The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1896-07-25


GUNNER, with its sunbeams and
- flowers, its leaf laden forests and
glittering ocean waves, is glorious; but
summer in the crowded city slums, with
its oppressive heat. its foul odors and
quickly spreading diseases, is sad and
sultry season. Not being among those
who can spend the hot months at the
seaside or in the mountains. | have
had some experience of summer in
New York City, and / have not
found it at all season to be dreaded
in the business portions of the town.
True, one can on really hot days
feel the heat of the sidewalk through
the soles Of ones Shoes and the glare OF
sun and stone paving is somewhat try
ing to the eyes, but in the offices of big
business buildings one is comparatively
cool. An extra hot wave every now and
then may give one the feeling of passing
through Turkish batn but such days
are almost always followed by cooling
showers and fresh breezes. However
hot and sultry the streets, the elevated
road is almost always breezy, and after
dark, cool winds from the harbor sweep
refreshingly up the main thoroughfares
and avenues. 1, personally, have often
thought that we have less of the scorch-
ing and baking experience of summers
sun in the great city than the people
who were holidaying on the unprotected
seashores, with glare of sand and sea
and sky unbroken by the shade of big
stone buildings.
But, alasl there are sections in our
cities where summer is indeed dreaded
time of suffering and misery. The cold
of winter which counts many starving.
homeless wanderer among its victims,
however cruel and keen, can be better
escaped than the suffocating heat and
it's many consequences. The overcrowd-
ing of the tenements and lodging houses.
the squalor and dirt, the foul odors and
many diseases, are all more loathsome
and dangerous in summer. When we
re e.lem Der that hindreds of little chii-
dren die dai y of the diseases brought
on by the effect of the heat and their
i'll fed, weakened and uncared for little
bodies, we understand something of the
sorrow and hopelessness that follow in
the track of every hot wave.
/ have visited Slumdom in summer,
have passed in and out of the crowded,
foul air dives and saloons on Saturday
night, have climbed up the stairs of the
great crowded tenements where the peo-
pie sleep out on the fire escapes or on the
roofs for breath of fresh air, and have
seen myself the little wasted faces of
wee babies taken out by weary mothers
on the crowded doorsteps to catch any
stray breezes from the river. My won
der on such occasions was not that so
many died. but that so many little ones
managed to live through the horrors of
a hot wave.
To those who have never gone through
them, it would be difficult to adequately
describe the condition of the homes of
the outcast poor. l have been through
some Of the tenement houses occupied
by twenty or thirty families. Sometimes
we have found families living in two
rooms-a father, mother. half grown sons
and daughters, little children, and even
dodgers crowded together in quarters
so small that one did not wonder there
was no room for proper furniture, even
had they been rich enough to afford it.
After night of debauch in such homes.
we have found the adults sleeping off
their drunken stupor on the floor, while
the innocent little ones played or cried
in unheeded neglect. In many homes of
the slums you will find little or no furni-
ture-a bed on the floor, table and a
chair and a lew cooking implements
comprising the family belongings.
Sometimes even these are missing. and
the absolutely bare room, filthy and des-
olate, tells it's tale of the last stages in
life of want and hopeless poverty. Little
babies can be found in the slums who
possess as their wardrobes one filthy
little garment. and we have found them
absolutely unclothed, not only in sum.
mer's heat but in winters cold.
To my mind, the life in the common
lodging houses is about the worst and
lowest level into which the poor can
sink. If family, however poor, has its
own room, even though that room be a
garret, there is some amount of posses
sion and privacy about it; but in the
big rooms of these lodging houses, which
sometimes accommodate four, five, and
even six families in a room. the condi-
tion and degradation of the people is be-
yond description. Among all the horrors
of Slumdom, one such house through
which l went from cellar to garret always
stands out as a type of misery. In its
better days it had been a gentlemans
mansion. but the big parlors were now
turned into the most squalid of lodging
rooms. Beds without any pretense of
bed covering arranged around the room;
the washing of the different families was
strung across on ropes-wretched rags
which did not look much the cleaner for