Every house is alight;the narrow sidewalks and filthy streets are full of people.Miserable little children,with sin-stamped faces,dart about like rats;little ones who ought to be in their cribs shift for themselves,and sleep on cellar doors and areas,and under carts;a few vendors are abroad with their wares,but the most of the traffic going on is of a different deion.Along Water Street are women conspicuously dressed in gaudy colours.Their heavily-painted faces are bloated or pinched;they shiver in the raw night air.Liz speaks to one,who replies that she would like to talk,but dare not,and as she says this an old hag comes to the door and cries:
"Get along;don't hinder her work!During the evening a man to whom Em has been talking has told her:--"You ought to join the Salvation Army;they are the only good women who,bother us down here.I don't want to lead that sort of life;but I must go where it is light and warm and clean after working all day,and there isn't any place but this to come to"exclaimed the man."You will appreciate the plea to-morrow when you see how the people live,"Em says,as we turn our steps toward the tenement room,which seems like an oasis of peace and purity after the howling desert we have been wandering in.Em and Mattie brew some oatmeal gruel,and being chilled and faint we enjoyed a cup of it.
Liz and I share a cot in the outer room.We are just going to sleep when agonised cries ring out through the night;then the tones of a woman's voice pleading pitifully reach our ears.We are unable to distinguish her words,but the sound is heart-rending.It comes from one of those dreadful Water Street houses,and we all feel that a tragedy is taking place.There is a sound of crashing blows and then silence.
It is customary in the slums to leave the house door open perpetually,which is convenient for tramps,who creep into the hall-ways to sleep at night,thereby saving the few pence it costs to occupy a "spot"in the cheap lodging houses.Em and Mat keep the corridor without their room beautifully clean,and so it has become an especial favourite stamping ground for these vagrants.We were told this when Mattie locked and bolted the door and then tied the keys and the door-handle together.So we understand why there are shuffling steps along the corridor,bumping against the panels of the door,and heavily breathing without during the long hours of the night.
All day Em and Mat have been toiling among their neighbours,and the night before last they sat up with a dying woman.They are worn out and sleep heavily.Liz and I lie awake and wait for the coming of the morning;we are too oppressed by what we have seen and heard to talk.
In the morning Liz and I peep over into the rear houses where we heard those dreadful shrieks in the night.There is no sign of life,but we discover enough filth to breed diphtheria and typhoid throughout a large section.In the area below our window there are several inches of stagnant water,in which is heaped a mass of old shoes,cabbage heads,garbage,rotten wood,bones,rags and refuse,and a few dead rats.
We understand now why Em keeps her room full of disinfectants.
She tells us that she dare not make any appeal to the sanitary authorities,either on behalf of their own or any other dwelling,for fear of antagonizing the people,who consider such officials as their natural enemies.
The first visit we pay is up a number of eccentric little flights of shaky steps interspersed with twists of passageway.The floor is full of holes.The stairs have been patched here and there,but look perilous and sway beneath the feet,A low door on the landing is opened by a bundle of rags and filth,out of which issues a woman's voice in husky tones,bidding us enter.She has La grippe.We have to stand very close together,for the room is small,and already contains three women,a man,a baby,a bedstead,a stove,and indescribable dirt.
The atmosphere is rank with impurity.The man is evidently dying.
Seven weeks ago he was "gripped."He is now in the last stages of pneumonia.Em has tried to induce him to be removed to the hospital,and he gasps out his desire "to die in comfort in my own bed."Comfort!
The "bed'is a rack heaped with rags.Sheets,pillow-cases,and night-clothes are not in vogue in the slums.A woman lies asleep on the dirty floor with her head under the table.Another woman,who has been sharing the night watch with the invalid's wife,is finishing her morning meal,in which roast oysters on the half shell are conspicuous.
A child that appears never to have been washed toddles about the floor and tumbles over the sleeping woman's form.Em gives it some gruel,and ascertains that its name is "Christine."The dirt,crowding,and smells in the first place are characteristic of half a dozen others we visited.We penetrate to garrets and descend into cellars.The "rear houses"are particularly dreadful.Everywhere there is decaying garbage lying about,and the dead cats and rats are evidence that there are mighty hunters among the gamins of the Fourth Ward.We find a number ill from the grip and consequent maladies.
None of the sufferers will entertain the thought of seeking a hospital.
One probably voices the opinion of the majority when he declares that "they'll wash you to death there."For these people a bath possesses more terror than the gallows or the grave.
In one room,with a wee window,lies a women dying of consumption;wasted wan,and wretched,lying on rags and swarming with vermin.
Her little son,a boy of eight years,nestles beside her.His cheeks are scarlet,his eyes feverishly bright,and he has a hard cough.
"It's the chills,mum,"says the little chap.Six beds stand close together in another room;one is empty.Three days ago a woman died there and the body has just been taken away.It hasn't disturbed the rest of the inmates to have death present there.A woman is lying on the wrecks of a bedstead,slats and posts sticking out in every direction from the rags on which she reposes.
