these two trades, have complied with scarcely any of these provisions. the room is not exactly as clean as it should be. the floor is dirty. overhead is a smoky ceiling, and in one corner is a bed. the two small windows before which they labor do not give sufficient ventilation, and so the air in the chamber is stale. worst of all, they are working three in a chamber, and have no license.

“how now,” asks an inspector, opening the door—for there is very little civility of manner observed by90 these agents of the law who constantly regulate these people—“any pants being finished here?”

“how?” says the hungarian, looking purblindly up. it is nothing new to him to have his privacy thus invaded. unless he has been forewarned and has his door locked, police and detectives, to say nothing of health inspectors and other officials, will frequently stick their heads in or walk in and inquire after one thing or another. sometimes they go leisurely through his belongings and threaten him for concealing something. there is a general tendency to lord it over and browbeat him, for what reason he has no conception. other officials do it in the old country; perhaps it is the rule here.

“so,” says the inspector, stepping authoritatively forward, “finishing pants, eh? all three of you? got a license?”

“vot?” inquires the pale hungarian, ceasing his labor.

“where is your license—your paper? haven’t you got a paper?”

the hungarian, who has not been in this form of work long enough to know the rules, puts his elbows on the table and gazes nervously into the newcomer’s face. what is this now that the gentleman wants? his wife looks her own inquiry and speaks of it to her daughter.

“what is it he wants?” says the father to the child.

“it is a paper,” returns the daughter in hungarian. “he says we must have a license.”

“paper?” repeats the hungarian, looking up and shaking his head in the negative. “no.”

91 “oh, so you haven’t got a license then? i thought so. who are you working for?”

the father stares at the child. seeing that he does not understand, the inspector goes on: “the boss, the boss! what boss gave you these pants to finish?”

“oh,” returns the little girl, who understands somewhat better than the rest, “the boss, yes. he wants to know what boss gave us these pants.” this last in a foreign tongue to her father.

“tell him,” says the mother in hungarian, “that the name is strakow.”

“strakow,” repeats the daughter.

“strakow, eh?” says the inspector. “well, i’ll see mr. strakow. you must not work on these any more. do you hear? listen, you,” and he turns the little girl’s face up to him, “you tell your father that he can’t do any more of this work until he gets a license. he must go up to no. 1 madison avenue and get a paper. i don’t know whether they’ll give it to him or not, but he can go and ask. then he must clean this floor. the ceiling must be whitewashed—see?”

the little girl nods her head.

“you can’t keep this bed in here, either,” he adds. “you must move the bed out into the other room if you can. you mustn’t work here. only one can work here. two of you must go out into the shop.”

all the time the careworn parents are leaning forward eagerly, trying to catch the drift of what they cannot possibly understand. both interrupt now and then with a “what is it?” in hungarian, which the daughter has no time to heed. she is so busy trying to understand92 half of it herself that there is no time for explanation. finally she says to her parents:

“he says we cannot all work here.”

“vot?” says the father. “no vork?”

“no,” replies the daughter. “three of us can’t work in one room. it’s against the law. only one. he says that only one can work in this room.”

“how!” he exclaims, as the little girl goes on making vaguely apparent what these orders are. as she proceeds the old fellow’s face changes. his wife leans forward, her whole attitude expressive of keen, sympathetic anxiety.

“no vork?” he repeats. “i do no more vork?”

“no,” insists the inspector, “not with three in one room.”

the hungarian puts out his right leg, and it becomes apparent that an injury has befallen him. words he pours upon his daughter, who explains that he has been a pushcart peddler but has received a severe injury to his leg and cannot walk. helping to sew is all that he can do.

“well,” says the inspector when he hears of this, “that’s too bad, but i can’t help it. it’s the law. you’ll have to see the department about it. i can’t help it.”

astonished and distressed, the daughter explains, and then they sit in silence. five cents a pair is all they have been able to earn since the time the father became expert, and all they can do, working from five in the morning until eleven at night, is two dozen pairs a day—in other words, to earn seven dollars and twenty cents a week. if they delay for anything, as they often must,93 the income drops to six, and quite often to five, dollars. two dollars a week is their tax for rent.

