Calamity row; or, The sunken records

Front matter

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Chapter I. The Human Whirlpool

‘‘Westward the star of empire takes its way,” is an expression as truthful as poetic. So far back as the mind of man runs, the migration has been toward the setting sun, until civilization has girdled the earth. Imagination, like a current, set in from the East, and for nearly three hundred years, has been flowing westward. It has struck the surf-beaten shore of the Pacific, and counter-currents have begun to roll back. We meet this reflux in the person of the restless nomad, the American, returning to the East. A hundred years ago Hew York sent forth pioneers to explore the unknown West, and now their descendants are returning to gaze in wonder on the changes which the years have wrought. From all directions come streams of emigration, which have a point of meeting, and, as at all points where currents meet, there is a tremendous whirlpool. In Hew York, where usually the emigrant first treads American soil, these currents and counter-currents seem to converge. As ocean currents bring together and roll into one heterogeneous mass the driftwood swept from every clime, so, when these human current* mingle, we find people, not from every

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nation only, but from almost every locality. The refluent western tide seems to meet the great tide surging from the East, and the people mingle until specific local characteristics are lost in the blending of races. In no part of that great city is this amalgamation more prominent than in Calamity Row.

Calamity Row is in the eastern part of the city, as nearly parallel with the river as a street can be which crooks one way while the river crooks another. It is two or three streets back from it, and from the cross streets can be plainly seen the bright sky beyond the buildings, long docks, forests of masts, and white sails gliding to and fro. Smoke from steamers and from the noisy little tugs puffing about, here and there, fills the air with soft, dark-tinged clouds. It is a street of tenement houses, saloons, small stores, and shops. The buildings, tall and dark, and begrimed by the smoke and dust of years ; the dull, dingy place is what the police characterize as “ tough.”

A tangled network of iron rails marks out the course of numerous street-railways ; and these failing to meet the demands of the public, an elevated railway has been erected, which adds to the darkness, dirtiness and din of Calamity Row. With horse-cars, steam-cars, rattling drays, wagons, and junk dealers’ carts, Calamity Row is in a constant uproar. The cobble-stones are dark and shiny, covered with black ooze and mud. Calamity Row is always noisy, always crowded. Millionaires and paupers hurry over the uneven pavements, jostling each other ; and the rattling and roaring of wheels over the slippery stones is enough to drive quiet-loving people mad.

Dwellers on Calamity Row seem to have grown accustomed to the din ; they talk habitually in loud tones, but as conversation is rather difficult, under these cir-

THE HUMAN WHIRLPOOL. 7

cumstances, many of the inhabitants become sparing of their words which gives them an air of moroseness.

On a corner of the street, in the best store-room, which was narrow and mean, was the shop of Mrs. Joyce, a dealer in ribbons, laces, and cheap fancy-goods. Mrs. Joyce, with one assistant, managed her small store. The living apartments were in the rear, and the kitchen down in the basement, all invisible to her customers. Next to her store was a small cobbler’s shop ; the small, plain board sign bearing the inscription u J. Ruggles, repairing neatly done.” The cobbler’s iron-gray head could be seen through the window bobbing up and down, as he pegged patiently away. Next his shop was a saloon, with the odor of soured beer about it, and one or two old topers always lingering near. The remainder of the street is occupied by small shops, stores, and saloons on the first floor of the buildings, and miserable tenements above, with here and there a shutter hanging by one hinge, or a pale, wearied face looking from another.

Notwithstanding the hurry and bustle of the street, the cars, and carts, and crowding pedestrians, there are many children, infants even, playing on the dirty pavement. Their pinched features tell of hunger, filth, and squalid misery. The autumn brings to them no ripening harvest, no golden fruit ; the spring no birds, swelling buds, nor perfumed breezes. They know little of nature save in unlovely human form, or in the stunted trees that grow out of the solid stone pavement. These trees are few in number, and dwarfed and gnarled ; their bark blackened with smoke. Their foliage droops in the close and stifling atmosphere, that is charged with disagreeable odors.

The boys of Calamity Row are busy. Mischief is their chief occupation. One or two sell the morning and

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evening papers, and one or two others carry boot-black boxes over their shoulders, but the majority have no occupation. The largest, a lad of twelve or thirteen, seemed their acknowledged leader.

