William A. Dunning

To a distrustful northern mind such legislation could very easily take the form of a

systematic attempt to relegate the freedmen to a subjection only less complete than

that from which the war had set them free. The radicals sounded a shrill note of

alarm. "We tell the white men of Mississippi," said the Chicago Tribune, "that the

men of the North will convert the state of Mississippi into a frog-pond before they

will allow any such laws to disgrace one foot of soil over which the flag of

freedom waves." In Congress, Wilson, Sumner, and other extremists took up the

cry, and with superfluous ingenuity distorted the spirit and purpose of both the

laws and the law-makers of the South. The "black codes" were represented to be

the expression of a deliberate purpose by the southerners to nullify the result of the

war and reestablish slavery, and this impression gained wide prevalence in the

North.

Yet, as a matter of fact, this legislation, far from embodying any spirit of

defiance towards the North or any purpose to evade the conditions which the

victors had imposed, was in the main a conscientious and straightforward attempt

to bring some sort of order out of the social and economic chaos which a full

acceptance of the results of war and emancipation involved. In its general principle

it corresponded very closely to the actual facts of the situation. The freedmen were

not, and in the nature of the case could not for generations be, on the same social,

moral, and intellectual plane with the whites; and this fact was recognized by

constituting them a separate class in the civil order. As in general principles, so in

details, the legislation was faithful on the whole to the actual conditions with

which it had to deal. The restrictions in respect to bearing arms, testifying in court,

and keeping labor contracts were justified by well-established traits and habits of

the negroes; and the vagrancy laws dealt with problems of destitution, idleness,

and vice of which no one not in the midst of them could appreciate the appalling

magnitude and complexity.

William A. Dunning, Reconstruction: Political and Economic, 1865-1877 (1907; reprint, New York: Harper & Row [Harper Torchbooks], 1962), pp. 57-58.

Univ. of Virginia Lib

HORATIO ALGER, Jr.

Ragged Dick, Or, Street Life in New York

with the Boot Blacks

1868 Ch. 2, 11, 14 (excerpts)

Frontispiece from the original. Photographs by Lewis Hine added.

Harvard Univ. Archives

Horatio Alger, Jr., 1852

CHAPTER II. JOHNNY NOLAN

A FTER Dick had finished polishing Mr. Greyson’s* boots he was fortunate enough

to secure three other customers, two of them reporters in the Tribune establishment, which occupies the corner of Spruce Street and Printing House Square. When Dick had got through with his last customer the City Hall clock indicated eight o’clock. He had been up an hour, and hard at work, and naturally began to think of breakfast. He went up to the head of Spruce Street, and turned into Nassau. Two blocks further, and he reached Ann Street. On this street was a small, cheap restaurant, where for five cents Dick could get a cup of coffee, and for ten cents more, a plate of beef-steak with a plate of bread thrown in. These Dick ordered, and sat down at a table. It was a small apartment with a few plain tables unprovided with cloths, for the class of customers who patronized it were not very particular. Our hero’s breakfast was soon before him. Neither the coffee nor the steak were as good as can be bought at Delmonico’s; but then it is very doubtful whether, in the present state of his wardrobe, Dick would have

been received at that aristocratic restaurant, even if his means had admitted of paying the high prices there charged. Dick had scarcely been served when he espied a boy about his own size standing at the door, looking wistfully into the restaurant. This was Johnny Nolan, a boy of fourteen, who was engaged in the same profession as Ragged Dick. His wardrobe was in very much the same condition as Dick’s. “Had your breakfast, Johnny?” inquired Dick, cutting off a piece of steak. “No.” “Come in, then. Here’s room for you.” “I ain’t got no money,” said Johnny, looking a little enviously at his more fortunate friend. “Haven’t you had any shines?” “Yes, I had one, but I shan’t get any pay till to-morrow.” “Are you hungry?” “Try me, and see.” “Come in. I’ll stand treat this morning.” Johnny Nolan was nowise slow to accept this invitation, and was soon seated beside Dick. “What’ll you have, Johnny?” “Same as you.” * Excerpted, and photographs added, by the National

Humanities Center, Research Triangle Park, NC. 2005. Photographs by Lewis Wickes Hine courtesy Library of Congress.

