Jared Macy, 19th Century Children’s Advocate [published Sep. 16, 1883]

      There used to be a “character” around New York some twenty-five years or so ago who would have delighted the soul of Dickens, he was such an “original,” full of stuff, and spice, and humor, and humanity, and sense. His name was Macy–James Macy, I think. He had been a kind of “queer duck” around New York for some years, till by accident he found his place and work. “The Children’s Aid Society” had just been started, and Macy one day “dropped in” to look at the children and the scenes there, just out of curiosity, as a good many others were doin’ just then, the Children’s Aid Society bein’ just then a new thing. He intended to stay ten minutes or so, but he stayed all day. He came again the next day and when the people in charge of the society tried to “tone down” and conquer a couple of unruly boys and failed, he volunteered his services and succeeded.

      This gave him, and the people in charge of the society, a mutual idea, which soon was put in shape. This man Macy became a sort of assistant superintendent of the Children’s Aid Society at a small salary and large opportunity for work, and he set about his duties at once, seeming to care more for the work than for the salary.

      He had a great love for children; and a perfect knack for bad children–the worse the children were the more he loved to deal with ‘em. This was the great point which made him such a “character,” and in this point I don’t know of anybody who ever equaled him. It wasn’t merely out of love for the bad children ‘emselves that he liked to deal with ‘em, but because he loved the excitement and the struggle of conquerin’ ‘em and making ‘em good. He was a born fighter in his way, only he didn’t care about fightin’ with his fists among men, but with his tongue and wits among boys. It was “a peculiar line of business,” so to speak, but it was a line in which he had everythin’ his own way; he had no rivals and nobody interfered with him.

      He started a kind of boys’ club in Cottage place in very humble quarters of course, and in this club he garnered together his “lambs.” “Lambs” was the name he gave his boys–his very bad boys. It was as good a farce in itself just to hear him call some big-fisted, cut-throat lookin’ young vagabond his “lamb,” yet he really meant what he said, and really was as fond of a young devil as a girl would be of a young lamb. Probably the roughest lookin’ little bummers in New York would come to this Boys’ Club in Cottage place. But before Macy got through with ‘em these little bummers would become quite decent and respectable. He had such patience, and such pluck, such a sense of fun and such a fund of sense, such a combination of childhood and manhood in himself, that he generally got possession of the boy by gettin’ possession of his head and his heart and his interests.

      He liked to enjoy heartily any little row or tussle he had with his “lambs.” One day he was readin’ somethin’ to a lot of boys–ragamuffins from Dutch Hill, near Fortieth street–little loafers whose fathers were members of the notorious Nineteenth street “gang,” young rascals from Corlears Hook, bad boys from all over the city who had heard of the Cottage Place Club or “Mission,” as the good people who didn’t know any better called it–though Macy himself never called it by that name, as he knew the “lambs” wouldn’t stand it–and who had come to it to have some “foolin’” or some “fun.”

      While Macy was talkin’ to the boys very earnestly, in a soft low voice–his voice was like a woman’s–one of the boys who hailed from “Shanty Town made a disturbance. Macy saw this, and without stoppin’ his discourse he seized the bad boy with a firm grip, raised him, and then sat him down on the bench agai–sat him down hard. The boy rubbed a certain portion of his anatomy, while Macy kept on with his sweet talk. Pretty soon the bad boy offended again, and still without stoppin’ his sweet talk or raisin’ his voice, Macy seized the young loafer and sat him down on the bench very hard indeed. And then when for the third time the boy made a fuss, Macy, still pursuing his discourse, smilin’ sweeter than ever and speakin’ softer than ever, seized that bad boy tighter than ever and sat him down on the bench harder than ever, and nearly shakin’ the life out of him, effectually subdued the young rascal, smilin’ and softly speakin’ and goin’ on with his nice talk all the time.

