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;rHE WAYFARER
IN NEW YORK
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THE WAYFARER
IN
NEW YORK
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THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO
THE WAYFARER
IN
NEW YORK
INTRODUCTION BY
EDWARD S. MARTIN
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1909
All rights reserved
w
/j/M
Copyright, 1909,
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1909.
NortoooU }3«32
J. 8. Cashing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction Edward S. Martin
PAGE
xi
From the Log of Robert Juet . Purchas His Pilgrimes i
FROM THE BATTERY TO TRINITY
The Price of Manhattan Mrs, Schuyler Van Rensselaer 5
The First Account of New York Printed in the English
Language ...... Daniel Denton 6
Boy wanted, 1658 J. Alrichs 7
A Schoolmaster's Duties, 1661 . Adriaen Hegeman, Secy. 9
Why the Dutch Surrendered . The West India Company 10
New York in 1679 . . /. Danker s and P. Sluyter 11
When New York was Like a Garden, 1748 Peter Kalm 14
New-York in 1760 .... Andrew Burnaby 16
A Mass Meeting in 1794 .
Fashions in New York in 1 797
An Old New York Salon .
The Battery in 1804 .
As seen by Mrs. Trollope in 183 1
As Dickens saw the City in 1842
The March of the Seventh Regiment down Broadway, 1861
Theodore IVinthrop 42
The Great Panic of 1873 . . . . H. C. Biinner 43
The Two Cities .... Thomas B. Aldrich 45
The Aquarium and the Docks . . John C. Van Dyke 46
V
Grant Thorburn 20
. R. Huntington 23
Gertrude Atherton 26
Washington Irving 30
Mrs. T. A. Trollope ^t^
. Charles Dickens 39
Table of Contents
Liberty Enlightening the World
From the Deck of the Cunarder
Ellis Island ....
The Financial Centre of America
Pan in Wall Street .
New York in a Fog .
The Red Box at Vesey Street
The Exchanges
Old Trinity Churchyard
In Old Trinity .
Edmund C. Stedman
. G. W. Steevens
Edward A. Steiner
James Bryce
Edmund C. Stedman
Arthur Stringer
H. C. Bunner
John C. Van Dyke
. John F. Mines
Mabel Osgood Wright
PAGE
56
58
59
63
65
68
71
72
75
77
II
WITHIN HALF A MILE OF CITY HALL
New York's Greatest Pageant . William Alexander Duer 81
Spring in Town . . . Willia7n Cullen Bryant 84
As a Young Reporter Sees New York y<?5j<fZy«r,^ Williams 85
The Poets of Printing House Square Albert Bigelow Paine 88
89
A Broadway Pageant
The Tombs
In City Hall Park .
A New York City Character
The Bowery
The Great Man of the Quarter
Chinatown
. Walt Whitman
. George A. Sala 90
Mary Edith Biihler 95
The Nezv York Sun 96
John C. Van Dyke 100
Norman Duncan I02
. Rupert Hughes 103
III
GREENWICH AND CHELSEA VILLAGES
Lispenard's Meadow . . . John Randel, Jr. 107
The Plague which built Greenwich, 1822 H. C. Butiner 108
A Song of Bedford Street . . . . II. C. Bunner 112
The Fourteenth Street Theater Mabel Osgood Wright 113
Greenwich and Chelsea . . . John C. Van Dyke 115
vi
Table of Contents
IV
THE WASHINGTON SQUARE NEIGHBORHOOD
PACK
Grace Church Garden , . . Frances A. Schneider 121
The Brasserie Pigault . . . . I/. C. Bunner 121
The Astor Place Opera House Riot Contemporary Pamphlet 126
The Beginning of the End of Lafayette Place Edgar Fawcett 129
The Bread Line . , . Albert Bigelow Paine 130
Washington Square ..... Henry James 134
Another View of Washington Square Theodore Winthrop 136
THE EAST SIDE
A Spring Walk
An East Side Wedding Feast
Cat Alley , . . .
An East Side Music Hall .
Mulberry Bend
" My Vacation on the East Side "
F. Marion Crawford 139
. James L. Ford 142
Jacob A. Riis 145
. Stephen Crane 149
Jacob A. Riis 154
Bernard G, Richards 156
VI
FROM UNION SQUARE TO MADISON SQUARE
Onthe "Rialto"
The Art and Nature Qub
Mannahatta
A Philistine in Bohemia
At the Old Bull's Head
. Harvey J. C Higgins 163
Mabel Osgood Wright 165
. Walt Whitman 169
. O. Henry 170
. C. C. Buel 175
vu
Table of Contents
PAGE
The Social Map . . . , F. Alarion Crawford 177
To the Farragut Statue .... Robert Bridges 178
Madison Square Garden .... Rupert Hughes 179
A Song of City Traffic . . Charles Hanson Towne 181
A Bird's Eye View from the Waldorf . G. VV. Steevens 183
VII
FROM MADISON SQUARE THROUGH
CENTRAL PARK
The Architecture of New York . William Archer 189
The Tenderloin .... John C. Van Dyke 192
When the Owls First Blinked Election News
The New York Herald 193
Three Days of Terror, 1863 . . . Ellen Leojiard ig^
The Little Church Round the Corner . A. E. Laticaster 200
The Path of In-the-Spring .... Zona Gale 201
Columbia at the Outbreak of the Civil War Charles King 202
New York Clubs Rupert Hughes 205
VIII
UPPER MANHATTAN AND HARLEM
Riverside Drive and Morningside Heights Rupert Hughes 213
The Founding of Harlem . . . Carl Horton Fierce 21^
Manhattan ...... Richard Hovey 217
Columbia University on Morningside Harry Thurston Feck 218
General George Clinton to Dr. Peter Tappen . . . 221
The Great Game at the Polo Grounds New York Sun 224
The Old Jumel Mansion . . . Charles Burr Todd 226
The Clermont on the Hudson . . . Clifton Johnson 227
viii
Table of Contents
IX
THE BRONX AND BEYOND
PAGE
Where the People of New York Live . G. IV. Steevens 231
Spuyten Duyvel and King's Bridge . T. Addison Richards 234
A Day at Laguerre's . . . F. Hopkinson Smith 236
The New York Zoological Park IVilliavi T. Hornaday 240
The Bowery Boy as Nurse in Westchester E. W. Townsend za^i
Their Wedding Journey — 1834 . . H. C. Bunner 243
OVER THE WATER
The Bridges and Blackwell's Island
Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
Flushing .
The City of Homes
Coney Island .
Staten Island .
Hoboken, 1831
Greenpoint
John C. Van Dyke 247
. Walt Whitman 251
/esse L. Williajns 254
Anonymous 255
. Rupert Hughes 256
T. Addison Richards 261
Mrs. T. A. Trollope 263
. Edgar Fawcett 265
IZ
INTRODUCTION
TVTEW YORK is a frontier city situated about half-
■^ ^ way between San Francisco and London. It has
a population of about four millions and a half, and gains
about a hundred thousand a year. A very large propor-
tion of its population are newcomers, who pour in both by
sea and by land. Alost of those who come on the land side
are Americans who know the language, customs and some
of the laws of the country. Those who come by sea —
a great and continuous stream — know as a rule neither
our language, laws nor habits, and it is one of the steady
occupations and duties of New York to teach them.
New York's four millions include a select but respectable
company of persons who were born in New York of native-
American parents, a squad, probably larger, of persons
American born of American-born parents who came to
New York when more or less grown up, another considerable
group of the American-born descendants of foreign-born
parents, and a large company of the foreign born.
New York is hardly a first-rate place to be born in. It
is too crowded, it costs too much to be born there, and in
spite of considerable effort and expenditure, the city has
not been able to adjust itself more than imperfectly to the
needs of infancy. A hundred and twenty-five thousand
babies, more or less, take the chances of being born in New
York every year, and a vast deal is done to make them
welcome and encourage them to keep on. And a wonderful
xi
Introduction
proportion of them do keep on. Nevertheless, New York is
not very highly recommended as a birthplace. It is very
successful and attractive, however, as a place for persons
to come to who have been born, and have more or less grown
up, somewhere else. And if they have been educated some-
where else, and have learned to do something pretty well,
so much the better for their chances as residents of New
York.
There are better places to live in than New York, and
that in spite of its excellent climate and remarkable health-
fulness considering its size. But there is hardly any better
place to work in, provided one has learned to work to good
purpose, and can learn to maintain continuous good health
under the nervous strain of New York life. To do that
is an art in itself, but many people learn it, and practise it
successfully by methods that vary according to their em-
ployments and incomes. The city is very stimulating. Its
atmosphere is highly charged with activity. Solitude,
which has considerable healing power provided one does
not take too much of it, is hard to come by there. Op-
portunity abounds: there is an enormous amount to be
done and droves of people doing it. All of that makes
for a quickened pace of mind and limb, and is tiring,
especially to the nerves. Accordingly almost everybody
who works in New York gets more tired in the course of
the year than is good for him, and needs periods of rest
and change of air.
Getting them — getting rest and change — is one of
the steady employments of the city. It sends shoals of
people to Florida, California, Atlantic City, Lakewood and
such places in the spring, and to Europe at all times, but
especially in the summer; it fills the country for fifty miles
xii
Introduction
around New York with the famih'es of people who work
in that city and go home at night; it accomphshes an
extraordinary summer migration of rich and poor, and fills
street cars, parks, recreation-piers, bathing beaches, steam-
boats and places of amusement with people who cannot get
away. Most of New York's population cannot get away,
or not for long at any rate. A great many people, especially
children, get a week or two out of town in the summer,
but there is no time when the city will not be found to be
seething with human creatures and humming with work,
if one looks for them in the right places. When Fifth
Avenue grows languid late in August and the shades are
down or the shutters up in whole blocks of the houses of
the well-to-do, building, street mending and many kinds
of business are at their liveliest, the factories are humming
down-town, the usual crowd surges in from the ferries and
the tunnels in the morning and out again at night, the
trains and cars run almost as full as usual on surface,
subway and elevated roads, and down -town and up-town
the tenement house blocks and the streets they stand on
seem just as full of people as ever.
It is a great credit to Manhattan Island that so many
people dwell on it, and so much too continuously, and still
live and reasonably prosper. The truth is the narrow
island was well contrived to be the home of man. The
breezes sweep across it from river to river. It is well
drained by nature and now well watered by man's art.
And its climate, as has been said, is very good. When
New York was a little city gathered about the Battery and
the Bowling Green and Wall and Broad streets, and lower
Broadway, it must have been a truly charming place to
live in. There are no sites of dwellings now that are as
xiii
Introduction
desirable as those on the borders of the Battery Park where
still stand a few of the fine old dwellings that housed the
more opulent citizens of the time when General Washing-
ton was President. Everything and everybody was within
walking distance then, except when folks took horse or
wagon or boat to go to their country seats farther up the
island. That was a "little, old New York" that was
really little, and really old, and which must have been
really delightful, even to a contemplative mind.
It's littleness is past, and thanks to its habit of tearing
down to rebuild, the best part of it is not as old as it was
a century ago; but it is still delightful; only now it is
wonderful rather than charming, a marvelous city that
people's eyes pop out over; that changes and develops and
shoots up and stretches out so fast that habitual residents
find new marvels for their own eyes every time they show
the town to a visitor, and visitors who come not more than
twice a year find unfamiliar new features at every visit.
But their presence and their reiterating visits attest that
the changeful city is delightful. As one of its employments
is getting rest and change, so another of them is giving
those desirables to folks who live elsewhere. And that
is an enormous industry in New York. Two hundred
thousand visitors a day it was believed to have the last
time there were printed figures on that topic. They come
most in the fall and in the spring and least no doubt in
midsummer, but there is no season when they are not
present in force, getting tired or rested, stimulated, en-
tertained, fed, warmed or cooled according to their needs.
New York is the metropolis of a jealous and disparaging
country that seldom has anything very good to say of it.
Practically the country seems to take pleasure in it;
xiv
Introduction
reads about it continually — for it is the greatest contribu-
tor of news to the papers; visits it when it can and enjoys
the visits; is amused with its shows and interested in its
hotels, shops, parks, streets, tall buildings, rivers, bridges,
slums, tunnels and people. It pays it a constant tribute
of attention and spends money in it according to its means,
but it seldom shows pride in it, or speaks any better of it
than it can help. Perhaps when Kansas goes to Europe
(as it does abundantly) it brags a little about New York
as an American product, and the greatest-city-to-be in
all the world. Perhaps, in Europe, Kansas declares that
Fifth Avenue is a street to make the old world wipe its
glasses, and that the rivers of New York surpass all rivers
in their combination of natural beauties and man-made
wonders; and that the buildings of New York are more
marvelous, at least, than any modern buildings in Europe.