“Cup o’ coffee and beefsteak,” ordered Dick.

“That man in the brown coat.” These were promptly brought, and Johnny attacked them vigorously. “What of him. You ain’t scared of him, are

you?” Now, in the boot-blacking business, as well as in higher avocations, the same rule prevails, that energy and industry are rewarded, and indolence suffers. Dick was energetic and on the alert for business, but Johnny the reverse. The consequence was that Dick earned probably three times as much as the other.

“Yes, he got me a place once.” “Where?” “Ever so far off.” “What if he did?” “I ran away.” “Didn’t you like it?” “No, I had to get up too early. It was on a farm, and I had to get up at five to take care of the cows. I like New York best.”

“How do you like it?” asked Dick, surveying Johnny’s attacks upon the steak with evident complacency.

“Didn’t they give you enough to eat?” “It’s hunky.” “Oh, yes, plenty.” I don’t believe “hunky” is to be found in

either Webster’s or Worcester’s big dictionary; but boys will readily understand what it means.

“And you had a good bed?” “Yes.” “Then you’d better have stayed. You don’t get either of them here. Where’d you sleep last night?”

“Do you come here often?” asked Johnny. “Most every day. You’d better come too.” “I can’t afford it.”

“Up an alley in an old wagon.” “Well, you’d ought to, then,” said Dick. “What do you do with your money, I’d like to know?”

“You had a better bed than that in the country, didn’t you?”

“I don’t get near as much as you, Dick.” “Yes, it was as soft as  as cotton.” “Well, you might if you tried. I keep my eyes open  that’s the way I get jobs. You’re lazy, that’s what’s the matter.”

Johnny had once slept on a bale of cotton, the recollection supplying him with a comparison. “Why didn’t you stay?” Johnny did not see fit to reply to this

charge. Probably he felt the justice of it, and preferred to proceed with the breakfast, which he enjoyed the more as it cost him nothing.

“I felt lonely,” said Johnny.

Breakfast over, Dick walked up to the desk, and settled the bill. Then, followed by Johnny, he went out into the street. “Where are you going, Johnny?” “Up to Mr. Taylor’s, on Spruce Street, to see if he don’t want a shine.” “Do you work for him reg’lar?” “Yes. Him and his partner wants a shine most every day. Where are you goin’?” “Down front of the Astor House. I guess I’ll find some customers there.” At this moment Johnny started, and, dodging into an entry way, hid behind the door, considerably to Dick’s surprise. “What’s the matter now?” asked our hero. “Has he gone?” asked Johnny, his voice betraying anxiety. “Who gone, I’d like to know?”

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Johnny could not exactly explain his feelings, but it is often the case that the young vagabond of the streets, though his food is uncertain, and his bed may be any old wagon or barrel that he is lucky enough to find unoccupied when night sets in, gets so attached to his precarious but independent mode of life, that he feels discontented in any other. He is accustomed to the noise and bustle and ever- varied life of the streets, and in the quiet scenes of the country misses the excitement in the midst of which he has always dwelt. Johnny had but one tie to bind him to the city. He had a father living, but he might as well have been without one. Mr. Nolan was a confirmed drunkard, and spent the greater part of his wages for liquor. His potations made

him ugly, and inflamed a temper never very sweet, working him up sometimes to such a pitch of rage that Johnny’s life was in danger. Some months before, he had thrown a flat-iron at his son’s head with such terrific force that unless Johnny had dodged he would not have lived long enough to obtain a place in our story. He fled the house, and from that time had not dared to re-enter it. Somebody had given him a brush and box of blacking, and he had set up in business on his own account. But he had not energy enough to succeed, as has already been stated, and I am afraid the poor boy had met with many hardships, and suffered

