Life under Difficulties—drawbacks of a Public-school Training—Hints on Emigration—Pneumonia—Unemployment in Chicago, 1893.

Do not imagine from what I have just written that I stepped from one of these positions into another. Far from it; there are successive gaps between filled with fruitless searching after work. In one thing I was very lucky: two of my wife’s brothers came to Chicago at the same time she and I did, and we all helped one another. When in need, one could always get meals from the others, if they had work; and for this reason none of us starved, though we ate slim meals occasionally. I remember, one evening, one of the boys came up to our room to go out and sup with us (we ate at a restaurant), whereas my wife and I had been waiting for him to come home, so that we could get him to take us out! I had a little bank in which I had been putting pennies for a rainy day, and we decided to break it open, as the rainy day had arrived. It had, if I remember right, 78 cents in it; and there came the rub—none of us wanted to hand the waiter 78 copper cents for the supper, so it had to be changed into silver, and none of us wanted to do the changing. At last we put the job on my wife, as we were two to one against her.

My wife was the life of the whole lot of us boys, for boys we all were. She it was who cheered us and kept heart in us during bad times, and during one very bad time she tided me over by getting a position as cashier at a soda-fountain, till I was on my feet again.

We had our amusements too, and occasionally went to the theatre, in the peanut gallery, and sometimes I got passes from an actor friend of mine. There was a piano in our boarding-house, where a mob of about a dozen of us would congregate in the evenings and have music, singing, and story-telling. It was quite a conglomeration. There were two old-maid sisters, teachers in the Chicago High School, who could recite; a young fellow who was singing tenor in the “chorus” of Kiralfy’s America Company at the Auditorium (he could parody anything, had a very fine voice, and was a natural comedian); then there was an engraver in Lyon and Healy’s piano factory, who played well; also an elderly man, who taught music on the guitar and banjo, and played divinely on the latter; a stockbroker’s clerk, my wife, her two brothers, and myself, who were all strong on choruses; and others whom I forget. When times were good, and we could buy a jug of beer and had plenty of tobacco, that house used to be a scene of much revelry.

Chicago, however, is not like London, where you can find so many places to see and amuse yourself without cost. Excepting the parks one has to pay to go anywhere, either to the museum or picture gallery, and even the parks cost car-fare. For, as I have said before, Chicago is a huge city. When I worked at the fair-grounds I lived on the west side, and went eight miles to my work and back every day.

I have said that an English public-school education was a poor training for a man who had to make a living in the United States—at least, at the start. I do not mean, of course, a man who has a finished education and could enter one of the professions, but I mean for a lad who comes of good family, who has failed for the army or navy, who is not studious, but who is not necessarily an idiot. Such a lad gets ideas in an English public school—at least, it was so in my school—both from the masters and from his comrades, that when he grows up there are only a few things a gentleman can do and not lose caste. He must not be a “counter-jumper” or take any menial position. A farmer or rancher is correct form, and even “help” on either is within the pale. But it is better to live as a gentleman supported by relatives than to “disgrace” them by earning one’s own support in any “low” position. Then, again, the education one receives is not practical for the necessities of life here. Here one needs book-keeping instead of Greek, shorthand and typewriting instead of Latin, and the study of modern business methods instead of ancient history. All these things, of course, are good in their place, but I am speaking solely of the boy who finally has to come to the States to make his way in competition with men who are thoroughly up-to-date in all these things.

Once in Chicago I saw an advertisement for a coachman at $60 per month and cottage. It was a bonanza. I was in great need of work at the time, and so applied for the position; but, unfortunately, all the letters of recommendation I could show were from the president of the Agricultural College at Guelph, the rector of my church there, and my certificate of the Simla Veterinary Course, all of which told the tale of my being gentle-born and not of the coachman class. The advertiser was an Englishman and a large broker on the Stock Exchange, and though he acknowledged that I could fill the place, and from my veterinary knowledge would be of more value to him than an ordinary coachman, he refused me the job solely on the ground that I was a gentleman, and he could not employ such in a menial position. I explained that I was married and badly needed work, and that I was not likely to presume, but would give him good and honest work. He said he was sorry, but it would make him uncomfortable to have a gentleman working for him in a “menial position”; and that was all I could get out of him.

