[In the following essay, which originally appeared in the New York Sun, Riis comments on some of his photographs.]

With their way illuminated by spasmodic flashes, as bright and sharp and brief as those of the lightning itself, a mysterious party has lately been startling the town o' nights. Somnolent policemen on the street, denizens of the dives in their dens, tramps and bummers in their socalled lodgings, and all the people of the wild and wonderful variety of New York night life have in their turn marvelled at and been frightened by the phenomenon. What they saw was three or four figures in the gloom, a ghostly tripod, some weird and uncanny movements, the blinding flash, and then they heard the patter of retreating footsteps, and the mysterious visitors were gone before they could collect their scattered thoughts and try to find out what it was all about. Of course all this fuss speedily became known to THE SUN reporters, and equally as a matter of course they speedily found out the meaning of the seeming mystery. But at the request of the parties interested the publication of the facts was delayed until the purpose of the expedition was accomplished. That has now been done, and its history may now be written.

The party consisted of members of the Society of Amateur Photographers of New York experimenting with the process of taking instantaneous pictures by an artifical flash light, and their guide and conductor, an energetic gentleman, who combines in his person, though not in practice, the two dignities of deacon in a Long Island church and a police reporter in New York. His object in the matter, besides the interest in the taking of the pictures, was the collection of a series of views for magic lantern slides, showing, as no mere description could, the misery and vice that he had noticed in his ten years of experience. Aside from its strong human interest, he thought that this treatment of the topic would call attention to the needs of the situation, and suggest the direction in which much good might be done. The nature of this feature of the deacon-reporter's idea is indicated by the way he has succeeded in interesting the children in his Sunday school on Long Island in the work of helping the destitute children of the metropolis. The ground about the little church edifice is turned into a garden, in which the Sunday school children work at spading, hoeing, planting, and weeding, and the potatoes and other vegetables thus raised are contributed to a children's home in this city. In furtherance of just such aims the deaconreporter threw himself with tireless energy into the pursuit of pictures of Gotham's crime and misery by night and day to make a foundation for a lecture called "The Other Half; How it Lives and Dies in New York," to give at church and Sunday school exhibitions, and the like.

The entire composition of the night rousing party was: Dr. Henry G. Piffard and Richard Hoe Lawrence, two accomplished and progressive amateur photographers; Dr. John T. Nagle of the Health Board, who is strongly interested in the same direction, and Jacob A. Riis, the deacon-reporter.

The first picture in this report gives a view of life among the white slaves, as the needle-women of New York are truthfully and pathetically designated since THE SUN has disclosed so much of the misery and oppression they suffer. The women are mother and daughter, both widows. As they are both able to work, and have no children or any one depending on them, they are exceptionally well off among the class to which they belong. But it is only by unremitting work, early and late, that they are able to keep over themselves the poor shelter of a tenement house roof and provide the actual necessaries of life.

The adventures of the picture-taking party in other directions were interesting and sometimes amusing. Their night pictures were faithful and characteristic, being mostly snap shots and surprises. In the daytime they could not altogether avoid having their object known, and, struggle as they might against it, they could not altogether prevent the natural instinct of fixing up for a picture from being followed. When a view was of interest and value as they found it, they were sometimes unable to stop the preparation and posing from almost destroying the interest in it. Mr. Riis has kindly furnished a number of his photographs to the Sun's artist, and they are given here. An example of the flash-light pictures is this from the lodging room of the Thirtieth street police station. The three women caught in the flash are three different types of the station house lodger. One is shown in sodden or brazen indifference, one in retiring modesty and averted face, and the third in angry defiance of camera and visitors.

Another flash-light picture, though showing only still life, is eloquent of the misery and destitution of those with whom imagination can people it, as each recurring night does people it, with the wrecks of humanity that form its clientage. It is a Pell street seven-cent lodging house, whose cots or beds or bunks or hammocks, partaking as they do of the characteristics of all three, are simply strips of canvas stretched between beams, six feet apart. Mr. Riis has other views of this place at night which are a revelation to those who were never there.