more than once from cold and hunger. Dick had befriended him more than once, and often given him a breakfast or dinner, as the case might be. “How’d you get away?” asked Dick, with some curiosity. “Did you walk?” “No, I rode on the cars.” “Where’d you get your money? I hope you didn’t steal it.” “I didn’t have none.” “What did you do, then?” “I got up about three o’clock, and walked to Albany.” “Where’s that?” asked Dick, whose ideas on the subject of geography were rather vague. “Up the river.” “How far?” “About a thousand miles,” said Johnny, whose conceptions of distance were equally vague. “Go ahead. What did you do then?” “I hid on top of a freight car, and came all the way without their seeing me.* That man in the brown coat was the man that got me the place, and I’m afraid he’d want to send me back.” “Well,” said Dick, reflectively, “I dunno as I’d like to live in the country. I couldn’t go to Tony Pastor’s or the Old Bowery. There wouldn’t be no place to spend my evenings. But I say, it’s tough in winter, Johnny, ‘specially when your overcoat’s at the tailor’s, an’ likely to stay there.” “That’s so, Dick. But I must be goin’, or Mr. Taylor’ll get somebody else to shine his boots.” Johnny walked back to Nassau Street, while Dick kept on his way to Broadway. “That boy,” soliloquized Dick, as Johnny took his departure, “ain’t got no ambition. I’ll bet he won’t get five shines to-day. I’m glad I ain’t like him. I couldn’t go to the theatre, nor buy no cigars, nor get half as much as I wanted to eat. Shine yer boots, sir?” . . .

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* A fact. [footnote in original]

CHAPTER XI. DICK AS A DETECTIVE

. . . “Now,” said Frank, “I think I’ll go back to the Astor House. Uncle has probably got through his business and returned.” “All right,” said Dick. The two boys walked up to Broadway, just where the tall steeple of Trinity faces the street of bankers and brokers, and walked leisurely to the hotel. When they arrived at the Astor House, Dick said, “Good-by, Frank.” “Not yet,” said Frank; “I want you to come in with me.” Dick followed his young patron up the steps. Frank went to the reading-room, where, as he had thought probable, he found his uncle already arrived, and reading a copy of “The Evening Post,” which he had just purchased outside. “Well, boys,” he said, looking up, “have you had a pleasant jaunt?” “Yes, sir,” said Frank. “Dick’s a capital guide.” “So this is Dick,” said Mr. Whitney, surveying him with a smile. “Upon my word, I should hardly have known him. I must congratulate him on his improved appearance.” “Frank’s been very kind to me,” said Dick, who, rough street-boy as he was, had a heart easily touched by kindness, of which he had never experienced much. “He’s a tip-top fellow.” “I believe he is a good boy,” said Mr. Whitney. “I hope, my lad, you will prosper and rise in the world. You know in this free country poverty in early life is no bar to a man’s advancement. I haven’t risen very high myself,” he added, with a smile, “but have met with moderate success in life; yet there was a time when I was as poor as you.” “Were you, sir?” asked Dick, eagerly. “Yes, my boy, I have known the time when I have been obliged to go without my dinner because I didn’t have enough money to pay for it.” “How did you get up in the world,” asked Dick, anxiously.

“I entered a printing-office as an apprentice, and worked for some years. Then my eyes gave out and I was obliged to give that up. Not knowing what else to do, I went into the country, and worked on a farm. After a while I was lucky enough to invent a machine, which has brought me in a great deal of money. But there was one thing I got while I was in the printing-office which I value more than money.” “What was that, sir?” “A taste for reading and study. During my leisure hours I improved myself by study, and acquired a large part of the knowledge which I now possess. Indeed, it was one of my books that first put me on the track of the invention, which I afterwards made. So you see, my lad, that my studious habits paid me in money, as well as in another way.” “I’m awful ignorant,” said Dick, soberly. “But you are young, and, I judge, a smart boy. If you try to learn, you can, and if you ever expect to do anything in the world, you must know something of books.” “I will,” said Dick, resolutely. “I ain’t