One evening, Old Granny Gride sat in her stall on the corner, watching the boys. They were engaged in tormenting an Italian rag-picker, who, with his bundle on his back, and hook in hand, was angrily defending himself. There was a scowl on her face, that was rather the result of near-sightedness than real ill-humor. Granny’s dirty brown box was just large enough to cover herself and her few jars and boxes of nuts, stale candies, indigestible cakes, and wormy fruit. On the side fronting the houses was a narrow counter, on which her dust-covered wares were exposed for sale.

Her yellow, wrinkled face paled, and the scowl upon it deepened, as she saw the boys prepare to “ fire stones, ’’ at the rag-picker. Granny Gride had no fear of personal danger, but one of those stones might play sad havoc among the glass wares of her little store. She scowled and shivered, and shook her head, until the white frill of her cap trembled. Her small, deep-set eyes scintillated with fury, when a stone hurled by one of the boys struck her dwelling. Thrusting her head out at the small aperture, she screamed :

“ Jake, Jake ! ”

Owing to her infirmity, Granny Gride could not distinguish one ragged imp from another, but she knew from his past history, that “ Jake ” was their leader. If Jake heard her, he made no answer. The Italian finding that he was getting the worst of the battle, was beating a retreat. The line of retreat was past Granny Gride’s peanut stand.

“Jake, Jake!” the old woman again shouted, with

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her head out of the aperture, and her yellow snags of teeth gnashing above the counter. “ That kid ought to be hung. He’s at the bottom of all the devilment that’s done.”

She scowled most savagely at a boy a short distance away, who, though not actively engaged himself, seemed urging and directing the movements of the others.

“ Pick up stuns, b’ys ! ” he shouted hoarsely. “ Hurl ’em at ’im ! We’ll learn ’im to slap a little boy agin.”

“We’d better git, boys,” suggested a timid urchin. “ A cop ’ll come ’long d’rectly, and nab us all in.”

“NevT you mind, I’ll look out for cops,” shouted Jake.

The rag-picker had taken momentary refuge behind a column of the elevated railway. Whizzing stones struck, “ cling, cling,” against the iron pillar, and cart-men and car-drivers swore and cracked their whips at the boys, who kept out of their reach, and continued hurling stones at the rag-picker. A train rushed overhead, for a moment drowning all with its tremendous roar, leaving billows of snowy vapor to fade away before the thirdstory windows.

“Jake, Jake, ye good-for-nothin’ loafer, ef ye break any o’ my things, I’ll hev ye sent to the Tombs.”

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’, Granny,” cried Jake, whose keen whistle still guided the movements of his companions, as the bugle guides the movements of the cavalry.

“ Yes, you are.”

“ What’m I doin’ ? ”

“ Firin’ stuns agin my stall.”

“I ha’n’t fired a single stun,” Jake answered, with another whistle, which evidently signified to his companions that they were to drive the Italian from behind the jfillar of iron. Ho commander ever had more com-

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plete command over his troops, than this dirty faced urchin of his little band of ragamuffins.

“ A cop is cornin’, Jake ! ” cried one.

“ Where?” the grimy commander asked.

“ ’Bout three blocks away.”

“ Oh we’ll get him out o’ there afore he comes.”

The terrified Italian turned to fly, but was surrounded and pelted fiercely. He had learned the folly of charging his enemies, and, considering discretion the better part of valor, fled down the street, the boys in full pursuit. With wild cheers they let fly a volley of stones at him. There was a shriek from Granny Gride. One of her jars was broken.

“You’ll ay fur it, you’ll pay fur it!” the hag yelled.

The boys, dismayed at the near approach of a policeman, began to fly. Jake, the ring-leader, had been so, much interested in the punishment of the Italian, that he forgot the policeman, but the old vender of withered apples, and indigestible cakes, near-sighted as she was saw the officer. Though too much enraged to speak her wild gesticulations attracted his attention, and, pointing in the direction of Jake’s voice, she made the policeman understand that he was the malefactor.

Jake was still enjoying the discomfiture of the rag-picker, when he was seized by the guardian of the peace. He made one tremendous effort to break away, but was held with an iron grasp. The boy, after three or four ineffectual efforts to escape, resorted to the usual method of surprised remonstrance.

