The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 05, No. 32, June, 1860

In the spring of 1853, a number of gentlemen having subscribed a sufficient sum for the purpose of building a house or houses on the best plan, as Model Dwellings for the Poor, a society was formed, which, in the next year, received an act of incorporation from the Legislature under the style of "The Model Lodging-House Association." A suitable lot of land having been obtained upon favorable terms, at the corner of Pleasant Street and Osborn Place, the Directors of the Association proceeded to erect two brick houses, of different construction, each containing separate tenements for twenty families. The plans of the buildings were prepared with great care to secure the essentials of a healthy home,—pure air, pure water, efficient drainage, cleanliness, and light. In their details, strict regard was had to the most economical and best use of a limited space, and ample precautions were taken to reduce to its least the risk of fire. In each house, double staircases, continuous to the roof, (and in one of them of iron,) and two main exits were provided; and more recently, the two buildings, which are separated from each other by a passage-way some feet in width, have been connected by throwing an iron bridge from roof to roof, by which, in case of alarm in one of them, escape may be readily had through the other. Each house was, moreover, divided in the middle by a solid brick partition-wall.

The houses are five stories in height, not including the basement or cellar, with four tenements in each story. The reduced plans, on the opposite page, exhibit the general arrangements of the houses, and show the complete separation of each set of apartments from the others, each one opening by a single door upon the common stairs or passage. Their relation is scarcely closer than that of separate houses in a common continuous block. Each tenement, it will be observed, consists of a living-room, and two or three sleeping-rooms, according to the space, a wash-room, with sink and cupboards, and a water-closet. The stories are eight feet and six inches in height, which is ample for the necessities of ventilation. In one of the buildings, each tenement is provided with shafts for dust and offal, communicating with receptacles in the cellar. The roofs of both are fitted with conveniences for the drying of clothes, properly guarded; and in the cellars of both are closets, one for each tenement, to hold fuel or stores. In the basement of house No. 1 there are also two bathing-rooms, which have been found of great use.

[Illustration: PLAN OF MODEL HOUSE, No. 1 OSBORN PLACE, BOSTON.]

[Illustration: PLAN OF ONE-HALF OF MODEL HOUSE, No. 3 OSBORN PLACE, BOSTON.]

It would be difficult, after some years' experience, to pronounce which of the two houses is the best fitted for its object. Their cost was nearly the same. The plan of No. 1 is original and ingenious; its large open central space is valuable for purposes of ventilation, and as affording opportunity for exercise under cover in stormy weather for infants and infirm people. This advantage is perhaps compensated for in the other house by the fact of each tenement reaching from back to front of the house, thus securing within itself the means of a thorough draught of fresh air. Both plans are excellent, and may be unqualifiedly recommended.

The houses were ready for occupation about the beginning of 1855, and since that time have been constantly full. The applicants for tenements, whenever one becomes vacant, are always numerous.

The cost of these two buildings was a little over $18,000 each, exclusive of the cost of the land upon which they stand. The land cost about $8,000; and the whole cost of the buildings, including some slight changes subsequent to their original erection, and of the lot on which they stand, would be more than covered by the sum of $46,000.

The rents were fixed upon a scale varying with the amount of accommodation afforded by the separate tenements, and with their convenience of access. They run from $2 to $2.87 per week. By those familiar with the rents paid by the poor these sums will be seen to be not higher than are frequently paid for the most unhealthy and inconvenient lodgings. The total annual amount of rent received from each house is $2,353, which, after paying taxes, water-rates, gas-bills, and all other expenses, including all repairs necessary to keep the building in good order, leaves a full six per cent. interest upon the sum invested.

A portion of the land purchased by the Association not having been occupied by the two houses already described, it was determined to erect a third house upon it, of a somewhat superior character, for a class just above the line of actual poverty, but often forced by circumstances into unhealthy and uncomfortable homes. This was accordingly done, at a cost, including the land, of about $26,000. The house, of which the plan is well worthy of imitation, contains a shop and nine tenements. These tenements, which form not only comfortable, but agreeable homes, are rented at from two to three hundred dollars a year, and the gross income derived from the building is about $2,500.

