What could be hoped for in such surroundings?  With every effort to be clean the dirt accumulates faster than it can be washed away.  It was impossible, I found by my own experience, to be really clean.  There was a total absence of beauty in everything—­not a line of grace, not a pleasing sound, not an agreeable odour anywhere.  One could get used to this ugliness, become unconscious even of the acrid smells that pervade the tenement.  It was probable my comrades felt at no time the discomfort I did, but the harm done them is not the physical suffering their condition causes, but the moral and spiritual bondage in which it holds them.  They are not a class of drones made differently from us.  I saw nothing to indicate that they were not born with like capacities to ours.  As our bodies accustom themselves to luxury and cleanliness, theirs grow hardened to deprivation and filth.  As our souls develop with the advantages of all that constitutes an ideal—­an intellectual, esthetic and moral ideal—­their souls diminish under the oppression of a constant physical effort to meet material demands.  The fact that they become physically callous to what we consider unbearable is used as an argument for their emotional insensibility.  I hold such an argument as false.  From all I saw I am convinced that, given their relative preparation for suffering and for pleasure, their griefs and their joys are the same as ours in kind and in degree.

* * * * *

When one is accustomed to days begun at will by the summons of a tidy maid, waking oneself at half-past five means to be guardian of the hours until this time arrives.  Once up, the toilet I made in the nocturnal darkness of my room can best be described by the matron’s remark to me as I went to bed:  “If you want to wash,” she said, “you’d better wash now; you can’t have no water in your room, and there won’t be nobody up when you leave in the morning.”  My evening bath is supplemented by a whisk of the sponge at five.

Without it is black—­a more intense black than night’s beginning, when all is astir.  The streets are silent, an occasional train whirls past, groups of men hurry hither and thither swinging their arms, rubbing their ears in the freezing air.  Many of them have neither overcoats nor gloves.  Now and then a woman sweeps along.  Her skirts have the same swing as my own short ones; under her arm she carries a newspaper bundle whose meaning I have grown to know.  My own contains a midday meal:  two cold fried oysters, two dried preserve sandwiches, a pickle and an orange.  My way lies across a bridge.  In the first gray of dawn the river shows black under its burden of ice.  Along its troubled banks innumerable chimneys send forth their hot activity, clouds of seething flames, waving arms of smoke and steam—­a symbol of spent energy, of the lives consumed and vanishing again, the sparks that shine an instant against the dark sky and are spent forever.