But at home Kansas is apt to see in New York a greedy
city, wrapped up in itself, incredulous of Western wisdom,
inhospitable to "broad American ideas," perched on the
shore of the Atlantic Ocean and careless of the great land
behind it except as a vast productive area from which it
draws endless wealth. New York is merely one of the
fruits of that great tree whose roots go down in the Missis-
sippi Valley, and whose branches spread from one ocean to
the other, but the tree has no great degree of affection for
its fruit. It inclines to think that the big apple gets a dis-
proportionate share of the national sap. It is disturbed by
the enormous drawing power of a metropolis which con-
stantly attracts to itself wealth and its possessors from all
the lesser centers of the land. Every city, every State pays
an annual tribute of men and of business to New York
and no State or city likes particularly to do it. All cities
XV
Introduction
profit in these times by the strong tendency toward in-
dustrial centralization, but New York most of all. It is
the headquarters of the great businesses of the country,
of the banking business, the railroad business, the insurance
, business, and of countless huge and powerful industrial
corporations whose affairs reach out into the farthest
corners of the land. In New York the masters of these
great enterprises must live a good part of the year, and they
build great houses there, and set up country-places where
their children can have a chance to grow up, and of course
their ties with their home States or the cities they came
from become more and more loosened as the years go on.
No wonder, then, the country inclines to be jealous of a
New York that seems to be all the time drawing from it,
and never giving much. But so all great cities grow, and
could not be, without these processes.
New York is different from all the other American cities
in the quality of its hospitahties, and in that there is a basis
for the lack of warmth in the neighbors' attitude toward
it. In one way it is the most hospitable of all our cities
because it welcomes and entertains and provides for in-
comparably more visitors than any other. But its hos-
pitalities are, in the main, the concern of the hotels, the
theaters, the restaurants and the shops. The people of
the city are perhaps a little harder to get at in their homes
than the people of the lesser cities. A vast number of
people who do not live in New York have friends, ac-
quaintances or relatives in that city. When Brown, who
lives in Buffalo, comes to New York, his case is somewhat
different from that of Jones, who lives in New York, when
Jones goes to Buffalo. Brown and Jones being old friends,
Jones sees Brown in Buffalo as a matter of course, and
xvi
Introduction
Brown offers him the hospitaUties of that city. It wouldn't
be Buffalo to Jones if he didn't see Brown. But it is not
quite so much a matter of course that Brown will see Jones
when he comes to New York. For one thing, Brown comes
to New York ten times for once that Jones goes to Buffalo,
so that Jones' visit to Buffalo is much more of an event both
to Jones and Brown than Brown's visit to New York is
to either of them. For another thing it is about five times
easier for Jones to catch Brown in Buffalo than it is for
Brown to catch Jones in New York. Jones' place of
business in New York is five miles from his house, and
three or four miles from the hotels and shops where Brown
may be putting in most of his time. If Brown is really
set on seeing Jones he must write to him beforehand or
trust to catching him by telephone and making an appoint-
ment to meet him somewhere, or lunch with him, or come
to dinner. But when Brown comes to New York he comes
usually for no more than a day or two, and has lots to do,
and is in a hurry. He won't take all this trouble to run
Jones down just for a casual exchange of friendly talk.
He doesn't want to dine with Jones and his family; he
wants to go to the theater. It is a waste of time for Brown
to give up a whole evening to a domestic dinner when the
theaters are so attractive and time so limited. So Brown
is apt to go his own gait in New York and let Jones go
uninterviewed, unless he happens to run across him, or
wants to see him for a reason. That happens so often,
and to so many people, that the impression gets about that
people who go to live in New York are pretty much lost
to the world outside of that city, and that the less that is
expected of them in the way of personal attentions, the
less the chance of disappointment.
xvii
Introduction
That is not quite a just impression. Not the people who
live in New York are to blame for it, but the condition of
life in that city, both for residents and visitors. In New
York people have to live more by schedule than in most
smaller places. In order to accomplish what they have
to do they must plan out the disposition of their time more
carefully than if they lived where distances were shorter,
where a less fraction of the day had to be spent in going and
coming and where the residue of available time was larger.
Existence in New York is not very conducive to friendship.
That is a sad admission. Propinquity and leisure are
favorable to friendship, but both are somewhat to seek in
New York. Of course friendship can thrive in spite of
obstacles, and does there, but New York is more favorable
to the acquisitions of a wide, agreeable and stimulating
acquaintance, than to intimacies. The necessary con-
servation of energy promptly constrains people who under-
take to live and work in New York to stick pretty close to
a daily routine. At such an hour in the morning the
working citizen emerges from his front door or the elevator
of his apartment-house; so far he walks, maybe (unless
it rains) for his health's good; at such a corner he takes
the subway, the elevated, a surface car or a cab; at such
an hour he goes to lunch; at such an hour he stops work
and goes home, or to a club, or to walk, or drive or ride ; or
to do what his wife has arranged. He dines, at home or
elsewhere; he stays at home or goes out, and in due time,
or thereabouts, he goes to bed. Some such beat as that
he travels every day, seeing the people who happen to be
on that beat and missing the others. Habit makes it
easy for him to travel on that beat. To diverge far from
it takes extra thought and involves extra exertion, so he is
xviii
Introduction
chary of divergences. Such habits of Hfe and the dis-
positions that naturally follow from them are doubtless
responsible for the reputation for self-engrossment and
inattention to the rest of the country under which New
York seems to labor. The truth is that the people of that
city are remarkably like other people (a large proportion
of them being "other people" by birth and early training),
but the conditions under which they live are appreciably
different from the conditions of life anywhere else in tiie
United States. If they are less stirred than they should be
by new faces, it is because a whole panorama of new faces
unrolls to them every day. They are driven in upon them-
selves by the incessant impact of people. They go their
own gait because the very pressure of the crowd constrains
them to it. Even grown-up members of the same family
are apt to be a little more separate in New York than they
would be elsewhere, unless they all live at home or very
near one another. That does not mean lapse of affection,
but only that life is pressing. In placid back waters boats
may drift along together, but when there is a rapid current
to stem each must be concerned to make headway on its
course.
As for the physical, the historical and the ethnological
New York, there is great individuality about each of them.
Physically the town seems remarkably constituted to stim-
ulate the mind, the imagination and hands of man to
exceptional exertions. The situation of Manhattan Island
between the rivers has compelled extraordinary feats of
bridge-building and tunnel-boring, and the narrowness
of the island and the driving propensity of business to run
northerly up the middle of it, has made certain strips of
land excessively valuable, and spurred invention to cover
xix
Introduction
them with buildings of a height and earning power pro-
portionate to the value of their sites. The physical New
York is not what it is because anybody thought that was
an ideal way to build a city, but because there were only
two directions which certain lines of business were willing
to take, one being toward the Harlem River, the other
toward the sky.
The peculiar physical development of the city has been
hard on its historical and sentimental side because the
line of the best new building has run up Broadway and
Fifth Avenue directly on top of the best building of the
preceding generation. That has meant an amount of
premature demolition unusual even in the history of great
cities. The pulling down of dilapidated buildings to make
way for better ones is a familiar process of growth, but New
York has seen the palaces of one generation leveled to
make space for the shops, hotels and apartment houses
of the next. Very often, indeed, there has not been a genera-
tion's lapse, or nearly so long, between the rise of successive
structures on the same site. That is why one must go off
the beaten track to find buildings in New York that have
associations with an earlier day. Faunce's Tavern, Trinity
and St. Paul's churches, the City Hall, and a few other
buildings have been saved by the influence of pious
memories, but almost all Broadway is fairly new, and
on Fifth Avenue above Fourteenth Street there is hardly a
building left as it was twenty-five years ago, and many of
them have not yet reached the maturity of a single decade.
The New York that is most on exhibition is almost as new
as Seattle. On lower Fifth Avenue and the streets that
run out of it below Fourteenth Street there are good old
houses left to uses hardly less dignified than those for which
XX
Introduction
they were first built. Fashion has left that quarter behind,
but a high degree of respectability has moved into its
vacant tenements. Washington Square is still much like
its old self, though the University Building — the most senti-
mentally flavored New York edifice of its day — is gone.
Gramercy Park still keeps much of its old quality, and
so, but in a much less degree, does the more remote Stuy-
vesant Square. But the Fifth Avenue blocks of the 'teens
and the Twenties and Thirties are already utterly changed,
or changing very fast, and the Forties are wavering and
the Fifties are challenged. There is a residential fortress
on Madison Avenue, at Thirty-eighth Street, and that
avenue generally has suffered less intrusion, and Park
Avenue between Thirty-fourth and Fortieth streets holds
out handsomely against commerce, and there are strong-
holds on Fifth Avenue as far down as the top Forties that
still defy it, but when Trade fixes its eye on any site or
any locahty, it seems only a matter of time when it shall
get what it wants. Opposition dies and goes to Woodlawn,
but Trade lives on and accumulates appetite.
But these observations of locality seem rather beside the
mark. The important thing about New York is not how
much is old or new, nor where the people who may choose,
choose now to live. The important thing is what the city
does to men. Perhaps its best exhibit is its schools. They
are very many, very big and handsome, and a vast deal
of teaching is done in them. Ethnologically, as every one
knows, New York is a museum. An important fraction
of the annual immigration that lands at Ellis Island clings
to New York and gets no farther. Therein lies her title
to be called a frontier city, and she lives earnestly up to the
responsibilities of it by giving her newcomers their first
xxi
Introduction
lessons in American deportment and putting their children
to school.
As to its more general effect, to people who profit by
living there New York seems to give valuable qualities
of confidence. To get hold in New York, and win a rec-
ognized place there, is an exploit of considerable value
and is recognized to be so. Whether it is reasonable or
not, and in many particulars it is not, there is a prestige
about a great metropohs which is communicated to the
people who Hve in it. To ride a tall horse does not make
a man great, but it may make him look great and even
feel great. New York is a very tall horse, and many who
ride her look bigger and feel bigger for that exploit.
Moreover the really big people in New York are pretty
big; much bigger, oftentimes, than an incredulous country
understands. Competition is the life of certain kinds of
brains, as it is of trade, and the competitions of New York
yield many trained men of power and rare efficiency.
Diamonds are polished with diamond powder, and men
with men. There are plenty of men in New York for all
the processes of polishing, and when the work has been
finished in a good specimen the result is very brilliant, and
the product, undeniably, is fit for uses of profound im-
portance.
Edward S. Martin
xxii
Why do I love New York, my dear?
I know not. Were my father here —
And his — and HIS — the three and I
Might, perhaps, make you some reply.
H. C. BUNNER
Copyright, by Charles Scribner's Sons, i8g2.
THE WAYFARER IN
NEW YORK
In the year of Christ 1609 was the country of which we now
propose to speak first founded and discovered at the expense
of the General East India Company (though directing their
aims and desires elsewhere) by the ship HALF MOON
whereof Henry Hudson was master and factor. — Remonstrance
of New Netherland.
THEN the Sunne arose, and we steered away north
againe, and saw the land from the West by North,
to the Northwest by North, all like broken Hands, and
our soundings were eleven and ten fathoms. Then wee
looft in for the shoare, and faire by the shoare, we had
seven fathoms. The course along the land we found to be
North-east by North. From the land which we had first
sight of, until we came to a great lake of water, as wee
could judge it to bee, being drowned land, which made it
to rise like Hands, which was in length ten leagues. The
mouth of that lake hath many shoalds, and the sea break-
eth on them as it is cast out of the mouth of it. And
from that Lake or Bay, the land lyeth North by East, and
wee had a great streame out of the Bay; and from thence
our sounding was ten fathoms, two leagues from the land.
At five of the clocke we anchored, being little winde, and
rode in eight fathoms water, the night was faire. This
night I found the land to hall the Compasse 8. degrees.
For to the Northward off us we saw high Hils. For the
day before we found not above 2. degrees of Variation,
This is a very good Land to fall with, and the pleasant
Land to see. . . .
The eleventh, was faire and very hot weather. At one
of the clocke in the after-noone, wee weighed and went into
B I
The Wayfarer in New York
the River, the wind at South South-west, little winde.
Our soundings were seven, sixe, five, sixe, seven, eight,
nine, ten, twelve, thirteene, and fourteene fathomes. Then
it shoalded againe, and came to five fathomes. Then wee
Anchored, and saw that it was a very good Harbour for all
windes, and rode all night. The people of the Countrey
came aboord of us, making shew of love, and gave us
Tobacco and Indian Wheat, and departed for that night ;
but we durst not trust them.
The twelfth, very faire and hot. In the after-noone at
two of the clocke wee weighed, the winde being variable,
between the North and the North-west. So we turned
into the River two leagues and Anchored. This morning
at our first rode in the River, there came eight and twentie
Canoes full of men, women and children to betray us:
but we saw their intent, and suffered none of them to
come aboord of us. At twelve of the clocke they departed.
They brought with them Oysters and Beanes, whereoff
wee bought some. They have great Tobacco pipes of
yellow Copper, and Pots of Earth to dresse their meate in.
It floweth South-east by South within.
The Thirteenth, faire weather, the wind Northerly.
At seven of the clocke in the morning, as the
floud came we weighed, and turned foure miles
into the River. The tide being done wee
anchored. Then there came foure Canoes
aboord: but we suffered none of them to
come into our ship. They brought
great store of very good Oysters
aboord, which we bought for
trifles. From the Log of
Robert Juet, as printed in
Purchas His Pilgrimes.