During the five years since the first occupation of the houses no loss of rents has occurred. For the most part, the rent has been paid not only punctually, but with satisfaction, and the expressions which have been received of the content of the occupants of the tenements have been of the most gratifying sort. The houses, as we know from personal inspection, are now in a state of excellent repair, and show no signs of carelessness or neglect on the part of their occupants. Few private houses would have a fresher and neater aspect after so long occupancy. The tenants have been, with few exceptions, Americans by birth, and they have taken pains to keep up the character of their dwellings.

One of the Trustees of the Association, a gentleman to whose good judgment and constant oversight, as well as to his sympathetic kindness tor the occupants of the houses and interest in their affairs, much of the success of this experiment is due, says, in a letter from which we are permitted to quote,—"From my experience in the management of this kind of property, I believe that it may in all cases with proper care be made safe and permanent for investment. But what I think better of is the good such houses do in elevating and making happier their tenants, and I much rejoice in having had an opportunity to test their usefulness."

As a comment upon these brief, but weighty sentences, we would beg any of our readers, who may have opportunity, to look for himself at the substantial and not unornamental buildings of the Association, with their showier front on Pleasant Street, and their imposing length and height of range along the side of Osborn Place,—to see them affording healthy and convenient homes to fifty families, many of whom, without some such provision, would be exposed to be forced into the wretched quarters too familiar to the poor,—and then to compare them with the common lodging-houses in any of the lower streets or alleys of Boston or New York.

A similar work to that performed by the Boston Association was undertaken shortly afterward by a society in New York, who in 1854-5 erected a building containing ninety tenements of three rooms each, under the name of "The Working-Men's Home." The cost of this enormous building, which was well designed, was about $90,000. It is fifty-five feet in breadth by one hundred and ninety feet in length; it is nearly fireproof, and is provided with double stairways. It has been occupied from the first by colored people, and we regret to learn that it has not proved a success, so far as regards the annual return upon the property invested. After paying the heavy city tax of 1 3/4 per cent., and the charges for gas and water, the sum remaining for an annual dividend is not more than four per cent.

This want of success is not, we believe, inherent in the plan itself, but is the result of a want of proper management and supervision. We learn that the tenants often leave without paying rent, and that the building is more or less injured by their neglect. The class of tenants has undoubtedly been of a lower grade than that which has occupied the Boston houses, and the habits of the blacks are far inferior to those of the white American poor in personal neatness and care of their dwellings. But we have no doubt, that, in spite of these drawbacks, a good revenue might be derived from the rents paid by this class of tenants. The success of the Boston experiment is due in considerable part to the employment by the Association of a paid Superintendent, living with his family in one of the buildings, who has a general oversight of the houses, collects the rents, and determines the claims of occupants of the tenements. Such an officer is indispensable for the proper carrying on of any similar undertaking on so large a scale. We trust that no effort will be spared in New York to bring out more satisfactory results from this great establishment. Benevolence is one thing, and good investments another; but benevolence in this case does not do half its work, unless it can be proved to pay. It must be profitable, in order to be in the best sense a charity.

The effect which the Boston houses have already had, in proving that homes for the poor can be built on the best plan for the health and comfort of their inmates and at the same time be good investments of property, is manifest in many private undertakings. Several large houses have already been built upon similar plans; old lodging-houses have been in several instances remodelled and otherwise improved; blocks of small dwellings for one or two families have been erected with every convenience for the class who can afford to pay from three to six dollars a week for their accommodations. The example set by the Association promises to be widely followed.