The pictures secured of some of the notorious courts and alleys of the lowest tenement districts of the Fourth and Sixth wards are very interesting, and are especially relied upon by Mr. Riis to make his points in favor of the Children's Aid Society and other children helpers, because they are always swarming with children. The court at 22 Baxter street, long of an unsavory reputation, and with a still more unsavory name, is now almost wholly given up to Italian occupancy. It is still dirty and distressed, and its picture, as given here, is not without interest. It is a typical tenement house yard, the clothes lines, the hydrant, the push cart, and the children being always to be found.

At 59 Baxter street is a similar place, an alley leading in from the sidewalk, with tenements on either side crowding so close as to almost shut out the light of day. On one side they are brick and on the other wood, but there is little difference in their ricketiness and squalor. This is also an Italian colony, and the bags of rags and bones and paper shown are gathered by these people, despite the laws and ordinances and the 8,000 police.

At 59 Mulberry street, in the famous Bend, is another alley of this sort, except it is as much worse in character as its name, "Bandits' Roost," is worse than the designations of most of these alleys. It has borne this name these many years, and though there have been many entire changes in the occupants in that time, each succeeding batch seems to be calculated in appearance and character to keep up the appropriateness of the name. There are no bags of rags to indicate even that low form of industry here. Many Italians live here, but they are devoted to the stale beer industry. On each side of the alley are stale beer dives in room after room, where the stuff is sold for two or three cents a quart. After buying a round the customer is entitled to a seat on the floor, otherwise known as a "lodging," for the night.

Another outcropping of the benevolent purpose of Mr. Riis in behalf of the boys is his showing of a touching picture of street Arabs in sleeping quarters, which it must have taken a hunt to discover. These youngsters have evidently spent their lodging money for gallery seats at the show, and have found shelter on the back stoop of an old tenement house.

The researches into the manner of life of the "other half' continually brought the investigators face to face with "the growler," which is the highly suggestive name of the can or pitcher in which beer is brought by the pint or quart from the corner saloon. The bright youngster here pictured as the Growler Ganymede has thousands of prototypes in this city. He serves both the families in the tenements and the gangs that congregate on the corners or in stables or some other shelter to work the growler. In many cases yet younger children are pressed into this service, and girls, as well as boys, of tender years are sent into saloons of bad character for this purpose.

A "growler gang" that is the exemplification of all that is degrading and disreputable in the whole range of the practice is the one whose headquarters is under the Jackson street dump. The surroundings of these drinkers are dirt, flying ashes, and refuse of all kinds, the tin-can carpeted floor, and the stench-laden air, and there are no attractions except the one of beer guzzling. Decent people are not expected here, and interruptions are not to be feared. So these fellows, who, though young and sturdy, never work, can assemble here and "rush the growler" until the last eight cents is gone.

A similar gang on the west side in the greater freedom they enjoy around the stables and slaughter houses up town, indulge in all the beer they can get while assembled in the open air. They have, nevertheless, means of getting under cover when, as is frequently the case, that becomes necessary.

A feature of growler gang life is the proceeding known as "wrastling for the price." That means getting money with which to buy beer. And when these young toughs talk about getting money, it simply means getting it, and there is no restriction expressed or implied regarding the means to be employed. At these times the advent of a drunken man into the district patrolled by the gang is a piece of good luck for the boys—not for him. The interesting process of robbing a "lush" as here shown is deftly and quickly gone through with.

The degradation pictured in this view of a Thompson street dive is, perhaps, as low as any that the picture takers came across. The dive is one of the places known as "Black and Tans," because its frequenters are colored men and white women of the most degraded sort. The man who is lounging on the barrel is an ignorant, worthless black of a capacity equal to work as a day laborer were it not that the energy for such occupation can only be supplied by the pressure of the most dire necessity. The woman shown is white as to complexion, but a dissolute life and the effects of drink have dragged her down to the level of the man, if, indeed, she is not beneath it.