“so!” says the father, his mouth open. he is too deeply stricken and nonplussed to know what to do. the mother nervously turns her hands.

“you hear now,” says the inspector, taking out a tag and fastening it upon the goods—“no more work. go and see the department.”

“how?” asks the father, staring at his helpless family after the door has closed.

how indeed!

in the same round the inspector will come a little later to the shop from which the old hungarian secured the trousers for finishing. he is armed with full authority over all of these places. in his pocket lie the tags, one of which he puts on a lot of clothing just ordered halted. if that tag is removed it is a penal offense. if it stays on no one can touch the goods until the contractor explains to the factory inspector how he has come to be giving garments for finishing to dwellers in tenements who have not a license. this is a criminal offense on his part. now he must not touch the clothes he sent over there. if the old hungarian returns them he must not accept them or pay him any money. this contractor and his clients offer a study in themselves.

his shop is on the third floor of a rear building, which was once used for dwelling purposes but is now given over entirely to clothing manufactories or sweatshops. a flight of dark, ill-odored, rickety stairs gives access to it. there is noise and chatter audible, a thick mixture94 of sounds from whirring sewing machines and muttering human beings. when you open the door a gray-haired hebrew, whose long beard rests patriarchally upon his bosom, looks over his shoulders at you from a brick furnace, where he is picking up a reheated iron. others glance up from their bent positions over machines and ironing-boards. it is a shadowy, hot-odored, floor-littered room.

“have you a finisher doing work for you by the name of koslovsky?” inquires the inspector of a thin, bright-eyed syrian jew, who is evidently the proprietor of this establishment.

“koslovsky?” he says after him, in a nervous, fawning, conciliatory manner. “koslovsky? what is he? no.”

“finisher, i said.”

“yes, finisher—finisher, that’s it. he does no work for me—only a little—a pair of pants now and then.”

“you knew that he didn’t have a license, didn’t you?”

“no, no. i did not. no license? did he not have a license?”

“you’re supposed to know that. i’ve told you that before. you’ll have to answer at the office for this. i’ve tagged his goods. don’t you receive them now. do you hear?”

“yes,” says the proprietor excitedly. “i would not receive them. he will get no more work from me. when did you do that?”

“just this morning. your goods will go up to headquarters.”

95 “so,” he replied weakly. “that is right. it is just so. come over here.”

the inspector follows him to a desk in the corner.

“could you not help me out of this?” he asks, using a queer jewish accent. “i did not know this once. you are a nice man. here is a present for you. it is funny i make this mistake.”

“no,” returns the inspector, shaking his head. “keep your money. i can’t do anything. these goods are tagged. you must learn not to give out finishing to people without a license.”

“that is right,” he exclaims. “you are a nice man, anyhow. keep the money.”

“why should i keep the money? you’ll have to explain anyhow. i can’t do anything for you.”

“that is all right,” persists the other. “keep it, anyhow. don’t bother me in the future. there!”

“no, we can’t do that. money won’t help you. just observe the law—that’s all i want.”

“the law, the law,” repeats the other curiously. “that is right. i will observe him.”

such is one story—almost the whole story. this employer, so nervous in his wrongdoings, so anxious to bribe, is but a little better off than those who work for him.

in other tenements and rear buildings are other shops and factories, but they all come under the same general description. men, women and children are daily making coats, vests, knee-pants and trousers. there are side branches of overalls, cloaks, hats, caps, suspenders, jerseys and blouses. some make dresses and96 waists, underwear and neckwear, waist bands, skirts, shirts and purses; still others, fur, or fur trimmings, feathers and artificial flowers, umbrellas, and even collars. it is all a great allied labor of needlework, needlework done by machine and finishing work done by hand. the hundred thousand that follow it are only those who are actually employed as supporters. all those who are supported—the infants, school children, aged parents, and physically disabled relatives—are left out. you may go throughout new york and brooklyn, and wherever you find a neighborhood poor enough you will find these workers. they occupy the very worst of tumble-down dwellings. shrewd italians, and others called padrones, sometimes lease whole blocks from such men as william waldorf astor, and divide up each natural apartment into two or three. then these cubbyholes are leased to the toilers, and the tenement crowding begins.