Much, however, yet remains to be done, and associate or private energy is needed for the trial of new and not less important experiments than that already well performed. The means for some of them are at hand. It will be remembered that the late Hon. Abbott Lawrence, to whose beneficence during his life the community was so largely indebted, and whose liberal deeds will long be remembered with gratitude, left by will the sum of $50,000 to be held by Trustees for the erection of dwellings for the poor. This sum will in a short time be ready for employment for its designated purpose, and it may be hoped that those who control its disposal will not so much imitate the work already done as perform a work not yet accomplished, but not less essential. The houses of the Association are, as we have stated, not occupied by the most destitute poor,—and it is for this lowest class that the most pressing need exists for an improvement in their habitations. If the cellar-dwelling poor can be provided with healthy homes, and these homes can be made to pay a fair rent, the worst evil in the condition of our cities will be in a way to be remedied. It is very desirable that a house should be erected in one of the crowded quarters of the city, and at a distance from the buildings of the Association, in which each room should be arranged for separate occupation. The rooms might be of different sizes upon the different floors, to accommodate single men who require only a lodging-place, or a man and wife. Perhaps on one floor rooms should be made with means of opening into each other, to supply the need of those who might require more than one of them. The house should be heated throughout by furnaces, to save the necessity of fires in the rooms; and as no private meals could be cooked in the house, an eating-room, where meals could be had or provisions purchased ready for eating, should form part of the arrangements of the house in the lower story. There can be no doubt that such a house would be at once filled,—and but little, that, if properly built and managed, under efficient superintendence it would pay well, at the lowest rates of rent. Even with a possibility of its failing to return a net annual income of six per cent upon its cost, it is an experiment that ought to be tried,—and we earnestly hope that the Trustees of Mr. Lawrence's bequest will not hesitate to make it. Putting out of question all considerations of profitable investment, it would be, as a pure charity, one of the best works that could be performed.

We must restore health to our cities, and, to accomplish this end, we must provide fit homes for the poor. The way in which this may be done has been shown.

* * * * *

A SHORT CAMPAIGN ON THE HUDSON

The campaigner marched out of a lawyer's office in Nassau Street, New York.

"Shyster," said our old man, as he called me into his own den, or rather lair,—(for den, I take it, is the private residence of a beast of prey, and lair his place of business. I do not think that this definition is mine, but I forget to whom it belongs,)—"I suppose you would not dislike a trip into the country? Very well. These papers must be explained to General Van Bummel, and signed by him. He lives at Thunderkill, on the Hudson. Take the ten-o'clock train, and get back as soon as you can. Charge your expenses to the office."

"What luck!" thought I, as I dashed down-stairs into the street,—determined to obey his last injunction to the letter, whatever course I might think fit to adopt about the one preceding it. No one who has not been an attorney's clerk at three dollars a week, copying declarations and answers from nine A.M. to six P.M., in a dusty, inky, uncarpeted room, with windows unwashed since the last lease expired, can form a correct notion of the exhilaration of my mind when I took my seat in the railroad-car. The great Van Bnmmel himself never felt bigger nor better.

It was in that loveliest season of the year, the Indian summer,—a week or ten days of atmospheric perfection which the clerk of the weather allows us as a compensation for our biting winter and rheumatic spring. The veiled rays of the sun and the soft shadows produce the effect of a golden moonlight, and make even Nature's shabbiest corners attractive. To be out-of-doors with nothing to do, and nothing to think of but the mere pleasure of existence, is happiness enough at such times. But I was looking at a river panorama which is one of Nature's best efforts, I have heard; and on that morning it seemed to me impossible that the world could show anything grander.

It was very calm. The broad glittering surface of the river showed here and there a slight ripple, when some breath of air touched it for a moment; but wind there was none,—only a few idle breezes lounging about, waiting for orders to join old Boreas in his next autumnal effort to crack his cheeks. The bright-colored trees glowed on the mountain-sides like beds of living coals.