      When he first tried the experiment of introducin’ a singin’ meetin’ at the Bad Boys’ Club, a gang of young and some older galoots from the downtown wards resolved to clean him out, and they carried out their design by tryin’ to stone him out. But he kept on singin’ and smilin’ amid a shower of stones till one stone hit him–then, still singin’ and still smilin’, he took up a billet of wood and rushin’ outside to the leader of the galoots, he pummeled him half to death, and then returned to the meetin’ smilin’ more than ever and continued with the singin’. The leader of the galoots retired vowin’ vengeance, but when he got to Cottage place the next day, with a bigger and bolder gang at his heels, he found to his extreme disgust that Macy had got ahead of him by stayin’ up all night before and barricadin’ all the windows and boardin’ them over. Then, safely ensconced inside his barricade, Macy smiled and sang in sweetness and in safety, and the harder the bad boys battered away at the boards outside the louder he sang and the sweeter he smiled inside. It was fun to him. He was quick-witted, too, and never allowed himself to be rendered ridiculous. He enjoyed laughin’, but didn’t propose to be laughed at. He knew that would be the one thing fatal to his prestige among his “lambs.” One time a boy stole his hat and notify the rest of the fact, and of course a lot of boys stood out in the street, waitin’ to see “the old snoozer coming out without his hat.” But the “old snoozer” was prepared for the emergency. He saw that his hat was gone, but he never let on–kept on smilin’ and singin’ his sweetest, and when the singin’ was over darted for an old hat that belonged to the janitor and which had been lyin’ unnoticed in a corner, put it on his head and walked out, biddin’ the boys good-bye in his softest style and raisin’ his hat politely to ‘em as he walked down the street. It was a cold day when he left.

      The bad boys once tried the barricade game on Macy. Durin’ an evenin’ meetin’ “the gang” fastened up the entrance door and then waited outside till singin’ was over to see the fun; but Macy, suspectin’ how things stood, euchred the gang. As soon as the singin’ was over he quietly, in his sweet, soft way, announced that he had a great treat in store for his “lambs,” which treat was simply a magic lantern exhibition–a very common affair, of course, but perfectly splendid to the boys. He hoped that nobody would leave his seat, and nobody did. Every boy inside sat still to see the show–sat still for about an hour and a half, all which time Macy rattled away sweetly on beside the stove, while the lambs outside were slowly but surely freezin’ in the intense cold. The lambs outside, too, had the Chagrin of seeing how comfortable the lambs inside looked through the window and of hearin’ them laugh noisily or applaud heartily, while all they could do was to stamp with their feet and chatter with their teeth in the nippin’ air. Under those circumstances, the outside lambs came to the conclusion that the game was not worth the candle, and retired, after which Macy quietly got two of the trustiest of the big boys inside to climb outside, unobserved, through one of the back windows, and remove the barricade.

      One thing Macy never could stand, and that was beggin. He used to tell his “lambs” he would rather see them fightin’ then beggin’. He was tolerably kind-hearted, and when there was a downright necessity for it would help a boy or a man pecuniarily. But only in cases of the direst need–not from meanness, but from principle.

      On one occasion some boys came to him pleadin’ piteously for somethin’ to eat. He listened to their tale of woe, and then told ‘em if they were willin’ to pile up a lot of wood in the yard–all right–he would give ‘em somethin’ to eat when they had done the job. So they piled the wood up, and got somethin’ to eat. A few days after some of the same boys tried their luck at beggin’ again, expectin’ not to be recognized among the hundreds Macy had to deal with. They calculated right, as far as not being recognized was concerned. Macy didn’t recollect he had ever seen ‘em before. But actin’ on general principles he took the boys into the yard and showed ‘em the very pile of wood that they had helped to raise a few days before, and told them if they would unload that pile he would give ‘em somethin’ to eat when they had done the job. He had no use for either pilin’ the wood or unloadin’ the pile, but he was bound to make his lambs work before he would let ‘em eat.

      On another occasion two big boys, almost men, told him a meltin’ yarn about their misery and begged for a little money. Macy listened to ‘em and then asked ‘em why they didn’t get work. “Where can we get work?” asked one of the two. “I will show you,” said Macy, and steppin’ out he pointed to Third avenue, and then with his softest tone and sweetest smile continued, “Now, my boys, just be kind enough to walk right due north along this avenue for one hundred miles and you will find plenty of work to do, and food for doing it.”  “Why, that would be way out in the country, wouldn’t it?” said one of the boys. “Precisely so. Good mornin’,” said Macy, with a smile.