“ What ye got me fur? ” he asked.

“You are up to your old tricks,” said the policeman, shaking him savagely.

“I ain’t done nothin’,” cried Jake, “what d’ye want to go an’ pull a pore kid like me fur?”

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“ Come along ! ” said the policeman, dragging him by the collar of his ragged jacket.

Ilis companions, awed into sudden silence by the presence of the “ cop,” had taken refuge in corners^ from whence they watched the result of the capture. Street-cars thundered by, wagons rattled over the stony street, the shouts of teamsters, and shrill whistle of carmen, mingled with the unlucky boy’s pleading.

The sight of a boy struggling in the grass of a policeman, is sure to collect an idle, eager crowd. Fine loafers, genteel gamblers, and low roughs, thronged the pavement, crowding the foot-travelers out into the street. Teamsters shouted, swore, and lashed, their horses, and the mass of people swayed hither and thither like a vessel on the waves of a troubled sea.

“ Here’s the boy ! ” shouted the policeman, dragging Jake up to Granny Gride’s stall, “ What has he done ? ”

For answer she pointed to the broken candy-jar, and scowled.

“I didn’t! ” shouted Jake, squirming and twisting.

“No, he didn’t,” cried one of Jake’s companions, who dared risk his own safety for his companion.

“Did you see the boy who threw the stone?” the policeman asked.

“ Yes, I did,” the boy answered.

“ Who was it ? ”

“ I don’t know him,” said the little fellow ; “ but it was the one that fired stuns at the rag-picker, an’ run away. Jake an’ me done nothin’.”

“ He did, he did ! ” yelled Granny Gride, her chin quivering with rage. “ He throwed the stun ! He does all the mischief ! ”

“ This boy?” asked the policeman, nodding at Jake.

“Yes,” answered Granny Gride, scowling at the prisoner.

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“Will you swear he threw the stone?” asked the policeman.

“He was with the others ; I’d swear to that,” screamed the old woman.

didn’t throw no stuns,” persisted Jake.

“ He was makin’ the others do it,” cried Granny, glaring her hate at the boy. “ He was aggin’ ’em on.”

“ Then you can’t swear positively that he is the boy who broke the jar? ” said the policeman.

“ No, not exactly,” answered Granny, scowling at the officer. “ I am near-sighted, and a little distance away, can’t tell one kid from another. But he’s their leader, he’s a good-fur-nothin’ scamp, he is.”

Several more of Jake’s companions, growing bold, now came forward to testify to his innocence. At this movement, a gray-haired man in shirt-sleeves, with a greasy leather apron tied round his waist, came elbowing his way through the dense crowd, and stopped in front of Granny Gride’s stall. It was Joe Ruggles, the cobbler.

“ What’s broke, Granny ? ” he asked.

“ My glass jar,” w T as the answer.

“ Well, what’s it wo’th ? ”

“ Twenty cents.”

“Let Jake go,” continued Ruggles, in the loud tone of voice, which long residence on Calamity Row had made habitual, “ and I’ll pay for it.”

This suited Granny, especially as the jar had cost only thirteen cents. The policeman was not certain that a case could be made, and released Jake. The kind-hearted cobbler gave the peanut vender ahandful of pennies, and returned to his dirty shop. The crowd dispersed, and Jake, without a word of thanks, shrank away to seek other mischief.

A PARSONAGE VISIT .

Chapter II. A Parsonage Visit

Quite in contrast with Calamity Row, was the quiet, cosey little parsonage Fullman street. It was the home of the Rev. William Dempster. Mr. Dempster was a quiet man, and not a great man. His eloquence never soared so high as to attract the world ; but he was an earnest Christian. Quiet and unassuming, he was the embodiment of good sense and true Christianity. His unswerving faith had cheered the dark days of his early ministry, and never since had failed him or his sweet, patient wife.

“ What are you thinking of, my dear ? ” the minister asked, closing his book, and laying it on the table at his side. “ I am sure your mind was not on what I was reading. Come now, Martha, am I. not right ?”

Turning her soft brown eyes on him, she dropped the needlework, on which she was engaged, in her lap, and said,

“I must admit, William, that my mind was busy with other things.”

“ What were they ? ”

“ Oh, so frivolous it is not easy to confess.”