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always goin’ to black boots for a livin’.” “All labor is respectable, my lad, and you have no cause to be ashamed of any honest business; yet when you can get something to do that promises better for your future prospects, I advise you to do so. Till then earn your living in the way you are accustomed to, avoid extravagance, and save up a little money if you can.” “Thank you for your advice,” said our hero. “There ain't many that takes an interest in Ragged Dick.” “So that’s your name,” said Mr. Whitney. “If I judge you rightly, it won’t be long before you change it. Save your money, my lad, buy books, and determine to be somebody, and you may yet fill an honorable position.” “I’ll try,” said Dick. “Good-night, sir.” “Wait a minute, Dick,” said Frank. “Your blacking-box and old clothes are upstairs. You may want them.” “In course,” said Dick. “I couldn’t get along without my best clothes, and my stock in trade.” “You may go up to the room with him, Frank,” said Mr. Whitney. “The clerk will give you the key. I want to see you, Dick, before you go.” “Yes, sir,” said Dick. “Where are you going to sleep to-night, Dick?” asked Frank, as they went upstairs

together. “P’r’aps at the Fifth Avenue Hotel  on the outside,” said Dick. “Haven’t you any place to sleep, then?” “I slept in a box, last night.” “In a box?” “Yes, on Spruce Street.” “Poor fellow!” said Frank, compassionately. “Oh, ‘twas a bully bed  full of straw! I slept like a top.” “Don’t you earn enough to pay for a room, Dick?” “Yes,” said Dick; “only I spend my money foolish, goin’ to the Old Bowery, and Tony Pastor’s, and sometimes gamblin’ in Baxter Street.” “You won’t gamble any more,  will you, Dick?” said Frank, laying his hand persuasively on his companion’s shoulder. “No, I won’t,” said Dick. “You’ll promise?” “Yes, and I’ll keep it. You’re a good feller. I wish you was goin’ to be in New York.” “I am going to a boarding-school in Connecticut. The name of the town is Barnton. Will you write to me, Dick?” “My writing would look like hens’ tracks,” said our hero.

“Never mind. I want you to write. When you write you can tell me how to direct, and I

will send you a letter.” “I wish you would,” said Dick. “I wish I was more like you.” “I hope you will make a much better boy, Dick. Now we’ll go in to my uncle. He wishes to see you before you go.” They went into the reading- room. Dick had wrapped up his blacking-brush in a newspaper with which Frank had supplied him, feeling that a guest of the Astor House should hardly be seen coming out of the hotel displaying such a professional sign.

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“Uncle, Dick’s ready to go,” said Frank. “Good-by, my lad,” said Mr. Whitney. “I hope to hear good accounts of you sometime. Don’t forget what I have told you. Remember that your future position depends mainly upon yourself, and that it will be high or low as you choose to make it.” He held out his hand, in which was a five- dollar bill. Dick shrunk back. “I don’t like to take it,” he said. “I haven’t earned it.” “Perhaps not,” said Mr. Whitney; “but I give it to you because I remember my own friendless youth. I hope it may be of service to

you. Sometime when you are a prosperous man, you can repay it in the form of aid to some poor boy, who is struggling upward as you are now.” “I will, sir,” said Dick, manfully. He no longer refused the money, but took it gratefully, and, bidding Frank and his uncle good-by, went out into the street. A feeling of loneliness came over him as he left the presence of Frank, for whom he had formed a strong attachment in the few hours he had known him. . . .

CHAPTER XIV. A BATTLE AND A VICTORY

. . . “What’s that chap been doing?” asked the policeman of Dick. “He was amoosin’ himself by pitchin’ into me,” replied Dick. “What for?” “He didn’t like it ‘cause I patronized a different tailor from him.” “Well, it seems to me you are dressed pretty smart for a boot-black,” said the policeman. “I wish I wasn’t a boot-black,” said Dick.