In those days I was ashamed to write and tell my friends what I was doing for a living; but as I grew older and got a broader view of things, I got over that false pride, and now am not ashamed that I have been able to earn an honest living by any and all kinds of work. Phil May’s reproof of this false pride is amusing. He once, during his early struggles, secured a job in a small second-class restaurant as waiter. A friend one day recognised him, and said, “My heavens, Phil, have you fallen to this?” May replied, "Why, yes, my friend, I work here; but, thank God, I haven’t fallen so far as to have to eat here." Surely a man can remain a gentleman no matter what he has to do to earn a living.

If I had a friend in England who had sons he was forced to send to the United States to make their way, I would, by the light of my own experience, advise him to send the boy over here when he was fourteen or fifteen years of age, and—unless the father could also come here to live—put him under the care of some friend or some reputable lawyer. If the boy’s bent were agriculture, send him to the Ontario Agricultural College at Guelph, which is about the best institution of its kind on the continent. Pay his board, tuition, and clothing bills, but let him earn his own spending money, which he can easily do. If his bent is mechanical, get him in as apprentice with the Allis-Chalmers Company (mining machinery manufacturers in Chicago), and after he has passed out in four years of hard work, learning practically every branch of the building of machinery, send him to Columbia University to take the mechanical engineers’ course of three years. If the latter cannot be afforded, the former will be sufficient for a bright lad who is willing to study a little by himself. If his bent is mercantile, send him to a good business college in New York or Chicago, to learn shorthand, typewriting, book-keeping, and general business methods, and after he has passed through, either let him start out and earn his own living—not getting a penny from home except in the case of sickness, but not when out of work—or else get him in as clerk or office-boy into the particular business he is afterwards to follow. A little hard times hurts no one, though the boy should be carefully watched and not allowed to get into serious trouble. Of course, this kind of education does not put on a very fine polish, but it makes a capable man; and if the boy has been well trained till he is fourteen, there is little fear of his going wrong, much less fear than if he has too much money. After this course for a few years, he should be a practical business man, and well capable of handling his own capital, either to start for himself or to buy an interest in the business in which he has been working.

I worked as drug salesman for some time, when I had the misfortune to catch a very bad cold, which turned into pneumonia. It was about four weeks before I could walk again. My wife and the boys pulled me through in spite of the doctor, who said, “Wire for his people.” Some cousins of my wife, who farmed near Iowa City, invited us to come and stay with them till I was strong again, and so as soon as I could toddle we went to them.

I had never written home what my life in Chicago was, as, having married so young contrary to my people’s wishes, I was determined to make my living, if possible, without aid. But when the doctor told my wife that my days were over, she wired Mr. Bole in New York to cable home, and he sent her funds to meet expenses and to take us both to Iowa City.

Chicago is, I believe, the coldest city in America in the winter, and the hottest in summer, but a splendid business town, with large opportunities for a young man. And when I hear men tell me that they can’t get a job and have to beg, it makes me hostile; for I know that a healthy single man need never go hungry if he is willing to work, though he may not always get the kind of job he fancies. This is, of course, during ordinary times. The fall and winter of 1893 were exceptional, for when I left Chicago in November of that year it was estimated that there were 200,000 men out of employment in a city which had a normal population of about one million and a quarter, though it was much inflated at the time. The churches were opened for them to sleep in, and soup kitchens established all over the city that winter, and the police and railroad men bothered no one who chose to leave town in a “side-door Pullman” (baggage wagon), as they were only too glad to see the last of them. There was some little rioting, but, on the whole, they were all honest labourers out of a job, and only seeking food. For this they were willing to work, and the city put enormous gangs to work cleaning snow off the streets, so that the feeding, &c., should not look like charity. Of course this attitude of the railway was exceptional. Stowaways, when discovered, are generally thrown out promptly. They are accustomed to it, so seldom come to harm. Out West, freight trainsmen are sometimes very civil in picking up persons who “flag” them on the prairie. They will not, however, always stop to “set-down,” but at ordinary “freight” pace on the prairie lines it is possible to jump without affording the trainsmen the fun of somersaults.