"How the deuse," thought I, as I stared at them, "can a discerning public be satisfied with Cole's pictures of 'American Scenery in the Fall of the Year'? You see on his canvas, to be sure, red, green, orange, and so on, the peculiar tints of the leaves; but Nature does more (and Cole does not): she blends the variegated hues into one bright mass of bewitching color by the magic of this soft, golden, hazy sunshine. I wish, too, that the great company of story-tellers would let scenery rest in peace. The charm of a landscape is entireness, unity; it strikes the eye at once and as a whole. Examination of the component parts is quite a different thing. Who ean build up a view in his mind by piling up details like bricks upon one another? Most people, I suspect, will find, as I do, that, no matter what author they may be reading, the same picture always presents itself. A vague outline of some view they have seen arises in the memory,—like the forest scene in a scantily furnished theatre, which comes on for every play. The naked woods, trees, rocks, lake, river, mountain, would have done the business just as well, and saved a deal of writing and of printing. The most successful artist in this line I know of is Michael Scott, whose tropical sketches in 'Tom Cringle's Log' are unequalled by any landscape-painter, past or present, who uses pen and ink instead of canvas and colors."

My trance was broken by the voice of the brakeman shouting, "Thunderkill," into the car, as the train drew up at a wooden station-house. Jumping out, I asked the way to General Van Bummel's. A man with a whip in his hand offered his services as guide and common carrier. I determined to experience a new sensation,—for once in my life to anathematize expenditure, and charge it to the office. So, climbing into a kind of leathern tent upon wheels, I was soon on my way to the leaguer of the General. A Van Bummel's boundary. We turned into a lane shut in by trees. While busily taking an inventory of the General's landed possessions for future use, my attention was drawn off by loud shouts, the sound of the gallop of horses and the rattling of wheels. Imagining at once that the General's family-pair must be running away with his family-coach, I eagerly urged my driver to push on; but the cold-hearted wretch only laughed and said he "guessed there was nothing particular the matter." At last, we debouched (excuse the word; I have not yet got the military taste out of my mouth) upon a lawn, across which a pair of large bay horses, ridden postilion-fashion by one man, were dragging a brass six-pounder, upon which sat another in full uniform.

"What the Devil is that?" said I.

"That's the Gineral and his coachman a-having a training," answered my driver.

As he spoke, the officer shouted, "Halt!"

Coachy pulled up.

"Unlimber!" thundered the chief; and, aided by his man, obeyed his own orders.

"Load!" and "Fire!" followed in rapid succession.

I saw and smelt that they used real powder. This over, the horses were made fast again, John, bestrode his nag, the General clambered on to his brazen seat and down they came at a tearing pace directly towards us. Luckily I had read "Charles O'Malley," and knew how to behave in such cases. I jumped from the wagon, and, tying my handkerchief to the ferule of my umbrella, advanced, waving it and shouting, "A flag of truce!" The General ordered a halt and despatched himself to the flag. As he approached I beheld a stout, middle-aged, good natured looking man, dressed in the graceless costume of Uncle Sam's army; but I must say that he wore it with more grace than most of the Regulars I have seen. Our soldiers look unbecomingly in their clothes,—there is no denying it,—a good deal like sups in a procession at the Bowery. A New-York policeman sports pretty much the same dress in much better style. You hardly ever see an officer or private, least of all the officer, with the air militaire. I also noticed with pleasure that the General had not on his head that melodramatic black felt, feather-bedecked hat, which some fantastic Secretary of War must have imagined in a dream, after seeing "Fra Diavolo" at the opera, or Wallack in Massaroni. In place of this abomination, a cap covered with glazed leather surmounted his martial brow. When we met, I lowered my umbrella and offered my card, with the office pasteboard. He took them with great gravity, read the names, and requested me to fall back to the rear and await orders. Then rejoining his gun, he was driven slowly towards the house,—my peaceful ambulance following at a respectful distance. When I reached the door, the six-pounder had disappeared behind a clump of evergreens, and the General stood waiting to receive me. His manner was affable.

"How d'ye do, Mr. Shyster? Glad to see you, Sir. Walk into the library, Sir."