2
I
FROM THE BATTERY TO TRINITY
Keep your splendid silent sun,
Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods,
Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields
and orchards,
Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-
month bees hum;
Give me faces and streets — give me these phantoms inces-
sant and endless along the trottoirs !
Give me interminable eyes — give me women — give me
comrades and lovers by the thousand !
Let me see new ones every day — let me hold new ones by the
hand every day !
Give me such shows — give me the streets of Manhattan !
Walt Whitman
From the Battery to Trinity
The Price of Manhattan -Oi^ ^;> -^ -^
THE oldest known manuscript that relates to the local
history of Manhattan, and the oldest manifest of a
trading vessel cleared from its port, reads thus : —
High and Mighty Lords,
Here arrived yesterday the ship Arms of Amsterdam
which on the 23rd September sailed from New Netherland
out of the Mauritius River. They report that our people
there are of good cheer and live peaceably. Their wives
have also borne children there. They have bought the
island Manhattes from the savages for the value of sixty
guilders. It is 11,000 morgens in extent. They had
all their grain sown by the middle of May and harvested
by the middle of August. They send small samples of
summer grain, such as wheat, rye, barley, oats, buckwheat,
canary seed, beans and flax.
The cargo of the aforesaid ship is:
7246 beaver skins, 36 wildcat skins,
178 half otter skins, ;^t, minks,
675 otter skins, 34 rat skins,
48 mink skins. Much oak timber and nutwood.
Herewith
High and Mighty Lords, be commended to the grace of
Almighty God.
At Amsterdam, the 5th of November, A° 1626.
Your High Mightinesses' Obedient
P. SCHAGHEN
Written from Amsterdam to the States General at the
Hague.
Quoted by Mrs. Schuyler van Rensselaer in her
History of New York City in the Seventeenth
Century
5
The Wayfarer in New York
The First Account of New York Printed in the Eng-
lish Language ^b' ^;:> ^^ ^::^
"\TEW YORK is settled upon the west end of the island
•^ ^ having that small arm of the sea which divides it
from Long Island on the south side of it, which runs away
eastward to New England, and is navigable though dan-
gerous. For about ten miles from New York is a place
called Hell Gate, which being a narrow passage, there run-
neth a violent stream both upon flood and ebb, and in the
middle heth some Islands of Rocks, which the current
sets so violently upon that it threatens present shipwreck;
and upon the flood is a large Whirlpool, which continually
sends forth a hideous roaring, enough to affright any
stranger from passing any further, and to wait for some
Charon to conduct him through ; yet to those that are well
acquainted little or no danger; yet a place of great defence
against any enemy coming in that way, which a small
Fortification would absolutely prevent and necessitate
them to come in at the west end of Long Island, by Sandy
Hook, where Nutten Island doth force them within com-
mand of the Fort at New York, which is one of the best
Pieces of Defence in the north parts of America.
New York is built most of brick and stone, and covered
with red and black tile, and the land being high, it gives
at a distance a pleasing Aspect to the Spectators. The
inhabitants consist most of English and Dutch, and have
a considerable trade with the Indians, for beavers, otter,
racoon skins, with other firs ; as also for bear, deer, and elk
skins; and are supplied with venison and fowl in the winter
and fish in the summer by the Indians, which they buy
at an easy rate; and having the country round about them,
they are continually furnished with such provisions as is
6
From the Battery to Trinity
needfull for the life of man, not only by the English and
Dutch within their own, but likewise by the adjacent
Colonies. Daniel Denton, 1670
Boy wanted, 1658 ^;:> -«;:>,, ^;::> 'Oy ^;:>y
HONORABLE, WORSHIPFUL, WISE, PRUDENT
GENTLEMEN: In regard to the salt, which your
Honors suppose is quite plenty at the Manhattans, you are
mistaken. We have only a hogshead and a half, and can
hardly get any there for money. Hardly a cup of salt can
be had for extraordinary occasions; this causes great dis-
content and uproar. In well regulated places it happens
that scarcity and want occur. Much more is this the case
in a colony far distant and newly begun. Such a colony
ought to be provided for one year with whatever is not
produced there or procured easily from others.
Little or no butter is to be had here, and less cheese.
Whenever any one is about to go on a journey he can get
hardly anything more than dry bread, or he must carry
along a pot or kettles to cook some food. Therefore, as
a reminder, I say once more that it would be well if some
rye meal, cheese, and such things were sent in all the ships.
As horses are required here for agriculture, means should
be found of sending a good supply of horses.
In regard to the fort, it is in a great state of decay. I
have resolved on building a house of planks about fifty
feet in length and twenty in breadth; also I have had one-
third of the house, in which I have been lodging very un-
comfortably, repaired, yet the greater part of it is still so
leaky that it is only with great difficulty that anything can
be kept dry. We shall be obliged to pull down and re-
build the soldiers' barracks immediately.
7
The Wayfarer in New York
I had expected, at least, a supply of provisions in the
ship which had just arrived. There is a set of insolent
fellows on board of her who will not turn a hand to work
if there be anything to do, and there never is any one to
be hired for such work. Laborers will not stir for less
than a dollar a day. Carpenters, masons and other
mechanics earn four guilders; this amounts to much in
extensive works.
There is no reason or plea for refusing to supply the
settlers, who have been here some time from our common
store, in exchange for their money. There is no mer-
chant's store here, and scarcely any one who has provisions
for sale, for the daily supply of the inhabitants; nay, not
even bread, although there are over six hundred souls in
this place. Whoever has anything will not sell it, and who
so has none, cannot. Things are here in their infancy,
and demand time. Many who come hither are as poor
as w^orms and lazy withal, and will not work unless com-
pelled by necessity.
Send in the spring, or in the ships sailing in December,
a large number of strong and hard working men. Should
they not be forth coming at the right time, their places
can be filled with boys of fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years
and over. Bear in mind that the boys be healthy and
strong. Whatever is done here must be done by labor.
The children sent over from the almshouse have arrived
safely, and were in such demand that all are bound out
among the inhabitants; the oldest for two years, most of
the others for three years, and the youngest for four years.
They are to earn forty, sixty, and eighty guilders during
the period, and at the end of the term, will be fitted out in
the same manner as they are at present. Please to con-
8
From the Battery to Trinity
tinue sending others from time to time; but, if possible,
none ought to come under fifteen years of age. They
ought to be somewhat strong, as httle profit is to be ex-
pected here without labor.
'Tis as yet somewhat too soon to send many women or
a multitude of Httle children; it will be more advisable and
safer when crops are gathered, when abundance prevails,
and everything is cheaper.
I might enlarge upon this account, but time does not
permit, as the sloop by which I send it, is ready to sail.
From a letter by J. Alrichs (1658) to the Dutch Com-
pany
A Schoolmaster's Duties, 1661 '^^ ^^^ ^^^
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE DIRECTOR-
GENERAL AND COUNCIL OF NEW NETH-
ERLAND : — The Schout and Schepens of the Court of
Breuckelen respectfully represent that they found it neces-
sary that a Court Messenger was required for the Schepens'
Chamber, to be occasionally employed in the Village of
Breuckelen and all around where he may be needed, as
well to serve summons, as also to conduct the service of
the Church, and to sing on Sundays; to take charge of
the School, dig graves, etc., ring the Bell, and perform
whatever else may be required : Therefore, the Petitioners,
with your Honors' approbation, have thought proper to
accept for so highly necessary an office a suitable person
who is now come before them, one Carel van Beauvois, to
whom they have hereby appropriated a sum of fl. 150, besides
a free dwelling; and whereas the Petitioners are appre-
hensive that the aforesaid C. v. Beauvois would not and
9
The Wayfarer in New York
cannot do the work for the sum aforesaid, and the Peti-
tioners are not able to promise him any more, therefore
the Petitioners, with all humble and proper reverence,
request your Honors to be pleased to lend them a help-
ing hand, in order thus to receive the needful assistance.
Herewith, awaiting your Honors' kind and favorable
answer, and commending ourselves, Honorable, wise,
prudent, and most discreet Gentlemen, to your favor, we
pray for your Honors God's protection, together with a
happy and prosperous administration unto Salvation,
Your Honors' servants and subjects.
The Schout and Schepens of the Village aforesaid.
By order of the same, . . .
Adriaen Hegeman, Secy, (translated by H. R. Stiles)
Why the Dutch Surrendered ^^ ^^v ^^:y
nPHE Company now believing that it has fulfilled your
■*" Honorable Mightinesses' intention, will only again
say, in conclusion, that the sole cause and reason for the
loss of the aforesaid place, were these: The Authorities
(Regenten), and the chief officer, being very deeply in-
terested in lands, bouweries and buildings, were unwilling to
offer any opposition, first, at the time of the English encroach-
ments, in order thereby not to afford any pretext for firing
and destroying their properties; and, having always paid
more attention to their particular affairs than to the Com-
pany's interests. New Amsterdam was found, on the
arrival of the English frigates, as if an enemy was never
to be expected. And, finally, that the Director, first
following the example of heedless interested parties, gave
himself no other concern than about the prosperity of his
lo
From the Battery to Trinity
bouweries, and, when the pinch came, allowed himself
to be rode over by Clergymen, women and cowards, in
order to surrender to the English what he could defend
with reputation, for the sake of thus saving their private
properties. And the Company will further leave to your
Honorable Mightinesses' good and prudent wisdom, what
more ought to be done in this case. . . .
Note. — Reply of the West India Company to the An-
swer of the Honorable Peter Stuyvesant (1666), in Docu-
ments Relative to the Colonial History of the State of New-
York (edited by E. B. O'Callaghan, Albany, 1858), II,
491-503 passim.
New York in 1679 ^^:^ '^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^"^^
TTAVING then fortunately arrived by the blessing of
-*- -■■ the Lord, before the city of New York, on Saturday,
the 23d day of September, we stepped ashore about four
o'clock in the afternoon, in company with Gerrit, our
fellow^ passenger, who would conduct us in this strange
place. ... He first took us to the house of one of his
friends, who welcomed him and us, and offered us some
of the fruit of the country, very fine peaches and full grown
apples, which filled our hearts with thankfulness to God.
This fruit was exceedingly fair and good, and pleasant
to the taste; much better than that in Holland or else-
where, though I believe our long fasting and craving of
food made it so agreeable. . . .
24th, Sunday. We rested well through the night. I
was surprised on waking up to find my comrade had already
dressed himself and breakfasted upon peaches. We
walked out awhile in the fine, pure morning air, along the
margin of the clear running water of the sea, which is
n
The Wayfarer in New York
driven up this river at every tide. As it was Sunday, in
order to avoid scandal and for other reasons, we did not
wish to absent ourselves from church. We therefore went,
and found there truly a wild worldly world. I say wild,
not only because the people are wild, as they call it in
Europe, but because most all the people who go there to
live, or who are born there, partake somewhat of the nature
of the country, that is, peculiar to the land where they live.
We heard a minister preach, who had come from the up-
river country, from Fort Orange, where his residence is,
an old man, named Domine Schaats, of Amsterdam. . . ,
This Schaats, then, preached. He had a defect in the
left eye, and used such strange gestures and language that
I think I never in all my life have heard any thing more
miserable; indeed, I can compare him with no one better
than with one Do. Van Ecke, lately the minister at Armuy-
den, in Zeeland, more in life, conversation and gestures
than in person. As it is not strange in these countries to
have men as ministers who drink, we could imagine nothing
else than that he had been drinking a little this morning.
His text was. Come unto me all ye etc., but he was so rough
that even the roughest and most godless of our sailors were
astonished.
The church being in the fort, we had an opportunity to
look through the latter, as we had come too early for preach-
ing. It is not large; it has four points or batteries; it has
no moat outside, but is enclosed with a double row of pali-
sades. It is built from the foundation with quarry stone.
The parapet is of earth. It is well provided with cannon,
for the most part of iron, though there were some small
brass pieces, all bearing the mark of arms of the Nether-
landers. The garrison is small. There is a well of fine
12
From the Battery to Trinity
water dug in the fort by the Engh'sh, contrary to the opinion
of the Dutch, who supposed the fort was built upon rock,
and had therefore never attempted any such thing. . . .
It has only one gate, and that is on the land side, open-
ing upon a broad plain or street, called the Broadway or
Bcavenvay. Over this gate are the arms of the Duke of
York. During the time of the Dutch there were two gates,
namely another on the water side; but the English have
closed it, and made a battery there, with a false gate. In
front of the church is inscribed the name of Governor
Kyft, who caused the same to be built in the year of 1642.
It has a shingled roof, and upon the gable towards the water
there is a small wooden tower, with a bell in it, but no
clock. There is a sun-dial on three sides. The front of
the fort stretches east and west, and consequently the sides
run north and south. . . .
27th, Wednesday. Nothing occurred to-day except
that I went to assist Gerrit in bringing his goods home,
and declaring them, which we did. We heard that one
of the wicked and godless sailors had broken his leg; and
in this we saw and acknowledged the Lord and his righteous-
ness. . . .
As soon as we had dined we sent off our letters ; and this
being all accomplished, we started at two o'clock for Long
Island. . . .
