THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
grown up in easier conditions and in constant contact with sympathetic people, would be able as readily and cheerfully as I to accept the vicissitudes of life in a new country and a strange social atmosphere. But we were young—I twenty-three years old, and my wife eighteen—and much might be hoped from the adaptability of youth. Still, I was anxious that the first impression of the new country should be bright and inspiring to her. And that wish was at once gratified in the highest degree. The day on which we arrived in New York harbor could not have been more glorious. The bay and the islands surrounding it were radiant with sunlit splendor. When we beheld this spectacle, so surprisingly entrancing after a four-weeks' journey over the waste of waters, our hearts fairly leaped with joy. We felt as if we were entering, through this gorgeous portal, a world of peace and happiness.
As we skirted the shore of Staten Island, with its fine country houses and green lawns and massive clumps of shade trees, a delightful picture of comfort and contentment—Staten Island was then still a favorite summering place—I asked one of my fellow-passengers what kind of people lived in those charming dwellings. “Rich New Yorkers,” said he. “And how much must a man have to be called a rich New Yorker?” I asked. “Well,” he answered, “a man who has something like $150,000 or $200,000 or an assured income of $10,000 or $12,000 would be considered wealthy. Of course, there are men who have more than that—as much as a million or two, or even more.” “Are there many such in New York?” “Oh, no, not many; perhaps a dozen. But the number of people who might be called ‘well to do’ is large.” “And are there many poor people in New York?” “Yes, some; mostly new-comers, I think. But what is called poverty here would, in many cases, hardly be called poverty in London or Paris. There are
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