I complied, and while the General was absent, engaged in carrying out some hospitable suggestions for my refreshment, I examined the room. It was large, and handsomely furnished. I looked into the bookcases: the shelves were filled with works on War, from Cæsar's Commentaries down to Louis Napoleon on Rifled Cannon. In one corner stood a suit of armor; in another a stand of firearms; between them a star of bayonets. On the mantelpiece I perceived a model of a small field-piece in brass and oak, and, what interested me more, a cigarbox. I raised the lid; the box was half full of highly creditable-looking cigars. My soul expanded with the thought of a probable offer of at least one.

"None of your Flor de Connecticuts," I thought, "from the Vuelta Abajo of New-Windsor, but the genuine Simon Puros."

A second glance at the inside of the lid caused grave doubts to depress my spirits. I beheld there, in place of the usual ill-executed lithograph with its fábricas and its calles, three small portraits. The middle one was the General in full uniform; I recognized him easily; the other two were no doubt his aides-de-camp;—all evidently photographs; they were so ugly. I dropped the lid in disappointment, and turned to the side-table. On it lay a handsome sword in an open box lined with silk. Over it hung, framed and glazed, the speech of the committee appointed by his fellow-soldiers of the county to present the sword to the General, together with the General's "neat and appropriate" answer and acceptance.

I began to be a little astonished. I certainly did not expect anything of this sort. Our old man called him General, to be sure; but General means nothing, in the rural districts, but a certain amount of wealth and respectability. It has taken the place of Squire. But here was I with a man who took his title au sérieux. What with the uniform, the cannon, and the coachman, I began to feel like an ambassador to a potentate with a standing army.

Here the General reappeared, bearing in his august hands a decanter and a pitcher. After due refreshment, I produced my papers, made the necessary explanations, and executed my commission so much to his satisfaction that he invited me cordially to dine and spend the night, instead of taking the evening-train down. I accepted, of course,—such chances seldom fell into my way,—and was shown into a nice little bedroom, in which I was expected to dress for dinner. Dress, indeed! I had on my best, and did not come to stay. Novel-heroes manage to remain weeks without apparent luggage; but a modern attorney's clerk, however moderate may be his toilette-tackle, finds it inconvenient to be separated from it. However, I did what I could,—washed my hands, settled the bow of my neck-tie, smoothed my hair with my fingers, and thought, as I descended to the drawing-room, of the travelling Frenchman, who, after a night spent in a diligence, wiped out his eyes with his handkerchief, put on a paper false collar, and exclaimed,—"Me voici propre!"

The General, in a fatigue-dress, presented me to Mrs. Van Bummel, a good-looking woman of pleasant dimensions,—to Miss Bellona Van Bummel, who evidently thought me beneath her notice,—and to the Reverend Moses Wether, whose mild face, white cravat, and straight-cut collar proclaimed him. As I came in, his Reverence attempted to slip meekly out, but was stopped energetically by the General.

"How is this? Mr. Wether, you know you cannot leave, Sir."

"But, my dear General, I only dropped in for a few moments; and really I have so much to do!"

"I am sorry, Sir," rejoined the General, sternly, "but you cannot be excused. You accepted the position of Chaplain to the Regiment. You neglected to attend the last two reviews. You were condemned by a Court Martial, over which I presided, to twenty-four hours' arrest, which you must now submit to."

"But, my dear General," feebly expostulated the man of prayer, "you know I thought the nomination a mere pleasantry; I had no idea you were serious, or I should never have listened to the proposition."

"Can't help that, Sir. You accepted the commission, you neglected your duty, and you must take the consequences."

Just then, as the poor perplexed parson was about to make another attempt for liberty, a side-door swung open; a well-built, comely servant-girl, dressed like Jenny Lind in the "Fille du Régiment," appeared. Bringing the back of her hand to her forehead, she said,—

"General, dinner is ready."

Van Bummel muttered something about "joining our mess," and led the way to the banqueting-hall. I was too hungry to be particular about names, and did ample justice to an excellent spread and well-selected tap,—carefully avoiding eating with my knife or putting salt upon the table-cloth, which I had often heard was never done by the aristocracy. As I kept my eyes upon the others and imitated them to the best of my ability, I hope I did not disgrace Nassau Street.