. . . We went on, up the hill, along open roads and a
little woods, through the first village, called Breukelen,
which has a small and ugly little church standing in the
middle of the road. Having passed through here, we struck
off to the right, in order to go to Gouanes. We went upon
several plantations where Gerrit was acquainted with most
all of the people, who made us very welcome, sharing with
13
The Wayfarer in New York
us bountifully whatever they had, whether it was milk,
cider, fruit or tobacco, and especially, and first and most
of all, miserable rum or brandy which had been brought
from Barbadoes and other islands, and which is called by
the Dutch kill-devil. All these people are very fond of it,
and most of them extravagantly so, although it is very dear
and has a bad taste. . . .
We went from the city, following the Broadway, over
the valey, or the fresh water. Upon both sides of this
way were many habitations of negroes, mulattoes and
whites. These negroes were formerly the proper slaves
of the (West India) company, but, in consequence of the
frequent changes and conquests of the country, they have
obtained their freedom and settled themselves down where
they have thought proper, and thus on this road, where
they have ground enough to live on with their families.
We left the village, called the BouweriJ, lying on the right
hand, and went through the woods to New Harlem,
a tolerably large village situated on the south side of the
island, directly opposite the place where the northeast creek
and the East river come together, situated about three
hours journey from New Amsterdam.
By Jaspar Bankers and Peter Sluyter (trans-
lated by H. C. Murphy)
When New York was Like a Garden, 1748 ^:>
'T^HE streets do not run so straight as those of Phila-
'■■ delphia, and have sometimes considerable bend-
ings: however they are very spacious and well built,
and most of them are paved, except in high places,
14
From the Battery to Trinity
where it has been found useless. In the chief streets there
are trees planted, which in summer give them a fine ap-
pearance, and during the excessive heat at that time, afford
a cooling shade: I found it extremely pleasant to walk in
the town, for it seemed quite like a garden.
Most of the houses are built of bricks; and are generally
strong and neat, and several stories high. Some had,
according to old architecture, turned the gable-end towards
the streets; but the houses were altered in this respect.
Many of the houses had a balcony on the roof, on which
the people used to sit in the evenings in the summer season ;
and from thence they had a pleasant view of a great part
of the town, and likewise of part of the adjacent water
and of the opposite shore. The roofs are commonly
covered with tiles or shingles. The walls were white-
washed within, and I did not any where see hangings,
with which the people in this country seem in general to
be but little acquainted. The walls were quite covered
with all sorts of drawings and pictures in small frames.
On each side of the chimnies they had usually a sort of
alcove; and the wall under the windows was wainscoted,
and had benches placed near it. The alcoves, and all the
wood work were painted with a bluish grey colour.
There are several churches in the town, which deserve
some attention, i. The English Church, built in the year
1695, at the west end of (the) town, consisting of stone,
and has a steeple with a bell. 2. The new Dutch Church,
which is likewise built of stone, is pretty large and is pro-
vided with a steeple, it also has a clock, which is the only
one in the town. . . .
Towards the sea, on the extremity of the promontory, is
a pretty good fortress, called Fort George, which entirely
15
The Wayfarer in New York
commands the port, and can defend the town, at least from
a sudden attack on the sea side. Besides that, it is hke-
wise secured on the north or towards the shore, by a palli-
sade, which however (as for a considerable time the people
have had nothing to fear from an enemy) is in many places
in a very bad state of defence.
There is no good water to be met with in the town itself,
but at a little distance there is a large spring of good water,
which the inhabitants take for their tea, and for the uses
of the kitchen. Those, however, who are less delicate in
this point, make use of the water from the wells in town,
though it be very bad. This want of good water lies heavy
upon the horses of the strangers that come to this place;
for they do not like to drink the water from the wells in the
town.
Peter Kalm, Travels into North America (translated
by John Reinhold Forster, Warrington, 1770)
New-York in 1760 <::^ <^ '^v:^^ ■'^^^ -<:>
' I ""HIS city is situated upon the point of a small island,
-*- lying open to the bay on one side, and on the others
included between the North and East rivers, and commands
a fine prospect of water, the Jerseys, Long Island, Staten
Island, and several others, which lie scattered in the bay.
It contains between 2 and 3000 houses, and 16 or 17,000
inhabitants, is tolerably well built, and has several good
houses. The streets are paved, and very clean, but in
general they are narrow; there are two or three, indeed,
which are spacious and airy, particularly the Broad Way.
The houses in this street have most of them a row of trees
before them ; which form an agreeable shade, and produce
a pretty effect. The whole length of the town is some-
j6
From the Battery to Trinity
thing more than a mile; the breadth of it about half an
one. The situation is, I believe, esteemed healthy; but it is
subject to one great inconvenience, which is the want of
fresh water; so that the inhabitants are obliged to have it
brought from springs at some distance out of town. There
are several public buildings, though but few that deserve
attention. The college, when finished, will be exceedingly
handsome: it is to be built on three sides of a quadrangle,
fronting Hudson's or North river, and will be the most
beautifully situated of any college, I believe, in the world.
At present only one wing is finished, which is of stone, and
consists of twenty-four sets of apartments; each having
a large sitting room, with a study, and bed chamber. They
are obliged to make use of some of these apartments for
a master's lodge, library, chapel, hall, etc. but as soon as
the whole shall be completed, there will be proper apart-
ments for each of these ofi&ces. The name of it is King's
College.
There are two churches in New York, the old, or Trinity
Church, and the new one, or St. George's Chapel; both
of them large buildings, the former in the Gothic taste,
with a spire, the other upon the model of some of the new
churches in London. Besides these, there are several
other places of religious worship; namely, two low Dutch
Calvinist churches, one High Dutch ditto, one French
ditto, one German Lutheran church, one presbyterian
meeting-house, one quakers ditto, one anabaptists do, one
Moravian ditto, and a Jews synagogue. There is also a
very handsome charity-school for sixty poor boys and girls,
a good work-house, barracks for a regiment of soldiers, and
one of the finest prisons I have ever seen. The court or
stadt-house makes no great figure, but it is to be repaired
c 17
The Wayfarer in New York
and beautified. There is a quadrangular fort, capable of
mounting sixty cannon, though at present there are, I
believe, only thirty-two. Within this is the governor's
palace, and underneath it a battery capable of mounting
ninety-four guns, and barracks for a company or two of
soldiers. Upon one of the islands in the bay is an hospital
for the sick and wounded seamen; and, upon another,
a pesthouse. These are the most noted public buildings
in and about the city.
Arts and sciences have made no greater progress here
than in the other colonies; but as a subscription library
has been lately opened, and every one seems zealous to
promote learning, it may be hoped that they will hereafter
advance faster than they have done hitherto. The college
is established upon the same plan as that in the Jerseys,
except that this at New York professes the principles of
the church of England. At present the state of it is far
from being flourishing, or so good as might be wished.
Its fund does not exceed 10,000 /. currency, and there is a
great scarcity of professors. A commencement was held,
nevertheless, this summer, and seven gentlemen took de-
grees. There are in it at this time about twenty-five
students. The president, Dr. Johnson, is a very worthy
and learned man, but rather too far advanced in life to have
the direction of so young an institution. The late Dr.
Bristow left to this college a fine library, of which they are
in daily expectation.
The inhabitants of New York, in their character, very
much resemble the Pennsylvanians : more than half of
them are Dutch, and almost all traders : they are, there-
fore, habitually frugal, industrious, and parsimonious.
Being however of different nations, different languages, and
18
From the Battery to Trinity
different religions, it is almost impossible to give them any
precise or determinate character. The women are hand-
some and agreeable ; though rather more reserved than
the Philadelphian ladies. Their amusements are much
the same as in Pennsylvania; viz. balls, and sleighing
expeditions in the winter; and, in the summer, going in
parties upon the water, and fishing; or making excursions
into the country. There are several houses pleasantly
situated upon East river, near New York, where it is
common to have turtle-feasts : these happen once or twice
in a week. Thirty or forty gentlemen and ladies meet and
dine together, drink tea in the afternoon, fish and amuse
themselves till evening, and then return home in Italian
chaises, (the fashionable carriage in this and most parts of
America, Virginia excepted, where they make use only of
coaches, and these commonly drawn by six horses), a
gentleman and lady in each chaise. In the way there is
a bridge, about three miles distant from New York, which
you always pass over as you return, called the Kissing-
Bridge, where it is a part of the etiquette to salute the lady
who has put herself under your protection.
The present state of this province is flourishing : it has
an extensive trade to many parts of the world, particularly
to the West Indies; and has acquired great riches by the
commerce which it has carried on, under flags of truce, to
Cape-Franfois, and Monte-Christo. The troops, by hav-
ing made it the place of their general rendezvous, have also
enriched it very much. However, it is burthened with
taxes, and the present public debt amounts to more than
300,000 /. currency. The taxes are laid upon estates real
and personal; and there are duties upon the Negroes, and
other importations. The provincial troops are about
19
The Wayfarer in New York
2600 men. The difference of exchange between currency
and bills is from 70 to 80 per cent.
Before I left New York, I took a ride upon Long Island,
the richest spot, in the opinion of the New-Yorkers, of all
America; and where they generally have their villas, or
country houses. It is undeniably beautiful, and some parts
of it are remarkably fertile, but not equal, I think, to the
Jerseys. The length of it is something more than 100
miles, and the breadth 25. About 15 or 16 miles from
the west end of it, there opens a large plain between 20 and
30 miles long, and 4 or 5 broad. There is not a tree
growing upon it, and it is asserted that there never were
any. Strangers are always carried to see this place, as
a great curiosity, and the only one of the kind in North
America.
Andrew Burnaby, Travels through the Middle Settle-
ments in North- America, in the Years 17 59 and 1760
A Mass Meeting in 1794 ^^^ ^> ^^^ ^^
TN the latter end of 1794, Mr. Jay arrived with the fa-
•*■ mous British Treaty; Congress being then in session,
it was submitted to their consideration. As Washington
and Hamilton, and most of the worthies who had risked
their lives and staked their all, and had just achieved their
country's independence, thought it was for the good of the
nation, it was on the point of becoming a law; but the
hod-men and the ashmen, and the clam men, thought
otherwise; accordingly a meeting was called at 4 p.m.
in front of the old City Hall, at the head of Broad Street
to settle this momentous question. Having never seen
a meeting of the sovereign people in z. free country I was
anxious to attend; and that I might have a fair view, and
20
From the Battery to Trinity
be out of harm's way, I got perched on a branch of that
large spreading tree that graced the corner of Broad and
Wall Streets, since the days when the Dutch negroes used
to dance and crack eggs in the ferry-house corner of Gar-
den and Broad Streets. Long before the hour the broad
space was filled by the motley group; there was the Irish
(patriot) laborer, his face powdered with lime, his shirt
sleeves torn or rolled up to his shoulders, he came rattling
up with his iron shod brogans; and the clam men were
there; and the boat men were there; and the oyster-
men were there; and the ashmen were there; and the
cartmen were there and their horses were there — and the
horses appeared to have more sense than their masters;
for the horses licked and loved the hand that fed them,
but these ignorant cartmen knew not Him in whom they
live move and have their being.
The mob filled the large space down Broad as far as
Garden Street, down Wall Street as far as the Mechanics'
Bank, and up as far as New Street. On the corner (then
occupied as a watch house but now by friend Burtsell as
a Blank Book Store) stood a group, say eight or ten
respectable looking characters; compassion was painted
on their face, and pity shone from their swimming eyes.
At the time I knew none of them, but afterwards learned
that among them was Gen. Hamilton, Cols. V. G. &c.
men who had just sheathed their swords, and wiped the
dust and sweat from their brows, after having gained their
country's freedom. On the steps of the City Hall (for
these men had usurped the place of justice) stood another
group of cold calculating sinister looking faces. In their
countenances and eyes, you could read deeds, and plans
of deep, dark and daring political intrigue. I knew none
21
The Wayfarer In New York
of them; but their impression is stamped to this hour
upon my memory. A tall fellow got up and called the
assembly to order — he might as well have told Bunker's
Hill to be removed to the deeps of Montaug Point — he
then proposed Mr. as chairman; he then took out
a paper and read something which neither he nor anyone
else understood; he then got some one to second the
motions ; he then said if anyone wished to speak he might
say on. In those days there stood a small house with its
gable end to the street (No. 3 or 5 Broad Street) it had
a high stoop and was occupied by J. B. who made iron
cages wherein to confine tame birds. On this stoop Gen.
Hamilton stood up; his clear full voice sounded like music
over the heads of the rabble, and they stood still for some
minutes; he lowered himself from the pedestal of his
natural eloquence, and spoke in language simple plain,
and suited to the capacity of his hearers. His words were
truths, and they understood them; they were cut to the
heart, and they gnashed on him with their teeth; violent
hands were laid on him in the midst of his speech; he
was dragged from the stoop and hustled through the street !