The minister fixed his eyes upon his wife’s smiling face.

“ I was out shopping to-day, and failing to find the goods I wanted where I usually trade, I went to a small establishment on a corner of that street called Calamity Row.”

“ I hope you do not often choose it for such expeditions,” interrupted her husband.

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“ No, this was my first experience,” said Mrs. Dempster. “But let me tell you what I saw ”

“ Let me guess, — a dancing bear,” said Mr. Dempster, with a smile.

“No, it was a girl,” his wife returned.

“A girl? Is a girl, then, so very unusual a sight on Calamity Row ? ”

“ This girl was different from others, William.”

“Deformed, hideous?”

“ On the contrary, she was perfect. She had the sweetest face, the sweetest expression, and largest deep-blue eyes I ever saw, making me think of the angels ; I never saw any one so beautiful.”

“ My dear, perhaps you allowed your admiration to silence your judgment,” said the husband. “Remember, a beautiful face is sometimes but a beautiful mask.”

“ She wears no mask ; she has nothing to conceal. It has been said that the eye is the window of the soul. If we may judge from those eyes, the soul within must be of spotless purity.”

“ Who is she ? ” asked the minister, becoming interested.

“Her name is Allie, — Allie Gray, she is Mrs. Joyce’s shop-girl.”

“ And you have become infatuated with her ? ” asked the husband.

“ It is not that her beauty fascinated me,” said Mrs. Dempster, “ though she is beautiful ; but her gentle mod. esty, her quiet contentment with her lot.”

“Do you think her lot hard?” asked the pastor, his interest increasing.

“ William, you must know that a shop-girl, especially on Calamity Row, must have a hard lot. Think of the many snares set for her feet, of the temptations in store

A PARSONAGE VISIT.

for a beautiful girl ; and then take one look into that dingy shop, at a face almost angelic, and you can realize what her lot must be.”

The minister gazed at the carpet, and admitted that this was a puzzling question. The door-bell rang ; Mrs. Dempster, rightly surmising that it was some member of the church, making an evening call, rose, and w'ent to answer it in person.

The minister, still sitting in his easy-chair, heard a babble of tongues in the hall-way, and knew his wife had found no stranger at the door. Two voices made all that clatter. One was his wife ; the other, shriller, much louder, and with a nasal twang, did at least two-thirds of the talking. A moment later the door of the sitting-room opened, and his wife ushered in a tall woman, with a confident, self-assertive air, who held her head quite high ; and a stout old gentleman, with a bald head, and a weak smile on his face.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sniffles,” said the minister, rising. “ Pray be seated. I am glad you came ; the evenings are growing long, and wife and I get lonesome.”

“ We just dropped in,” said Mrs. Sniffles, in her shrill, nasal tones. “ We can’t stay long.”

“No, we can’t stay long,” echoed Mr. Sniffles in a drawling tone.

Mrs. Sniffles was usually first to express her mind, and her husband repeated her words like a parrot. Mr. Sniffles kept a small store up town. He was not wealthy, but he owned the house he lived in and one or two others, besides a fair business. He was a member of Mr. Dempster’s charge, and one of the church stewards, though his wife seemed to act in the official cajjacity herself, instead of her husband. The chief of her desires was to enter the magic circle of New York society. Her

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life had been spent in the struggle, and the goal was as far off as ever.

Mr. and Mrs. Sniffles seated themselves, and there was a moment’s silence.

“Mr. Dempster,” Mrs. Sniffles then broke out, sitting up very straight in her chair, “ that was an excellent sermon last Sunday.”

“Ya-as, that was an excellent sermon,” repeated Mr. Sniffles.

The minister flushed slightly, but Mrs. Sniffles went on> her arms folded across her breast ; “ It was very excellent. The word must be spoken from the heart, and not from the head, to move sinners to re£>entance.”

“Ya-as, it must be from the heart, and not from the head,” echoed Mr. Sniffles.

“We are doing the Master’s work,” said the minister, reverently, “ and whatever success we may attain, to Him belongs the praise, and not to ourselves.”

“ That is true, and yet,” persisted Mrs. Sniffles, “ we cannot but admire God’s instruments. Bright and shining lights are sure to attract weak mortals.”

