Twenty-four hours in the slums--just a night and a day--yet into them were crowded such revelations of misery,depravity,and degradation as having once been gazed upon life can never be the same afterwards.Around and above his blighted neighbourhood flows the tide of active,prosperous life.Men and women travel past in street cars by the Elevated Railroad and across the bridge,and take no thought of its wretchedness,of the criminals bred there,and of the disease engendered by its foulness.It is a fearful menace to the public health,both moral and physical,yet the multitude is as heedless of danger as the peasant who makes his house and plants green vineyards and olives above Vesuvian fires.We are almost as careless and quite as unknowing as we pass the bridge in the late afternoon.
Our immediate destination is the Salvation Army Barracks in Washington Street,and we are going finally to the Salvation Officers--two young women--who have been dwelling and doing a noble mission work for months in one of the worst corners of New York's most wretched quarter.
These Officers are not living under the aegis of the Army,however.
The blue bordered flag is furled out of sight,the uniforms and poke bonnets are laid away,and there are no drums or tambourines.
"The banner over them is love"of their fellow-creatures among whom they dwell upon an equal plane of poverty,wearing no better clothes than the rest,eating coarse and scanty food,and sleeping upon hard cots or upon the floor.Their lives are consecrated to God's service among the poor of the earth.One is a woman in the early prime of vigorous life,the other a girl of eighteen.The elder of these devoted women is awaiting us at the barracks to be our guide to Slumdom.She is tall,slender,and clad in a coarse brown gown,mended with patches.A big gingham apron,artistically rent in several places,is tied about her waist.She wears on old plaid woollen shawl and an ancient brown straw hat.Her dress indicates extreme poverty,her face denotes perfect peace."This is Em,"says Mrs.Ballington Booth,and after this introduction we sally forth.
More and more wretched grows the district as we penetrate further Em pauses before a dirty,broken,smoke-dimmed window,through which in a dingy room are seen a party of roughs,dark-looking men,drinking and squabbling at a table."They are our neighbours in the front."We enter the hall-way and proceed to the rear room.It is tiny,but clean and warm.A fire burns on the little cracked stove,which stands up bravely on three legs,with a brick eking out its support at the fourth corner.A tin lamp stands on the table,half-a-dozen chairs,one of which has arms,but must have renounced its rockers long ago,and a packing box,upon which we deposit our shawls,constitute the furniture.Opening from this is a small dark bedroom,with one cot made up and another folded against the wall.Against a door,which must communicate with the front room,in which we saw the disagreeable-looking men sitting,is a wooden table for the hand-basin.
A small trunk and a barrel of clothing complete the inventory.
Em's sister in the slum work gives us a sweet shy welcome.She is a Swedish girl,with the fair complexion and crisp,bright hair peculiar to the Scandinavian blonde-type.Her head reminds me of a Grenze that hangs in the Louvre,with its low knot of rippling hair,which fluffs out from her brow and frames a dear little face with soft childish outlines,a nez retrousse,a tiny mouth,like a crushed pink rose,and wistful blue eyes.This girl has been a Salvationist for two years.During that time she has learned to speak,read,and write English,while she has constantly laboured among the poor and wretched.
The house where we find ourselves was formerly notorious as one of the worst in the Cherry Hill district.It has been the scene of some memorable crimes,and among them that of the Chinaman who slew his Irish wife,after the manner of "Jack the Ripper,"on the staircase leading to the second floor.A notable change has taken place in the tenement since Mattie and Em have lived there,and their gentle influence is making itself felt in the neighbouring houses as well.
It is nearly eight o'clock when we sally forth.Each of us carries a handful of printed slips bearing a text of Scripture and a few words of warning to lead the better life.
"These furnish an excuse for entering places where otherwise we could not go,"explains Em.
After arranging a rendezvous,we separate.Mattie and Liz go off in one direction,and Em and I in another.From this our progress seems like a descent into Tartarus.Em pauses before a miserable-looking saloon,pushes open the low,swinging door,and we go in.
It is a low-ceiled room,dingy with dirt,dim with the smoke,nauseating with the fumes of sour beer and vile liquor.A sloppy bar extends along one side,and opposite is a long table,with indescribable viands littered over it,interspersed with empty glasses,battered hats,and cigar stumps.A motley crowd of men and women jostle in the narrow space.Em speaks to the soberest looking of the lot.He listens to her words,others crowd about.Many accept the slips we offer,and gradually as the throng separates to make way,we gain the further end of the apartment.Em's serious,sweet,saint-like face I follow like a star.All sense of fear slips from me,and a great pity fills my soul as I look upon the various types of wretchedness.
As the night wears on,the whole apartment seems to wake up.