You Americans, with all your boasted pride, you looked
quietly on and saw your Hamilton, the right hand swords-
man of Washington, gagged and dragged through the
street. Thinks I to myself what a fine thing democracy
is in theory. . . . To return; when the uproar had ceased,
Mr. Longfellow roared out : all you who approve of ad-
journing to Bowling Green to assist in burning the British
Treaty will please to say Aye. The sound of the ayes
shook the very dungeons of the watchhouse — the treaty
was burned, while the Irishmen danced the whitehoys
march, and the Frenchmen sang, Dan sa la Carmanoll;
22
From the Battery to Trinity
the boatmen, the clam men, the hod and the oystermen
retired to the grogshops around the Whitehall, while the
horses and cartmen at the cellar doors around the Coffee-
House Slip. Thus ended the first practical lesson I had
ever seen of republican simplicity.
From Grant Thorburn's Forty Years' Residence in
America
Fashions in New York in 1797 ^^^ ^^:> ^=0
New York, May 28th, 1797
MY DEAR SISTER: The enclosed pacquet was
intended to be sent by General Floyd, but he went
away before it was given to him — I have forgot what I
wrote in it, but shall send it along & perhaps there may
be something entertaining in it — Lucy I believe most
of the comissions from you & sister Hannah have been
attended to by Brother George or myself — I have bought
two bands which are the most fashionable trimings for
beaver hats, a white one for the blue hat, & a yellow for
the black one, they should be put twice around the crown
& fastned forward in the form of a beau knot. Brother
has got each of you a pink silk shawl which are very
fashionable also — Many Ladies wear them for turbans,
made in the manner that you used to make muslin ones
last summer, George has given me one like them, The
fine lace cost 10 shillings a yard, & I think it is very hand-
some, there is enough for two handkerchiefs & two
double tuckers, the way to make handkerchief's is to set
lace, or a rufSe on a strait piece of muslin, (only pieced on
the back to make it set to your neck,) & put it on so as to
show only the ruffle, & make it look as if it was set on the
neck of your gown, many Ladies trim the neck of thier
23
The Wayfarer in New York
gowns with lace & go without handkerchiefs but I think
it is a neater way to wear them — with fashionable gowns
it will not be necessary to have much more than half a
yard in the width of your tuckers — I send a doll, by
Brother George which I intended to have dressed in a
neater manner but really could not find time — it however
has rather a fashionable appearance, the cap is made in
a good form but you would make one much handsomer
than I could, the beau to Miss Dollys poultice neck cloth
is rather large but the thickness is very moderate — I
think a cap crown & turban would become you —
I have got a braid of hair which cost four dollars it should
be fasten up with a comb, (without platting) under your
turban if it has a crown & over it, if without a crown —
Brother has got some very beautiful sattin muslin, & also
some handsome "tartan plad" gingham for your gowns,
there is a large pattern for two train gowns of the muslin,
which should be made thre breadths wide two breadths
to reach to the shoulder straps forward, and one breadth
to be cut part of the way down before, to go over the shoulder
& part of it to be pleated on to the shoulder straps, meeting
the back breadths, & some of it to go around the neck,
like the doll's — the pleats should be made pretty small,
& not stitched to the lining, but you should wear binders
over your shoulders — an inch & a half should be the width
of your binders. (I must have done writing this pretty
soon, the last sentence if you observe is quite poetical
— but let me stick to my text Fashion). It is the fashion
to have draw strings fastned on the corners of the shoulder
straps by the sieves on the back, and have a tack large
enough for them to run in, made to cross on the back, run
under the arms an inch below the sieves & tie before —
24
From the Battery to Trinity
I should advise you to have your gingham one made in
that way, with draw'd sieves for sister Hannah & I have
seen as large Ladies as you with them, & I think they
would look very well for you. Sieves should be made half
a yard wide & not drawd less than seven or eight times,
I think they look best to have two or three drawings close
together &a plain spot alternately — Some of the ladies
have thier sieves coverd with drawing tacks, & have thier
elbows uncover'd if you dont like short sieves, you should
have long ones with short ones to come down allmost to
your elbows, drawed four or five by the bottom — if
yo(u) want to walk with long gowns you must draw the
train up thr'o one of the pocket holes, I have bought some
callico for chints trimings for old gowns, if you have any
that you wish to wear short they are very fashionable at
present, & gowns that are trimed with them should be made
only to touch the ground, there is enough of the dark
stripe for one gown, & enough of the light for one there
should be enough white left on the dark stripe to turn
down to prevent its ravelling. I gave lo shillings for the
callico & have been laughed at for my 'foolish bargain'
but I am not convinced that it is foolish. The William
Street merchants ask three shillings a yard for trimings
like the wide stripe & two for the narrow — I guess you
will like the narrow — the kid shoes are of the most
fashionable kind, & the others of the best quality
Brother George keeps enquiring for my letter — & as
I have fill'd up my paper I'll leave the improvement for
you to make With love to sister Hannah & Benjamin
I am my dear sister yours, most affectionately
R Huntington
Miss Lucy Huntington
25
The Wayfarer in New York
An Old New York Salon ^^y ^> ^;:> --v^
A /TANY people were at their country-seats, but politics
-^ ^ ■'■ kept a number of men in town, and for this political
and wholly masculine salon of Mrs. Croix, Gouverneur
Morris drove down from Morrisania, Robert Livingston
from Clermont; Governor Clinton had made it convenient
to remain a day longer in New York. Dr. Franklin had
been a guest of my lady for the past two days. They were
all, with the exception of Clinton, in the drawing-room,
when Hamilton, Steuben and Fish arrived; and several
of the Crugers, Colonel Duer, General Knox, Mayor
Duane, Melancthon Smith, Mr. Watts, Yates, Lansing,
and a half-dozen lesser lights. Mrs. Croix sat in the middle
of the room, and her chair being somewhat higher and more
elaborate than its companions, suggested a throne : Madam
de Stael set the fashion in many affectations which were not
long travelling to America. In the house, Mrs. Croix
discarded the hoopskirt, and the classic folds of her soft
muslin gown revealed a figure as superb in contour as
it was majestic in carriage. She looked to be twenty-
eight, but was reputed to have been born in 1769. For
women so endowed years have little meaning. They are
born with what millions of their sex never acquire, a few
with the aid of time and experience only. Nature had
fondly and diabolically equipped her to conquer the world,
to be one of its successes; and so she was to the last of
her ninety-six years. Her subsequent career was as bril-
liant in Europe as it had been, and was to be again, in
America. In Paris, Lafayette was her sponsor, and she
counted princes, cardinals, and nobles among her con-
quests, and died in the abundance of wealth and honours.
26
From the Battery to Trinity
If her sins found her out, they surprised her in secret only.
To the world she gave no sign, and carried an unbroken
spirit and an unbowed head into a vault which looks as
if not even the trump of Judgment Day could force its
marble doors to open and its secrets to come forth. But
those doors closed behind her seventy-seven years later,
when the greatest of her victims had been dust half a cen-
tury, and many others were long since forgotten. To-night,
in her glorious triumphant womanhood she had no thought
of vaults in the cold hillside of Trinity, and when Hamilton
entered the room, she rose and courtesied deeply. Then,
as he bent over her hand: ''At last. Is it you?" she ex-
claimed softly. "Has this honour indeed come to my house ?
I have waited a lifetime, sir, and I took pains to assure you
long since of a welcome."
"Do not remind me of those wretched wasted months,"
replied Hamilton, gallantly, and Dr. Franklin nodded with
approval. "Be sure, madam, that I shall risk no reproaches
in the future."
She passed him on in the fashion of royalty, and was
equally gracious to Steuben and Fish, although she did
not courtesy. The company, which had been scattered
in groups, the deepest about the throne of the hostess,
immediately converged and made Hamilton their common
centre. Would Washington accept? Surely he must
know. Would he choose to be addressed as "His Serene
Highness," "His High Mightiness," or merely as "Ex-
cellency"? Would so haughty an aristocrat lend himself
agreeably to the common forms of Republicanism, even
if he had refused a crown, and had been the most jealous
guardian of the liberties of the American people? An
aristocrat is an aristocrat, and doubtless he would observe
27
The Wayfarer in New York
all the rigid formalities of court life. Most of those
present heartily hoped that he would. They, too, were
jealous of their liberties, but had no yearning toward a
republican simplicity, which, to their minds, savoured of
plebeianism. Socially they still were royalists, whatever
their politics, and many a coat of arms was yet in its frame.
"Of course Washington will be our first President,"
replied Hamilton, who was prepared to go to Mount
Vernon, if necessary. "I have had no communication
from him on the subject, but he would obey the command
of public duty if he were on his death-bed. His reluctance
is natural, for his life has been a hard one in the field, and
his tastes are those of a country gentleman, — tastes which
he has recently been permitted to indulge to the full for the
first time. Moreover, he is so modest that it is difficult to
make him understand that no other man is to be thought of
for these first difficult years. When he does, there is no
more question of his acceptance than there was of his as-
suming the command of the army. As for titles they come
about as a matter of course, and it is quite positive that
Washington, although a Republican, will never become
a Democrat. He is a grandee and will continue to live
like one, and the man who presumes to take a liberty with
him is lost."
Mrs. Croix, quite forgotten, leaned back in her chair,
a smile succeeding the puzzled annoyance of her eyes. In
this house her words were the jewels for which this costly
company scrambled, but Hamilton had not been met
abroad for weeks, and from him there was always some-
thing to learn; whereas from even the most brilliant of
women — she shrugged her shoulders ; and her eyes, as
they dwelt on Hamilton, gradually filled with an expression
28
From the Battery to Trinity
of idolatrous pride. The new delight of self-effacemenl
was one of the keenest she had known.
The bombardment continued. The Vice-President?
Whom should Hamilton support? Adams? Hancock?
Was it true that there was a schism in the Federal party
that might give the anti-Federalists, with Clinton at their
head, a chance for the Vice-Presidency at least? Who
would be Washington's advisers besides himself? Would
the President have a cabinet? Would Congress sanction
it? Whom should he want as confreres, and whom in the
Senate to further his plans? Whom did he favour as
Senators and Representatives from New York? Could
this rage for amendments be stopped? What was to be
the fate of the circular letter? Was all danger of a new
Constitutional Convention well over? What about the
future site of the Capital — would the North get it, or the
South?
All these, the raging questions of the day, it took Hamil-
ton the greater part of the evening to answer or parry, but
he deftly altered his orbit until he stood beside Mrs. Croix,
the company before her shrine. He had encountered her
eyes, but although he knew the supreme surrender of
women in the first stages of passion, he also understood the
vanities and weaknesses of human nature too well not to
apprehend a chill of the affections under too prolonged a
mortification,
Clinton entered at midnight; and after almost bending
his gouty knee to the hostess, whom he had never seen in
such softened yet dazzling beauty, he measured Hamilton
for a moment, then laughed and held out his hand.
*'You are a wonderful fighter," he said, "and you beat
me squarely. We'll meet in open combat again and again,
29
The Wayfarer in New York
no doubt of it, and I hope we will, for you rouse all my
mettle; but I like you, sir, I like you. I can't help it."
Gertrude Atherton in The Conqueror
The Battery in 1804 ^^ ^> ^^ ^^:^
' I ^HE modern spectator, who wanders through the streets
-^ of this populous city, can scarcely form an idea of
the different appearance they presented in the primitive
days of the Doubter, The busy hum of multitudes, the
shouts of revelry, the rumbling equipages of fashion, the
rattling of accursed carts, and all the spirit-grieving sounds
of brawling commerce, were unknown in the settlement
of New Amsterdam. The grass grew quietly in the high-
ways; the bleating sheep and frolicsome calves sported
about the verdant ridge, where now the Broadway loungers
take their morning stroll ; the cunning fox or ravenous
wolf skulked in the woods, where now are to be seen the
dens of Gomez and his righteous fraternity of money-
brokers; and flocks of vociferous geese cackled about the
fields where now the great Tammany wig^'am and the
patriotic tavern of Martling echo with the wranglings of
the mob.
In these good times did a true and enviable equality of
rank and property prevail, equally removed from the
arrogance of wealth, and the ser\dlity and heart-burnings
of repining poverty, and, what in my mind is still more
conducive to tranquillity and harmony among friends, a
happy equality of intellect was likewise to be seen. The
minds of the good burghers of New Amsterdam seemed all to
have been cast in one mould, and to be those honest, blunt
minds, which, like certain manufactures, are made by the
gross and considered as exceedingly good for common use.