“Ya-as, bright and shining lights are sure to attract us weak mortals,” echoed Mr. Sniffles who sat listlessly in his chair, his eyes wandering about the room.

“ And the Master himself, has said, ‘ Well done, good and faithful servant’ ; I call that praise,” added Mrs. Sniffles.

“ Ya-as, I’d call that praise,” echoed Mr. Sniffles.

“ I cannot think so,” returned the minister. “If the faithful servant has done his allotted task, to say ‘ you have done your duty,’ is not to praise him. If I have done well, I have done only what I should.”

“ Well, you are so versed in debate,” said Mrs. Sniffles, with a little cackling laugh, “ I shall not attempt to argue with you.”

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“ It’s no use to argue with Mr. Dempster,” added Mr. Sniffles.

“ It is I who fear discussion,” said the minister with a smile. “ I know Mrs. Sniffles’ reputation as a debater, and would not undertake the discussion of a proposition if she was to be opponent.”

“ La ! Mr. Dempster,” returned Mrs. Sniffles, so pleased that her nose seemed inclined to lift in the air, “ I always tell my friends that, without intending to flatter, you are quick to perceive a good quality in a weak mortal, and sure to make it known. Mr. Dempster is always ready to see the good qualities in those about him, and in some way to bring them into notice ; but if one chances to allude to those he himself possesses, he shrinks. Mr. Dempster, you are inconsistent.”

Mr. Sniffles repeated the assertion with a smile of approval at the sage remark of his wife. “ However,” resumed Mrs. Sniffles, briskly, “ if the subject is to be changed, I shall claim the right of selection. I came here for a purpose.”

“Ya-as, we came for a purpose,” came the echo.

“I willingly yield you the choice,” said Mr.- Dempster courteously, “ for I am anxious to know your purpose.’’

“Yes,” said quiet Mrs. Dempster, “if we can in any way give you aid — ”

“ Oh, no, it’s not I that want aid,” answered Mrs. Sniffles, growing almost stately in her erect position ; “ I came to suggest a plan.”

Mrs* Sniffles had suggested to him a great many plans ; she had wearied the patience of many of Mr. Dempster’s predecessors with her plans. Mrs. Sniffles was one of those active churchwomen who have an unlimited confidence in their own ability to manage a church better than the pastor. They intend no wrong, but their 2

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misdirected zeal causes much trouble to the good man who chances to fall into their hands.

“ This plan was suggested to my mind by a remark you made in your last sermon,” Mrs. Sniffles went on, while Mr. Dempster lamented the ill-fated remark. “ The thought has been intensified by reading in the papers this morning of the arrest of a boy on Calamity Row, for an assault on an apple-woman. You remember what you said in regard to the thousands of boys and girls homeless and on the road to ruin. It has lain like lead on my heart, and I have at last matured a plan to redeem all these souls.”

“ Ya-as, a plan to redeem every one of them,” echoed Mr. Sniffles, with smiling confidence in his wife.

“ If you can suggest a plan that will save from ruin the homeless boys and girls of New York, you will be one of the greatest benefactors of the age,” said the minister.

“ It can be done,” asserted Mrs. Sniffles, with an assuring nod. “It will take time and perseverance. We must have the co-operation of all the churches in the city. We must appoint committees to take the city, street by street, and gather up the boys and girls, and bring them to Sunday schools.”

“ Our Sunday schools would not hold them, even if we could persuade them to come.”

“ Then build more,” cried the sharp-voiced enthusiast. “ They must be saved, and it can be done.”

“Ya-as, it can be done,” assented Mr. Sniffles.

“You have given me only the bare outlines of your plan, but to me it seems to lack practicability.”

“How so?” asked Mrs. Sniffles, surprise checking her enthusiasm. “ Committees are appointed to do charitable work, and certainly the reclaiming of these children will be charitable,”

A PARSONAGE VISIT.

“ It would be charitable,” assented the minister ; “ but if sin is to be overcome in New York, it cannot be taken by storm. \ ou could hardly get all the churches united, and not one-tenth of those children could be induced to enter a Sunday-school in their rags and dirt. Before the soul is reclaimed, the body must be provided for. I have learned the impossibility of influencing the mind of a man who has an empty stomach. When I have brought a street arab to my house, clothed and fed him, and kneel down to pray, he can think of God, and not the needs of a cold, starving body.”