you will see by peculiar evidences that things have been pretty bad with these tenements in the past. for instance, between every front and back room you will find a small window, and between every back room and the hall, another. the construction of these was compelled by law, because the cutting up of a single apartment into two or three involved the sealing up of the connecting door and the shutting off of natural circulation. hence the state decided that a window opening into the hall would be some improvement, anyhow, and so this window-cutting began. it has proved of no value, however. nearly every such window is most certainly sealed up by the tenants themselves.

97 in regard to some other matters, this cold enforcement of the present law is, in most cases, a blessing, oppressive as it seems at times. men should not crowd and stifle and die in chambers where seven occupy the natural space of one. landlords should not compel them to, and poverty ought to be stopped from driving them. unless the law says that the floor must be clean and the ceiling white, the occupants will never find time to make them so. unless the beds are removed from the work-room and only one person allowed to work in one room, the struggling “sweater” will never have less than five or six suffering with him. enforce such a law, and these workers, if they cannot work unless they comply with these conditions, will comply with them, and charge more for their labor, of course. sweatshop manufacturers cannot get even these to work for nothing, and landlords cannot get tenants to rent their rooms unless they are clean enough for the law to allow them to work in them. hence the burden falls in a small measure on the landlord, but not always.

the employer or boss of a little shop, who is so nervous in wrongdoing, so anxious to bribe, is but a helpless agent in the hands of a greater boss. he is no foul oppressor of his fellow man. the great clothing concerns in broadway and elsewhere are his superiors. what they give, he pays, barring a small profit to himself. if these people are compelled by law to work less or under more expensive conditions, they must receive more or starve, and the great manufactories cannot let them actually starve. they come as near to it now98 as ever, but they will pay what is absolutely essential to keep them alive; hence we see the value of the law.

to grow and succeed here, though, is something very different. working, as these people do, they have very little time for education. the great struggle is for bread, and unless the families are closely watched, children are constantly sent to work before they are twelve. i was present in one necktie factory once where five of its employees were ordered out for being without proof that they were fourteen years of age. i have personally seen shops, up to a dozen, inspected in one morning, and some struggling little underling ordered out from each.

“for why you come home?” is the puzzled inquiry of the parents at night.

“da police maka me.”

down here, and all through this peculiar world, the police are everything. they regulate the conduct, adjudicate the quarrels, interfere with the evil-doers. the terror of them keeps many a child studying in the school-room where otherwise it would be toiling in the chamber at home or the shop outside. still the struggle is against them, and most of them grow up without any of those advantages so common to others.

at the same time, there are many institutions established to reach these people. one sees hebrew and legal aid societies in large and imposing buildings. outdoor recreation leagues, city playgrounds, schools, and university settlements—all are here; and yet the percentage of opportunity is not large. parents have to struggle too hard. their ignorant influence upon the lives of the young ones is too great.

99 i know a lawyer, though, of considerable local prestige, who has worked his way out of these conditions; and broadway from thirty-fourth street south, to say nothing of many other streets, is lined with the signs of those who have overcome the money difficulty of lives begun under these conditions. unfortunately the money problem, once solved, is not the only thing in the world. their lives, although they reach to the place where they have gold signs, automobiles and considerable private pleasures, are none the more beautiful. too often, because of these early conditions, they remain warped, oppressive, greedy and distorted in every worthy mental sense by the great fight they have made to get their money.

nearly the only ideal that is set before these strugglers still toiling in the area, is the one of getting money. a hundred thousand children, the sons and daughters of working parents whose lives are as difficult as that of the hungarian portrayed and whose homes are as unlovely, are inoculated in infancy with the doctrine that wealth is all,—the shabbiest and most degrading doctrine that can be impressed upon anyone.