30
From the Battery to Trinity
In the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and
four, on a fine afternoon in the glowing month of September,
I took my customary walk upon the Battery, which is at
once the pride and bulwark of this ancient and impregnable
city of New York. The ground on which I trod was
hallowed by recollections of the past; and as I slowly
wandered through the long alley of poplars, which, like
so many birch brooms standing on end, diffused a melan-
choly and lugubrious shade, my imagination drew a
contrast between the surrounding scenery and what it was
in the classic days of our forefathers. Where the govern-
ment house by name, but the custom-house by occupation,
proudly reared its brick walls and wooden pillars, there
whilom stood the low, but substantial, red-tiled mansion
of the renowned Wouter Van Twiller. Around it the
mighty bulwarks of Fort Amsterdam frowned defiance to
every absent foe ; but, like many a whiskered warrior and
gallant militia captain, confined their martial deeds to
frowns alone. The mud breastworks had long been
levelled with the earth, and their site converted into the
green lawns and leafy alleys of the Battery; where the gay
apprentice sported his Sunday coat, and the laborious
mechanic, relieved from the dirt and drudgery of the week,
poured his weekly tale of love into the half averted ear of
the sentimental chambermaid. The capacious bay still
presented the same expansive sheet of water, studded with
islands, sprinkled with fishing boats, and bounded by
shores of picturesque beauty. But the dark forests which
once clothed those shores had been violated by the savage
hand of cultivation, and their tangled mazes, and im-
penetrable thickets, had degenerated into teeming orchards
"and waving fields of grain. Even Governor's Island, once
31
The Wayfarer in New York
a smiling garden, appertaining to the sovereigns of the
province, was now covered with fortifications, inclosing a
tremendous block-house, — so that this once peaceful
island resembled a fierce little warrior in a big cocked hat,
breathing gunpowder and defiance to the world!
For some time did I indulge in a pensive train of thought;
contrasting, in sober sadness, the present day with the
hallowed years behind the mountains; lamenting the
melancholy progress of improvement, and praising the zeal
with which our worthy burghers endeavored to preserve
the wrecks of venerable customs, prejudices, and errors
from the overwhelming tide of modern innovation, —
when, by degrees, my ideas took a different turn, and I
insensibly awakened to an enjoyment of the beauties
around me.
It was one of those rich autumnal days which heaven
particularly bestows upon the beauteous island of Manna-
hata and its vicinity, — not a floating cloud obscured the
azure firmament, — the sun, rolling in glorious splendor
through his ethereal course, seemed to expand his honest
Dutch countenance into an unusual expression of benevo-
lence, as he smiled his evening salutation upon a city
which he delights to visit with his most bounteous beams,
— the very winds seemed to hold in their breaths in mute
attention, lest they should ruffle the tranquillity of the
hour, — and the waveless bosom of the bay presented a
polished mirror, in which nature beheld herself and smiled.
The standard of our city, reserved, like a choice handker-
chief, for days of gala, hung motionless on the flag-staff,
which forms the handle of a gigantic churn; and even
the tremulous leaves of the poplar and the aspen ceased to
vibrate to the breath of heaven. Everything seemed to
32
From the Battery to Trinity
acquiesce in the profound repose of nature. The formid-
able eighteen-pounders slept in the embrasures of the
wooden batteries, seemingly gathering fresh strength to
fight the battles of their country on the next fourth of July;
the solitary drum on Governor's Island forgot to call the
garrison to their shovels; the evening gun had not yet
sounded its signal for all the regular well-meaning poultry
throughout the country to go to roost; and the fleet of
canoes, at anchor between Gibbet Island and Communipaw,
slumbered on their rakes, and suffered the innocent oysters
to lie for a while unmolested in the soft mud of their native
banks ! My own feelings sympathized with the contagious
tranquilHty, and I should infallibly have dozed upon one
of those fragments of benches, which our benevolent
magistrates have provided for the benefit of convalescent
loungers, had not the extraordinary inconvenience of the
couch set all repose at defiance.
Washington Ir\t:xg in
Knickerbocker's History of New York
As seen by Mrs. Trollope in 1831 -^^^^ -'^^^^ ^^:::>
T HAVE never seen the bay of Naples, I can therefore
-^ make no comparison, but my imagination is incapable
of conceiving any thing of the kind more beautiful than the
harbour of New York. Various and lovely are the objects
which meet the eye on every side, but the naming them
would only be to give a list of words, without conveying the
faintest idea of the scene. I doubt if even the pencil of
Turner could do it justice, bright and glorious as it rose
upon us. We seemed to enter the harbour of New York
upon waves of liquid gold, and as we darted past the green
isles which rise from its bosom, like guardian sentinels
D 33
The Wayfarer in New York
of the fair city, the setting sun stretched his horizontal
beams farther and farther at each moment, as if to point
out to us some new glory in the landscape.
New York, indeed, appeared to us, even when we saw
it by a soberer hght, a lovely and a noble city. To us who
had been so long travelling through half-cleared forests,
and sojourning among an ''I'm-as-good-as-you" popula-
tion, it seemed, perhaps, more beautiful, more splendid,
and more refined than it might have done, had we arrived
there directly from London; but making every allowance
for this, I must still declare that I think New York one of
the finest cities I ever saw, and as much superior to every
other in the Union (Philadelphia not excepted), as London
to Liverpool, or Paris to Rouen. Its advantages of position
are, perhaps, unequalled anywhere. Situated on an island,
which I think it will one day cover, it rises, like Venice, from
the sea, and hke that fairest of cities in the days of her
glory, receives into its lap tribute of all the riches of the
earth.
The southern point of Manhattan Island divides the
waters of the harbour into the north and east rivers; on
this point stands the city of New York, extending from
river to river, and running northward to the extent of three
or four miles. I think it covers nearly as much ground as
Paris, but is much less thickly peopled. The extreme
point is fortified towards the sea by a battery, and forms
an admirable point of defence; but in these piping days
of peace, it is converted into a public promenade, and
one more beautiful, I should suppose, no city could boast.
From hence commences the splendid Broadway, as the
fine avenue is called, which runs through the whole city.
This noble street may vie with any I ever saw, for its
34
From the Battery to Trinity
length and breadth, its handsome shops, neat awnings,
excellent trottoir, and well-dressed pedestrians. It has
not the crowded glitter of Bond Street equipages, nor the
gorgeous fronted palaces of Regent Street ; but it is mag-
nificent in its extent, and ornamented by several handsome
buildings, some of them surrounded by grass and trees.
The Park, in which stands the noble city hall, is a very fine
area. I never found that the most graphic description of
a city could give me any feeling of being there ; and even
if others have the power, I am very sure I have not, of
setting churches and squares, and long-drawn streets,
before the mind's eye. I will not, therefore, attempt a de-
tailed description of this great metropolis of the new world,
but will only say that during the seven weeks we stayed
there, we always found something new to see and to admire ;
and were it not so very far from all the old-world things which
cling about the heart of an European, I should say that I
never saw a city more desirable as a residence.
The dwelling houses of the higher classes are extremely
handsome, and very richly furnished. Silk or satin furni-
ture is as often, or oftener, seen than chintz; the mirrors
are as handsome as in London; the chiffonniers, slabs, and
marble tables as elegant; and in addition, they have all
the pretty tasteful decoration of French porcelaine, and
or-molu in much greater abundance, because at a much
cheaper rate. Every part of their houses is well carpeted,
and the exterior finishing, such as steps, railings, and door-
frames, are very superior. Almost every house has hand-
some green blinds on the outside; balconies are not very
general, nor do the houses display, externally, so many
flowers as those of Paris and London; but I saw many
rooms decorated within, exactly like those of an European
35
The Wayfarer in New York
petite mattresse. Little tables, looking and smelling like
flower beds, portfolios, nick-nacks, bronzes, busts, cameos,
and alabaster vases, illustrated copies of lady-like rhymes
bound in silk, and, in short, all the pretty coxcomalities
of the drawing-room scattered about with the same profuse
and studied negligence as with us.
Hudson Square and its neighbourhood is, I believe, the
most fashionable part of the tow^n ; the square is beautiful,
excellently well planted with a great variety of trees, and
only wanting our frequent and careful mowing to make
it equal to any square in London. The iron railing which
surrounds this enclosure is as high and as handsome as
that of the Tuileries, and it will give some idea of the care
bestowed on its decoration, to know that the gravel for
the walks was conveyed by barges from Boston, not as
ballast, but as freight.
The great defect in the houses is their extreme uniformity
— when you have seen one, you have seen all. Neither
do I quite like the arrangement of the rooms. In nearly
all the houses the dining and drawing-rooms are on the same
floor, with ample folding doors between them; when
thrown together they certainly make a very noble apart-
ment; but no doors can be barrier sufficient between
dining and drawing-rooms. Mixed dinner parties of
ladies and gentlemen, however, are very rare, which is a
great defect in the society; not only as depriving them of
the most social and hospitable manner of meeting, but as
leading to frequent dinner parties of gentlemen without
ladies, which certainly does not conduce to refinement.
The evening parties, excepting such as are expressly
for the young people, are chiefly conversational; we are
too late in the season for large parties, but we saw enough
36
From the Battery to Trinity
to convince us that there is society to be met with in New
York, which would be deemed delightful any where.
Cards are very seldom used ; and music, from their having
very little professional aid at their parties, is seldom, I believe,
as good as what is heard at private concerts in London.
The Americans have certainly not the same besoin of
being amused, as other people; they may be the wiser
for this, perhaps, but it makes them less agreeable to a
looker-on.
There are three theatres at New York, all of which we
visited. The Park Theatre is the only one licensed by
fashion, but the Bowery is infinitely superior in beauty;
it is indeed as pretty a theatre as I ever entered, perfect as
to size and proportion, elegantly decorated, and the scenery
and machinery equal to any in London, but it is not the
fashion. The Chatham is so utterly condemned by bon
ton, that it requires some courage to decide upon going
there ; nor do I think my curiosity would have penetrated
so far, had I not seen Miss Mitford's Rienzi advertised
there. It was the first opportunity I had had of seeing
it played, and spite of very indifferent acting, I was de-
lighted. The interest must have been great, for till the
curtain fell, I saw not one quarter of the queer things around
me : then I observed in the front row of a dress-box a lady
performing the most maternal office possible; several
gentlemen without their coats, and a general air of con-
tempt for the decencies of life, certainly more than usually
revolting. ...
I visited all the exhibitions in New York. The Medici
of the Republic must exert themselves a little more before
these can become even respectable. The worst of the
business is, that with the exception of about half a dozen
37
The Wayfarer in New York
individuals, the good citizens are more than contented, they
are delighted.
The newspaper lungs of the Republic breathe forth
praise and triumph, nay, almost pant with ecstasy in speak-
ing of their native chef d'oeuvres. I should be hardly
believed were I to relate the instances which fell in my
way, of the utter ignorance respecting pictures to be found
among persons of the first standing in society. Often
where a liberal spirit exists, and a wish to patronise the
fine arts is expressed, it is joined to a profundity of igno-
rance on the subject almost inconceivable. A doubt as to
the excellence of their artists is very nervously received,
and one gentleman, with much civility, told me, that at
the present era, all the world were aware that competition
was pretty well at an end between our two nations, and
that a little envy might naturally be expected to mix with
the surprise with which the mother country beheld the dis-
tance at which her colonies were leaving her behind them.
I must, however, do the few artists with whom I became
acquainted, the justice to say, that their own pretensions
are much more modest than those of their patrons for them.
I have heard several confess and deplore their ignorance of
drawing, and have repeatedly remarked a sensibility to the
merit of European artists, though perhaps only known
by engravings, and a deference to their authority, which
showed a genuine feeling for the art. In fact, I think that
there is a very considerable degree of natural talent for
painting in America, but it has to make its way through
darkness and thick night. When an academy is founded,
their first care is to hang the walls of its exhibition room
with all the unutterable trash that is offered to them. No
living models are sought for; no discipline as to the manner
38
From the Battery to Trinity
of study is enforced. Boys who know no more of human
form, than they do of the eyes, nose, and mouth, in the
moon, begin painting portraits. If some of them would
only throw away their palettes for a year, and learn to
draw; if they would attend anatomical lectures, and take
notes, not in words, but in forms, of joints and muscles,
their exhibitions would soon cease to be so utterly below
criticism.
Mrs. Trollope in Domestic Manners of the Americans
As Dickens saw the City in 1842 ^^ ^^ ^>
THERE lay stretched out before us, to the right, con-
fused heaps of buildings, with here and there a spire
or steeple, looking down upon the herd below; and here
and there, again, a cloud of lazy smoke; and in the fore-
ground a forest of ships' masts, cheery with flapping sails
and waving flags. Crossing from among them to the
opposite shore, were steam ferry-boats laden with people,
coaches, horses, waggons, baskets, boxes: crossed and re-
crossed by other ferry-boats: all travelling to and fro:
and never idle. Stately among these restless Insects, were
two or three large ships, moving with slow majestic pace,
as creatures of a prouder kind, disdainful of their puny
journeys, and making for the broad sea. Beyond, were
shining heights, and islands in the glancing river, and a
distance scarcely less blue and bright than the sky it
seemed to meet. The city's hum and buzz, the clinking
of capstans, the ringing of bells, the barking of dogs, the
clattering of wheels, tingled in the listening ear. All of
which life and stir, coming across the stirring water,
caught new life and animation from its free companion-
ship; and, sympathising with its buoyant spirits, glistened
39
The Wayfarer in New York
as it seemed in sport upon its surface, and hemmed the
vessel around, and plashed the water high about her sides,
and, floating her gallantly into the dock, flew off again to
welcome other comers, and speed before them to the busy
Port.