“Never mind, my lad. It’s an honest busi- ness,” said the policeman, who was a sensible man and a worthy citizen. “It’s an honest business. Stick to it till you get something better.” “I mean to,” said Dick. “It ain’t easy to get out of it, as the prisoner remarked, when he was asked how he liked his residence.” “I hope you don’t speak from experience.” “No,” said Dick; “I don’t mean to get into prison if I can help it.” “Do you see that gentleman over there?” asked the officer, pointing to a well-dressed man who was walking on the other side of the street. “Yes.” “Well, he was once a newsboy.”

“And what is he now?” “He keeps a bookstore, and is quite prosperous.” Dick looked at the gentleman with interest, wondering if he should look as respectable when he was a grown man. It will be seen that Dick was getting ambitious. Hitherto he had thought very little of the future, but was content to get along as he could, dining as well as his means would allow, and spending the evenings in the pit of the Old Bowery, eating peanuts between the acts if he was prosperous, and if unlucky

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supping on dry bread or an apple, and sleeping in an old box or a wagon. Now, for the first time, he began to reflect that he could not black boots all his life. In seven years he would be a man, and, since his meeting with Frank, he felt he would like to be a respectable man. He could see and appreciate the difference between Frank and such a boy as Micky Maguire, and it was not strange that he preferred the society of the former. In the course of the next morning, in pursuance of his new resolutions for the future, he called at a savings bank, and held out four dollars in bills besides another dollar in change. There was a high railing, and a number of clerks busily writing at desks behind it. Dick, never having been in a bank before, did not know where to go. He went, by mistake, to the desk where money was paid out. “Where’s your book?” asked the clerk. “I haven’t got any.” “Have you any money deposited here?” “No, sir, I want to leave some here.” “Then go to the next desk.” Dick followed directions, and presented himself before an elderly man with gray hair, who looked at him over the rims of his spectacles. “I want you to keep that for me,” said Dick, awkwardly emptying his money out on the desk. “How much is there?” “Five dollars.” “Have you got an account here?” “No, sir.” “Of course you can write?” The “of course” was said on account of Dick’s neat dress. “Have I got to do any writing?” asked our hero, a little embarrassed. “We want you to sign your name in this book,” and the old gentleman shoved round a large folio volume containing the names of depositors. Dick surveyed the book with some awe. “I ain’t much on writin’,” he said. “Very well, write as well as you can.” The pen was put into Dick’s hand, and, after dipping it in the inkstand, he succeeded

after a hard effort, accompanied by many contortions of the face, in inscribing upon the book of the bank the name

DICK HUNTER. “Dick!  that means Richard, I suppose,” said the bank officer, who had some difficulty in making out the signature. “No; Ragged Dick is what folks call me.” “You don’t look very ragged.” “No, I’ve left my rags to home. They might get wore out if I used ‘em too common.” “Well, my lad, I’ll make out a book in the name of Dick Hunter, since you seem to prefer Dick to Richard. I hope you will save up your money and deposit more with us.” Our hero took his bank-book, and gazed on the entry “Five Dollars” with a new sense of importance. He had been accustomed to joke about Erie shares, but now, for the first time, he felt himself a capitalist; on a small scale, to be sure, but still it was no small thing for Dick to have five dollars which he could call his own. He firmly determined that he would lay by every cent he could spare from his earnings towards the fund he hoped to accumulate. But Dick was too sensible not to know that there was something more than money needed to win a respectable position in the world. He felt that he was very ignorant. Of reading and writing he only knew the rudiments, and that, with a slight acquaintance with arithmetic, was all he did know of books. Dick knew he must study hard, and he dreaded it. He looked upon learning as attended with greater difficulties than it really possesses. But Dick had good pluck. He meant to learn, nevertheless, and resolved to buy a book with his first spare earnings. When Dick went home at night he locked up his bank-book in one of the drawers of the bureau. It was wonderful how much more independent he felt whenever he reflected upon the contents of that drawer, and with what an important air of joint ownership he regarded the bank building in which his small savings were deposited.

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