Mrs. Sniffles’ enthusiasm was visibly diminished. She was willing to head a committee for the saving of souls, but the care of bodies was another matter. She was willing to devote her time to the duties of a chairwoman of a committee on ways and means to redeem the young ; she would deliver long addresses, and might have been induced to offer advice and remonstrance to the waifs brought from the street, but when an expenditure of money was necessary, she drew back.

“ Why, Mr. Dempster ! ” she broke out, leaning back in her chair. “ You do not pretend to say that good seed sown will not take root ! ”

“That depends on the kind of ground on which the seed falls. If the soil is good, it will grow, but to sow seed on cobble-stones, is to waste one’s energies. The husbandman prepares the soil for the seed before sowing. These children, to be prepared for the seed, must have food and clothes, and comfortable places of abode ; when that is done, it will be time for your committees to attend to the wants of their souls.”

Met with an argument she could not withstand, Mrs. Sniffles had no reply. She had hoped to become president of a society for saving the friendless children of the

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metropolis, and, as chief of a wealthy and benevolent institution, to attain prominence in society. But all her fine theories were torn to shreds by this practical minister. Her husband was too completely overcome to echo his wife.

“We really must go, Isaias,” she said, rising. “We have overstayed our time. We only just dropped in a moment.”

“Mrs. Sniffles’ plan melted like snow in April, at the idea of giving food and clothes to the poor children,” remarked the minister, resuming his seat, after their departure. “ I fear such an organization under her leadership will not prosper.”

“ I discovered while father was her pastor that her charity never assumed the substantial form of dollars and cents,” said his wife.

“ How is that ? ”

“ It is sixteen years or more since then. A baby was left at the Orphan’s Home. Mrs. Sniffles was one of the managers at the time, and as it was full, she took the child, but she kept it for two or three months only, and then finding that it added to her trouble and expense, sent it back to the asylum ; so I never knew what became of the poor little thing.”

Chapter III

MRS. BILLINGTON’s BOARDING-HOUSE.

On one of the most quiet of the streets in the not clearly defined region between “ up ” and “ down town,” stood Mrs. Billington’s boarding-house. Mrs. Billington was a sprightly widow of uncertain age, a thorough

Mrs. billington’ s boarding-house. 21

woman of business, who looked sharply after her pay, and the comfort of her boarders. Her house was not one of the most fashionable of New York boarding houses, yet one could board there, and be fashionable ; in fact, Mr. Van Orden, one of her boarders, had the entree , as he said, to the best society. But he came of old Knickerbocker stock, and claimed admission to that so-called magic circle. Mr. Van Orden parted his hair in the middle, and wore an eyeglass. In “ either ” and “ neither,” he sounded the i long, and in speech and in dress was particular to fastidiousness, though he occupied a single room, the smallest in the house. Whether he was engaged in any business or not, few knew.

The next most important boarder was Mr. Humphrey Harrison, a cockney, who was an exceedingly fastidious person, and liked to be thought a gentleman of leisure. It was rumored that Mr. Harrison was connected with the nobility of England, and on the death of an uncle, now old and feeble, would inherit an earldom. In addition to these, Mrs. Billington had a very chatty lady boarder, a surly-looking policeman, and a lady and gentleman temporarily in the city.

Her boarding-house being near the medical colleges, Mrs. Billington hoped to fill it with students, when the term opened, and was not disappointed. O11 the first day, two young gentlemen applied for board and lodging.

Fred Saunders, one of these new boarders, had never been in New York, but had read much about the wicked city. He had come to it, fully prepared for the worst. Our western young man was certain that no woman in the metropolis could be as good and pure as those in his far-away home. In fact he was skeptical as to there being any righteous thing in the great city. Fred was

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the only son of well-to-do parents. Young, with robust health, and a strong, clear intellect, there seemed no prize in life that he might not hope to grasp.

On his way to New York, he had fallen in with his present companion, a young man about his own age, named Horace Waters. Although strangers, both being bound for the same city, on the same business, they became acquainted, and soon fast friends. Horace, like Fred, was entering on his first course, and shared many of Fred’s ideas. Both thought New York people all sharpers and rascals to be dreaded as much as the treacherous savage.