The great promenade and thoroughfare, as most people
know, is Broadway; a wide and bustling street, which,
from the Battery Gardens to its opposite termination in
a country road, may be four miles long. Shall we sit down
in an upper floor of the Carlton House Hotel (situated
in the best part of this main artery of New York), and when
we are tired of looking down upon the life below, sally
forth arm-in-arm, and mingle with the stream? . . .
Warm weather ! The sun strikes upon our heads at
this open window, as though its rays were concentrated
through a burning glass; but the day is in its zenith, and
the season an unusual one. Was there ever such a sunny
street as this Broadway ! The pavement stones are polished
with the tread of feet until they shine again ; the red bricks
of the houses might be yet in the dry, hot kilns; and the
roofs of those omnibuses look as though, if water were
poured on them, they would hiss and smoke, and smell
like half-quenched fires. No stint of omnibuses here !
Half-a-dozen have gone by within as many minutes.
Plenty of hackney cabs and coaches too; gigs, phaetons,
large-wheeled tilburies, and private carriages rather of
a clumsy make, and not very different from the public
vehicles, but built for the heavy roads beyond the city
pavement. Negro coachmen and white; in straw hats,
black hats, white hats, glazed caps, fur caps; in coats of
drab, black, brown, green, blue, nankeen, striped jean and
linen; and there, in that one instance (look while it passes,
40
From the Battery to Trinity
or it will be too late), in suits of livery. Some southern re-
publican that, who puts his blacks in uniform, and swells
with Sultan pomp and power. Yonder, where that phaeton
with the well-clipped pair of grays has stopped — standing
at their heads now — is a Yorkshire groom, who has not
been very long in these parts, and looks sorrowfully round
for a companion pair of top-boots, which he may traverse
the city half a year without meeting. Heaven save the
ladies, how they dress! We have seen more colours in
these ten minutes, than we should have seen elsewhere,
in as many days. What various parasols ! what rainbow
silks and satins ! what pinking of thin stocking, and pinch-
ing of thin shoes, and fluttering of ribbons and silk tassels,
and display of rich cloaks with gaudy hooks and linings !
The young gentlemen are fond, you see, of turning down
their shirt-collars and cultivating their whiskers, especially
under the chin; but they cannot approach the ladies in
their dress or bearing, being to say the truth, humanity
of quite another sort. Byrons of the desk and counter,
pass on, and let us see what kind of men those are behind
ye: those two labourers in holiday clothes, of whom one
carries in his hand a crumpled scrap of paper from which
he tries to spell out a hard name, while the other looks about
for it on all the doors and windows. . . .
This narrow thoroughfare, baking and blistering in
the sun, is Wall Street: the Stock Exchange and Lombard
Street of New York. Many a rapid fortune has been
made in this street, and many a no less rapid ruin. Some
of these very merchants whom you see hanging about
here now, have locked up money in their strong-boxes, like
the man in the Arabian Nights, and opening them again,
have found but withered leaves. Below, here by the water-
41
The Wayfarer in New York
side, where the bowsprits of ships stretch across the foot-
way, and almost thrust themselves into the windows, he
the noble American vessels which have made their Packet
SerAdce the finest in the world. They have brought hither
the foreigners who abound in all streets : not perhaps, that
there are more here, than in other commercial cities; but
elsewhere, they have particular haunts, and you must find
them out; here, they pervade the town. . . .
Charles Dickens in American Notes
The March of the Seventh Regiment down Broadway,
1861 ^v> -<Ci.' ^n:> -<:::>' -<;:i,' <:>
TT was worth a life that march. Only one who passed, as
-*• we did, through that tempest of cheers, two miles long
can know the terrible enthusiasm of the occasion. I could
hardly hear the rattle of our own gun-carriages, and only
once or twice the music of our band came to me mufiled
and quelled by the uproar. We knew now if we had not
before divined it, that our great city was with us as one
man, utterly united in the great cause we were marching
to sustain.
This grand fact I learned by two senses. If hundreds
of thousands roared it in my ears, thousands slapped it
into my back. My fellow citizens smote me on the knap-
sack, as I went by at the gun-rope, and encouraged me
each in his own dialect. "Bully for you !" alternated with
benedictions, in the proportion of two bullies to one blessing.
I was not so fortunate as to receive more substantial
tokens of sympathy. But there were parting gifts showered
on the regiment enough to establish a variety-shop. Hand-
kerchiefs, of course, came floating down upon us from the
windows, like a snow. Pretty little gloves pelted us with
42
From the Battery to Trinity
lovetaps. The sterner sex forced upon us pocket-knives
new and jagged, combs, soap, slippers, boxes of matches,
cigars by the dozen and the hundred, pipes to smoke shag
and pipes to smoke Latakia, fruit, eggs and sandwiches.
One fellow got a new purse with ten bright quarter eagles.
At the corner of Grand Street or thereabouts a "bhoy"
in red flannel shirt and black dress pantaloons, leaning
back against the crowd with Herculean shoulders, called
me, — "Saay, bully! take my dorg! he's one of the kind
that holds till he draps." This gentleman, with his animal,
was instantly shoved back by the police, and the Seventh
lost the "dorg."
These were the comic incidents of the march, but under-
lying all was the tragic sentiment that we might have tragic
work presently to do. The news of the rascal attack in
Baltimore on the Massachusetts Sixth had just come in.
Ours might be the same chance. If there were any of us
not in earnest before the story of the day would steady us.
So we said good bye to Broadway, moved down Cortlandt
Street under a bower of flags, and at half-past six shoved
off in the ferry-boat.
Theodore Winthrop in
The Atlantic Monthly, June, 1861
The Great Panic of 1873 ^o^ ^:^ -Oy ^;>
/^NE rainy day in this year found Jacob Dolph in Wall
^-^ Street. Although he himself did not think so, he
was an old man to others, and kindly hands, such as were
to be found even in that infuriate crowd, had helped him up
the marble steps of the Sub-Treasury and had given him
lodgment on one of the great blocks of marble that dominate
the street. From where he stood he could see Wall Street,
43
The Wayfarer in New York
east and west, and the broad plaza of Broad Street to the
south, filled with a compact mass of men, half hidden
by a myriad of umbrellas, rain-soaked, black, glinting in
the dim light. So might a Roman legion have looked,
when each man raised his targum above his head and came
shoulder to shoulder with his neighbor for the assault.
There was a confused, ant-like movement in the vast
crowd, and a dull murmur came from it, rising, in places,
into excited shouts. Here and there the fringe of the mass
swelled up and swept against the steps of some building,
forcing, or trying to force, an entry. Sometimes a narrow
stream of men trickled into the half-open doorway; some-
times the great portals closed, and then there was a mad
outcry and a low groan, and the foremost on the steps
suddenly turned back, and in some strange way slipped
through the throng and sped in all directions to bear to
hushed or clamorous oflSces the news that this house or
that bank had "suspended payment." "Busted," the
panting messengers said to white -faced merchants; and
in the slang of the street was conveyed the message of doom.
The great panic of 1873 "^^s upon the town — the outcome
of long years of unwarranted self-confidence, of selfish ex-
travagance, of conscienceless speculation — and, as hour
after hour passed by, fortunes were lost in the twinkling
of an eye, and the bread was taken out of the mouths of
the helpless.
After Jacob Dolph had stood for some time, looking
down upon the tossing sea of black umbrellas, he saw
a narrow lane made through the crowd in the wake of
a little party of clerks and porters, bearing aid perhaps to
some stricken bank. Slipping down, he followed close
behind them. Perhaps the jostling hundreds on the side-
44
From the Battery to Trinity
walk were gentle with him, seeing that he was an old man;
perhaps the strength of excitement nerved him, for he made
his way down the street to the flight of steps leading to
the door of a tall white building, and he crowded himself up
among the pack that was striving to enter. He had even
got so far that he could see the line pouring in above his
head, when there was a sudden cessation of motion in
the press, and one leaf of the outer iron doors swung for-
ward, meeting the other, already closed to bar the crush,
and two green-painted panels stood, impassable, between
him and the last of the Dolph fortune.
One howl and roar, and the crowd turned back on itself,
and swept him with it. In five minutes a thousand offices
knew of the greatest failure of the day; and Jacob Dolph
was leaning — weak, gasping, dazed — against the side wall
of a hallway in William Street, with two stray office-boys
staring at him out of their small, round, unsympathetic eyes.
H. C. BuNNER in The Story of a New York House
Copyright, 1887, by Charles Scribner's Sons
The Two Cities ^;:y <:^ <:> ^> ^^
'T^WAS dusk, and from my window
-^ Upon the streets below
I saw the people passing,
Like shadows, to and fro;
And faintly, very faintly,
I heard the ceasing din;
And, like the dusk without me,
There was a dusk within.
And thoughts, with eager footsteps,
Dim thoughts of joy and pain,
45
The Wayfarer in New York
Filled the streets and byways of
The City in my brain.
A passing light, and holy,
Like that which softly falls
Through open gates in cloudlets
Upon cathedral walls,
Fell upon the towers of
The City in my mind;
My inward sight grew clearer,
My outward vision blind.
Forgotten was the window,
There seemed no street below;
I did not see them passing,
The shadows, to and fro.
I was between Two Cities
In which my spirit dwells;
And I could hear the chimings
Of two sad sets of bells.
Without, the holy Trinity's;
And deep within my soul
My heart was throbbing like a bell
When it has ceased to toll.
T. B. Aldrich, 1854
The Aquarium and the Docks ^^^ ^=^::v ^=^:i>'
/^LD CASTLE GARDEN makes a fairly decent build-
^-^ ing for an aquarium, and besides it is isolated in Battery
Park and no one is crying for the land it occupies. Some
associations and traditions cling about it and lend a scrap
46
From the Battery to Trinity
of romance to it. It started into life in 1811 as Fort
Clinton and was then situated on a tiny island lying off
Battery Park. In 1822, or thereabouts, it ceased to be
a fort and was turned into a place of amusement, where
Jenny Lind first sang when she came to America, and
Lafayette and Kossuth were publicly received and wel-
comed. In a few years the playhouse had turned into
a station for the reception of immigrants from the Old
World, and in 1896 it was fitted up as an aquarium. It
now houses the finest collection of fishes in the world, but
it has almost completely lost its old character. Instead
of covering a tiny island it rests bedded in the stone slabs
of Battery Park and looks somewhat like a half-sunken
gas tank. Sentiment may cling about it, and the folk with
neither New York ancestry nor history may reverence it
because it is so "very old"; but in reality it is sad rubbish
and has little place in the new city. . . .
The early gathering place was no doubt the lower end
of the East River. The Battery (which, by the way, never
battered anything, at any time) was the first landing-place
of the Dutch, and it was the region about South Ferry that
afterward became an anchorage for their flat-bottomed,
high-pooped ships. After the Revolution the large sailing
craft that came into the harbor required deeper water to
make landings; so the shallows were filled in from Front
Street, the docks were pushed out into the stream, and
South Street came into existence. In very recent years the
docks have been extended still farther, and the shipping
offices and storage houses along South Street are now some
distance back from the pier heads. Some of the old
buildings with new fronts are still standing; and, even
to-day, there are huge schooners and square-rigged ships
47
The Wayfarer in New York
I}ang at the piers with bowsprits reaching over into the
street. Some reminders of the days of clipper ships and
the China trade linger, but are gradually being elbowed
out of existence by newer enterprises.
The East River front of Manhattan is now a strange
conglomeration of docks, trucks, shops, saloons, and ware-
houses. Many commercial interests are centered there,
with many people and much activity. Everything is
moving or being moved. At Coenties Slip, as one comes
around from South Ferry, the activity is not at once ap-
parent. There is a little park with bushes and trees
( Jeannette Park) near by, which is usually well patronized
by the unemployed ; and across the street from it there are
scores of canal-boats tied together in the dock, that seem
deserted and decadent. But a few steps farther on brings
a change. Long piers run out into the river and brown-
red sheds are alive with milling men and pulling horses.
Steamers from Spain, Porto Rico, Havana, Galveston,
ships from many southern ports, are unloading or taking
on cargo. The street is a tangle of trucks, the sidewalk
a turmoil of people, the shops a bustle of business. Many
of the old buildings are occupied as shipping offices, store-
houses, or ship chandleries. Anything needed on ship-
board can be bought in such places — canvas, cordage,
blocks, packing, pipes, tubes, oils, paints, lanterns, com-
passes, bells, swords, guns. Food and clothing supplies
are near at hand ; and the saloon along South Street, with
its modicum of cheer, is never ''hull down" on the horizon.
When Jack or his captain comes ashore, there are plenty
of opportunities offered him to get rid of his money before
he reaches the Bowery.
As one moves toward the Brooklvn Bridge the interests
48
From the Battery to Trinity
become more varied. The difTcrcnt slips widen out to the
docks and furnish room for many warehouses and shops
in low brick buildings, some of them with gambreled
roofs and dormer windows. The docks are piled high
with odd looking boxes, with green and blue barrels;
schooners and ships are anchored beside car-floats loaded
with yellow freight-cars; ferry-houses are near by from
which bright-colored boats are coming and going; tugs
are pushing and hauling at tows; steamers rush by with
a splash and a swash. From the piers, looking up and
over the tangle of trucks, perhaps the stranger catches a
glimpse of the Broadway sky-scrapers, resting serenely in
the far upper air like a ridge of snow mountains, quite
unaffected by the noisy worry of the water front. How
stupendous in size, how superb in light and air they seem
by comparison with the junk shops and the dock sheds!