      Once a dirty little chap came along, and before a lot of ministers and ladies who were round Macy, whined out, “If you please, sir, I’m an orphint, and I want a home.” This deeply interested at once the ministers, and touched the ladies, and they all wanted Macy to do somethin’, and he did it at once. But Macy hadn’t been years among the street urchins for nothin’. He simply took the lad, kindly but firmly, and held him by the hand. “Where do you live?” he simply asked him in his sweet, soft way.

      “I don’t live nowhere,” replied the boy, wrigglin’.

      “Who’s your father?” continued Macy.

      “I haven’t got no father,” replied the boy, wrigglin’ some more at the persistent questioning.

      “Where’s your mother?” continued Macy, softly.

      “I hain’t got no mother,” replied the boy. “Didn’t I tell you I was an orphint?”  he went on, as he wriggled.

      “Where’s your mother?” reiterated Macy still more softly and sweetly as his hand clutched the brat tighter.

      Here the ministers began to remonstrate. Hadn’t the poor lad just said that both his parents were dead?

       “Where’s your mother?” once more repeated Macy, in his softest, sweetest tones as he grasped the brat in a vice.

      Here the ladies began to protest. Poor, dear little boy, how could he under the circumstances, tell exactly where his mother was? Let us trust she was in heaven.

      “Where’s your mother?” for the fourth time said Macy, sinkin’ his voice almost to a whisper, but squeezing the boy almost to a jelly. “I’ll give you just one minute to tell, and then I’ll hand you over to this officer,” beckonin’ to the officer of the Children’s Aid Society standin’ by.

      And then the boy, findin’ that he was in the hands of one who thoroughly understood him and his kind, owned up, or, in detective parlance, “squealed,” that is, he confessed that he had been lyin’, had a mother livin’, and a father, too, and had run away from his home, such as it was.

      This confession completely turned the ministers against him and disgusted the ladies. The ragged little liar was sent off in disgrace, and though he boo-hooed heartily, genuinely this time, he boo-hooed in vain.

      A little later on one of the ministers ventured to ask Macy on what grounds he had suspected the boy to be lyin’.

      “I didn’t suspect it; I knew it,” said Macy.

      “But, excuse me,” remarked the minister, “you never saw the boy before.”

      “No,” answered Macy. “but I saw him behind, and I saw that his trousers, though nearly worn out, had been mended and patched, and recently, too. And I saw that he was too dirty.”

      “Too dirty!”,

      “Yes, dirtier than the small boy generally is. He had evidently made himself lookin’ as dirty as he could for the occasion, and, like most beginners, had overdone it. One has to be an artist even in dirt.”

      Macy was certainly an artist among boys. He knew all about ‘em and they soon knew all about him and acted accordin’ly.

      To his last hour Macy always liked the excitement of sweetly, softly, shrewdly conquerin’ a bad boy. They put him in charge of a German School in Second Street where the scholars were all good. He loved ‘em very dearly, but when he really wanted to enjoy himself he would go over and have a tussle, as he called it, a “play” with “the lambs of Cottage Place.”

[Editor’s notes: While today we might question the “tough love” approach of Jared (not James) Macy (1822-1882) and the policies of the Children’s Aid Society in general, there’s little doubt that Macy and the Society recognized that many children were in distress and needed help, and stepped up to offer it. One of the Society’s main efforts was to advertise for the placement of unwanted and orphan children in homes and settlements in the western United States–oftentimes homes or farms that were in need of unpaid helpers. The Children’s Aid Society was at the front of the “Orphan Train” movement, and news articles suggest that Jared Macy was one of those who personally placed children on those trains. In his era, though, there’s little to argue against seeing him as a heroic figure. (As was Jared’s sister, Caroline Macy–the subject of another Harry Hill’s Gotham column.)]