m 13 1900 
Vol. LIX. No. 2625. 
NEW YORK, MAY 19, 1900. 
$1 PER YEAR. 
A NIGHT AT THE MILLS HO TEL. 
A MONUMENT TO PRACTICAL CHARITY. 
Life Among the Poor in Pocket. 
A CURIOUS CROWD—It was a cold, stormy night 
in December when I took my place in a long line in 
front of the oflice at the Mills Hotel. The line slowly 
fed out until my turn came at the window, where I 
paid my 20 cents and received key 627. The line of 
men curved around—a whiplash of humanity—ragged 
and frayed in places from whipping up 
some of the world’s jaded forces. Here 
was a young clerk, evidently on a small 
salary—respectable, but with the finger¬ 
marks of poverty upon him. Behind 
him was an older man—evidently a 
small pedler. The storm had driven him 
in from his accustomed haunts. He 
would sleep while he could not work, so 
as to put in more time when the bright 
weather came. A workingman, rough of 
hands, in a blue jumper, came next. Af¬ 
ter him crowded an old white-haired 
man who had evidently seen better days. 
His clothes, though threadbare, were 
neat, and his high hat was still respect¬ 
able. There they were, the human drift¬ 
wood of a great city. This was their 
home. They paid for their keys—and 
drifted on out of sight. 
A PRACTICAL CHARITY.—I pre¬ 
sume most readers have heard of the 
Mills Hotel. It is a large, fine-looking 
brick building on Bleeker Street, New 
York. It was built by Mr. D. 0. Mills as 
a practical and common-sense charity. 
It stands in a part of the city where for¬ 
merly cheap lodging-houses abounded. 
These houses provided a bed or cot for 
20 to 50 cents per night, and they were, 
in most cases, perfect dens of filth and 
vileness. The stories told of some of the 
scenes enacted in these vile “hotels” are 
almost beyond belief. Mr. Mills built his 
hotel with the idea of furnishing clean, 
comfortable rooms and wholesome food 
at about the price charged for the low 
and degrading service at the other 
places. He expected to keep men away 
from sin and vice by providing a place 
where these things were barred out. 
There are about 1,600 rooms in the 
hotel, and it is usually the case that 
dozens of men are turned away for lack 
of room. The building is solidly built— 
with every substantial appliance for 
comfort. The basement interested me 
greatly. “Wash and Be Clean!” is the 
watchword here. There were long rows 
of wash basins and a great colony of 
bath tubs. Free soap and towels are 
provided, and there was a lively demand 
for them. I noticed a number of men 
doing their own washing at stone wash 
tubs. They had taken off most of their 
underclothing and brought it with them. Their outer 
clothes hung about them like bags, as they bent scrub¬ 
bing over the tubs. At one corner stood a large brick 
room, or dryer. The front consisted of a number of 
little doors which pulled out like an old-fashioned 
clothes horse. When a man finished his washing he 
pulled out one of these doors, hung his wet clothes on 
the horse and pushed it in again. Then he waited 
around to make sure that some other fellow didn’t 
make a mistake and secure the wrong clothes. These 
men told me that they seldom ironed their clothes, 
and that they aid not find it necessary to do so!! 
STUDIES OF CHARACTER.—On the first floor are 
two large reading and smoking rooms. These are 
square, and extend up to the roof—the rooms on each 
story looking out into this large space. This gives a 
light airy room with good ventilation, which is neces¬ 
sary, for on that Winter’s night there was a cloud of 
tobacco smoke rising from the hundreds of pipes and 
cigars. I should say that 90 per cent of the guests at 
the Mills Hotel were smoking. It has not been found 
practical or desirable to prohibit the use of tobacco. 
“Rum and profanity” are barred, but tobacco really 
seems to act like a gentle policeman to help preserve 
quiet and order. A very large proportion of the men 
in these rooms appeared to be past middle life. Stand¬ 
ing in an upper room, and looking down upon them, 
one is surprised to see how many white and gray 
heads are in sight. Scientific men declare that both 
tea and tobacco prevent, to a certain extent, the 
wastes of the body, so that less actual food is re¬ 
quired. People sometimes wonder why old persons 
in abject poverty will spend money for tea which 
might be spent for food. In many cases these tea- 
drinkers actually require less food, since the wastes of 
the body are restricted. The smoking rooms were 
well filled with tables at which groups of men were 
playing cards. On the same floor is a large library 
open to guests of the hotel. 
A man with a reflective turn of mind could frame 
many romances and stories out of the very appear¬ 
ance of the men who filled the room. Some were 
happy and satisfied. The fact that they were safe for 
the night was enough for them. Others were well 
able to lodge In more expensive places. 
Others sat silent and moody, with eyes 
fixed steadily on 'the floor, or with head 
held down upon their hands. Their 
very attitude told the story of hopeless 
hunt for respectable work, and the fear 
of to-morrow, which involved not only 
their own happiness, but perhaps that 
of helpless ones who looked to them for 
support. Every now and then one of 
these men would find his thoughts too 
bitter to endure quietly. He would 
shrug his shoulders, start to his feet and 
go slowly and wearily to his room to 
seek that blessed boon to humanity— 
oblivion in sleep. There was a surpris¬ 
ingly large proportion of old men who 
belong to what we may call “the shabby 
genteel.” I am told that there are hun¬ 
dreds of old men, penniless and without 
real children, who look to the Mills 
Hotel for food and shelter. I say real 
children, for there are unhappily those 
who might provide homes for their 
parents, who take advantage of such in¬ 
stitutions, public and private, to cheapen 
their duty. It was pitiful to see some of 
these neat, threadbare old gentlemen. 
Nature denies to the old the ability to 
throw off care in the sound sleep of 
childhood. Age brings wakeful nights : 
yet, happily, as the physical forces break 
down the sharp pain of sorrow is also 
blunted. 
A SQUARE MEAL—At 10 o’clock I 
went up on the elevator and found my 
room. It was just large enough for a 
bed, a chair and a man. A grated win¬ 
dow looked down upon the smoking 
room. The bed was clean and neat, and 
I slept well until another day came 
creeping through the gloom and fog 
which hung over the great city. The 
sleepers come busily out of their little 
rooms, like bees out of a hive. In the 
center of each floor is a collection of 
wash basins, and we washed and 
brushed as became good citizens. Half 
of the basement is given up to a restau¬ 
rant, and I went there for my breakfast. 
I know something about restaurant life 
in New York, for I once belonged to the 
vast army of lunch-counter citizens who 
find it necessary to go Where they can 
buy the most food for a cent. No man 
will ever go to war in defence of a lunch counter or 
a boarding house, for he cannot set the tap roots of 
home down with either one, still he obtains some facts 
about food at such places that have value when he 
starts a home of his own. In the old days I often 
used to try to figure how much profit the seller made 
out of my low-priced meal. I don’t see where there 
is’ any profit to the Mills Hotel in the following bill 
of fare. A farmer would have hard work to match 
these figures. It must be understood that this hotel 
was not built with any idea of obtaining a profit. The 
owner would, I think, be quite content to pay run- 
