Immigrants relax in Castle Garden’s rotunda, stop by on information desk, purchase tickets and meet friends.
As the migration to America rose to flood proportions in the middle years of the 19th Century, many of the men and women pouring onto the Manhattan docks received a disastrous introduction to the New World. If they were not met by relatives or friends, they found themselves beset by dubious Samaritans known as runners, who sold them fraudulent railroad tickets to their destinations and charged up to $10 to haul their baggage—then disappeared with it.
In 1855, New York finally acted to halt such predatory practices: That year, the world’s first immigrant landing depot was opened at Castle Garden in Manhattan’s Battery section. Built in 1807 as a fort and later used as a concert hall, Castle Garden now came to be known as the “Nation’s Gateway,’’ and through it 7,690,606 foreigners would pass during the next four decades.
Its services were numerous. In the depot, travel specialists handed out maps and helped the newcomers plan journeys to their prospective homes. Railroad tickets were sold by authorized agents. Food for the trip could be bought at
Wholesale prices and cooked in the depot’s kitchens. A so-called labor exchange—in effect, an employment agency—helped find jobs for the settlers. And, somewhat reluctantly, Castle Garden even offered a modicum of shelter. Although immigration authorities hoped travelers would use the depot as a one-day stopover and provided no beds, as many as 3,000 people sometimes stretched out on the floor for a night.
For all its good intentions, the depot ran into trouble. The railway agents, unable to resist easy money, began charging more than face value for tickets and pocketing the difference. Money-changers, taking advantage of foreigners’ ignorance about American currency, sometimes gave a handful of shiny pennies in exchange for European money worth much more. By 1890, the problems had become so severe that Castle Garden was replaced by a more rigorously controlled “Nation’s Gateway’’ on Ellis Island, in New York Bay. The old depot closed its doors, underwent yet another refurbishing, and reopened as a public aquarium.
Established on board these packets, for the sake, I believe, of those who happen to find the day too long.”
A phenomenon that could certainly make the hours seem to drag was a dead calm: The absence of any discernible forward movement of the ship took a toll on nerves. ‘‘If there be an infirmity of temper,” Miss Martineau wrote, ‘‘it is sure to come out then. At such a time, there is much playing of shuffleboard upon deck, and the matches do not always end harmoniously.” Even a game of cards or chess could get tense. ‘‘There may be heard a subdued tone of scolding from the whist party at the top of the table, and a stray oath from some checkmated person lower down.” Moreover, she added darkly, there were episodes of backbiting among the ladies ‘‘brushing their hair in their cabin.”
One cabin passenger whose spirits never drooped was Tyrone Power, an actor whose repeated crossings made him a familiar figure on both sides of the Atlantic. No philosopher, but a robust man with a keen appetite for food and drink and the funny side of life. Power delighted in virtually everything aboard a packet ship.
World History