Perhaps he glances around to the east, and there sees the
swooping span of the Brooklyn Bridge, — still another
contrast between the new and the old. Possibly later on
he figures it out quietly by himself that the dirty docks and
the greasy ships and the noisy trucks are after all not to be
despised, for they made possible the beautiful bridge and
paid for the immaculate-looking sky-scrapers. Com-
merce foots the bill, abuse it as we may.
South Street runs on under the Brooklyn Bridge, past
Fulton Market with its fish stalls and tumble-down shops;
past Peck Slip with its old houses; past Providence and
New Haven steamers, the Manhattan Bridge, the little
long park at Rutgers Slip; past warehouses, warehouses,
warehouses. Scows are being filled with city refuse, cars
are being unloaded with merchandise at the docks, factories
and machine-shops are cropping out along the way, gas-
E 49
The Wayfarer in New York
houses and lumber-yards begin to bulk large. Right in
the midst of this region (formerly a haunt of thieves) comes
another surprise. This is Corlear's Park with its Italian-
looking loggia and its eight acres sloping down to the open
river. There are no piers or sheds here, and the water
view is unobstructed. Sound steamers, sloops, schooners,
lighters, ferry-boats slip past on the tide, up and under the
Williamsburgh Bridge; and occasionally a motor-boat
with its put-put, or some pleasure yacht, careens and
pitches on its way. Off in the background, across the
river, are the battle-ships that are being repaired at the
Brooklyn Navy Yard, or the old hulks that have had their
day and are now rotting at the dock. It is a picturesque
spot just here at Corlear's Hook, where the river turns
and where South Street comes to an end.
The North River, as the lower part of the Hudson is
sometimes called, was not of much trade importance in the
early days of New York. There were no docks along it
because all the ships went to South Street. Sailing craft
came round the Battery and went up the Hudson without
stopping. They were seen and admired by the New
Yorkers who had residences on the ridge, for the ridge was
then famous for the "view." So late as 1800 old St.
Paul's, Columbia College, and the Hospital looked down
to the river and beheld a practically unobstructed panorama.
There was no West Street then.
Before that time the water front was even more primitive.
From Warren to Desbrosses Street was the ''bouwerie"
of Anneke Jans, whose many descendants still dream of
untold wealth coming to them when the law finally gives
them their due. On either side of Canal Street was Lis-
penard's Meadows, where almost anything could be docked
SO
From the Battery to Trinity
except a ship, and where nothing was trucked except loads
of hay. Beyond came Greenwich Village with no vast com-
mercial interest, though ships sometimes lay at anchor in
the stream off from it. After tliis the shore line as far as
Spuyten Duyvil Creek was unbroken and untrodden —
Fort Gansevoort, which stood near the present market-
place, and Fort Washington at One Hundred and Seventy-
Fifth Street, being latter-day works.
But a great change has taken place since the days of the
Dutch, or the English, or even the American occupation.
Less than a hundred years has transformed the North
River into a water-way for the ships of the world, the
meadow front is now a broad street with the unceasing
reverberation of traffic; and the water's edge, from the
Battery to the Riverside Park, is occupied by long piers
and sheds where ocean liners are docked and unloaded.
The ocean carrying trade of New York is now located there.
Practically all the important lines of passenger steamers
have their docks there, or across the river at Hoboken.
Along the Chelsea region of the North River, scattered
like the sky-scrapers on Broadway, are the huge trans-
atlantic liners with sharp noses pushing in toward West
Street. With them and near them are the smaller steamers
plying to Havana, Mexico, South America, Spain, Italy,
Greece; the immigrant steamers commg up from Naples,
Palermo, or Trieste; the coasting steamers from New
Orleans, Galveston, Boston, Providence; the white river
steamers running to Troy and Albany. In the foreign
passenger trade alone there are some three hundred or
more of these craft coming and going to this port ; and the
number of coasters that creep into the harbor at odd times
and in strange ways mounts up into the thousands.
51
The Wayfarer in New York
The "tramps," fruit carriers, cattle and tank steamers
are of all kinds and descriptions, come from all over the
seven seas and beyond, and fly the flags of every nation
having a merchant marine. Besides these there are ships
and sails of old-time merchants, perhaps, that have no
regular sailings, casual ships with strange cargoes that come
up from the underworld of China or Peru when they can,
and go out again with grain, iron, or coal for distant seas
when they must.
They make graceful combinations on the water, with
their fine lines and colors, their smoke and steam, their
gliding motion — these ships and sails. In fact, the North
River, with its fleet of big and little craft and its many-
colored flags, funnels, and hulls, makes a harbor view more
lively and more imposing than Backhuisen of Willem van
de Velde ever imagined. Not the least important values
in the picture are the fore-and-aft sails of the huge six and
seven masted schooners or the square sails of barks or
brigs or full-rigged ships. Even the little spots of steam
and color in tugs, fire-boats, car-floats, yachts, help out
the picture by giving it brilHancy. When the red and green
and olive ferries, the yellow revenue-cutters, the blue canal-
boats, the white island-boats, with an occasional white
and buff war-ship, are added to the scene, and the whole
moving mass has the towering lower city at sunset for a
background, the color of it becomes startling, bewildering,
quite dazzling.
The piers on the North River where the big steamers are
warped in and the little ones touch or are unloaded, are
at least capacious; and capacity is, after all, an absolute
necessity. Huge cargoes have to be handled upon them
in short spaces of time, and many donkey engines, derricks,
52
From the Battery to Trinity
and hoists, with scores and scores of longshoremen, are
in requisition. Hand-trucks, horse-trucks, auto-trucks,
rumble here and there with boxes, bales, and barrels con-
taining goods from everywhere — bananas from Jamaica,
coffee from Mexico, tea from China, wine from France,
macaroni from Italy, spices from the Indies, sugar from
Cuba, woods from Brazil, pulp from Norway, cloths from
England, cutlery from Germany. This freight handling
is always more or less complicated, because the docks are
the distributing places where goods are sorted over and re-
shipped to different fx)ints throughout the country. More-
over, for every cargo coming in there is perhaps a larger
cargo going out. Silks and works of art may be arriving
at one side of the pier; and beef, machinery, shoes be
departing by the other side. Add to this foreign trade the
domestic trade by river, sound, and shore, by railway and
tramway; add further the passenger traffic along these
piers from ferry and steamer, the come and go by car and
cab and carriage, and it can easily be imagined that the
North River piers and docks are places of activity, centers
of energy.
Though thousands are at work about these piers and are
continually crossing each other's path, there is usually
little confusion. Everything moves systematically and
everyone understands the law of traffic in the city, — keep
to the right and keep mo\dng. In and out of these pier
sheds all day (and sometimes all night), people, trucks,
and carts move in files, loading and unloading, passing
and repassing. West Street receives them and rejects
them and receives them again. The wide thoroughfare
seems always in an uproar (except on Sunday); and, of
course, traffic occasionally gets into a tangle.
53
The Wayfarer in New York
This is not to be wondered at, for the mass and the mix of
West Street are something quite out of the ordinary. It
is facile princeps the street of trucks in the whole city.
Every conceivable kind of a vehicle — dray, express-
wagon, mail -wagon, furniture-van, butcher-cart, garbage-
cart, beer-skid, beam -reach — is there. Sandwiched in
among them or dashing across them are cabs, carriages,
hansoms, automobiles. Dozens of trolley cars run across
this street to the different ferry-houses; two car tracks
run the full length of it, and down these tracks, perhaps
in the busiest portion of the day, will come a long train
of freight-cars of the New York Central Railroad. Such
a hurly-burly of traffic naturally produces the "jam"
which sometimes requires the services of the police to
straighten out.
The dock side of West Street is laid with asphalt, but
the street proper, where the trucks and trolleys go, is paved
with stone blocks — Belgian blocks. The jar and jolt,
the shock and rumble, arising from these stones is not
pleasant. No one can hear himself talk during traffic
hours, except the cabbies and the truck drivers. Even
they are usually purple in the face from trying to outroar
the rumble, though sometimes they get blue and green
with wrath when a collision takes place, and they exchange
compliments about each other's driving.
The human voice, however, does not reach very far in
West Street. A gong, a honk, or a whistle does better
service. People, when they want to chat quietly, go inside.
The "inside" is a saloon, a restaurant, a shop, or an office
of the kind usually found along the sea edge of a city.
The North River interior is newer than that of the East
River, but in character not essentially different. The
54
From the Battery to Trinity
shipping agencies, supply stores, warehouses, factories,
mills, markets, lumberyards, with all kinds of little dens
that sell drink or food or clothing to the longshoremen, are
also apparent. They are not cleanly-looking or inviting.
The dust of the street and the habits of the crowd keep
them grimy and bedraggled-looking. But they are pictu-
resque. Even the blatant sign with its high-keyed coloring
belongs here and helps complete the picture. Modern
commerce in West Street, with its trucks and liners and
dingy buildings, is just as pictorial, and far more truthful,
than, say, Claude's shipping and seaports, with classic
palaces and quays smothered in a sulphur sunset. But
it may be admitted that a proper angle of vision and some
perspective are needed to see it that way.
And around the water front on West Street, as well as
South Street, one meets with a soiled and unkempt-looking
mass of humanity that is quite as picturesque in its way
as the streets or the buildings. It is by no means made up
of New Yorkers alone. The races of the earth seem to
have sent representatives to it, each one speaking his own
language. The waifs and strays that have been jettisoned
violently from foreign ships, the stowaways from the liners,
the tramps from the railways, all gather along the docks
looking for something to turn up. Among them one can
see blacks from Jamaica, browns from India, yellows from
the Malay Peninsula, whites from Europe, and half-tones
from South America. It is a colorful mass of humanity
in both face and costume, and it has the further artistic
element of repose about it. That is to say, it sits down in
the sunshine whenever it can, and works only by fits and
starts. Its color is oftener seen in conjunction with some
convenient barrel or saloon bar than elsewhere. No doubt
55
The Wayfarer in New York
there are many hard-working, decent citizens among the
longshoremen, but as a class they are given a rather bad
name. Thieves and "dock rats" mingle with them,
thugs like their company, derelicts from every sea, ne'er-
do-wells from every shore, join them. The police do not
hold them in the highest esteem.
Yet the longshoremen are as much a part of New York as
the ship-owners, agents, clerks, commuters, and other
well-dressed people that pass along West Street — an
interesting part at that. And West Street is a characteristic
New York thoroughfare furnishing both color and con-
trast with quite as much vividness as Broadway. It is
neither a soulful nor a sanitary belt, nor is it a place where
one can rest body or mind; but it has swirls of motion,
flashes of light, combinations of tones that are at least
entertaining. The place and the people complement each
^^^^^- John C. Van Dyke in The New New York
Liberty Enlightening the World •'^^ ^'^ -"^^^
"Xl GARDEN at ocean's gate,
* ^ Thy feet on sea and shore,
Like one the skies await
When time shall be no more !
What splendors crown thy brow?
What bright dread angel Thou,
Dazzling the waves before
Thy station great?
"My name is Liberty!
From out a mighty land
I face the ancient sea,
I lift to God mv hand;
56
From the Battery to Trinity
By day in Heaven's light,
A pillar of fire by night
At ocean's gate I stand
Nor bend the knee.
"The dark Earth lay in sleep,
Her children crouched forlorn,
Ere on the western steep
I sprang to height, reborn:
Then what a joyous shout
The quickened lands gave out,
And all the choir of morn
Sang anthems deep.
"Beneath your firmament,
The New World to the Old
My sword and summons sent,
My azure flag unrolled:
The Old World's hands renew
The strength: the form ye view
Came from a living mould
In glory blent.
"O ye, whose broken spars
Tell of the storms ye met,
Enter ! fear not the bars
Across your pathway set:
Enter at Freedom's porch,
For you I lift my torch,
For you my coronet
Is rayed with stars.
"But ye that hither draw
To desecrate my fee,
57
The Wayfarer in New York
Nor yet have held in awe
The justice that makes free, —
Avaunt, ye darkHng brood!
By Right my house hath stood:
My name is Liberty,
My throne is Law."
O wonderful and bright,
Immortal Freedom, haiL'
Front, in thy fiery might,
The midnight and the gale:
Undaunted on this base
Guard well thy dwelling-place:
Till the last sun grow pale
Let there be Light !
Edmund Clarence Stedman
Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &° Co,
From the Deck of the Cunarder ''^^ ^v> <n^
"PAST the Hook the Campania glided, and then
-*- turned sharp to starboard into the noble expanse of
New York Bay. The great ship crept deviously along
the deep-water channel, but over the wide sheet of scarcely
rippled water tiny launches and steam yachts scudded
round and round us, as if we were a ten-knot tramp steamer
instead of one of the fastest couriers of the Altantic. As
early as this much was unfamiliar to the English eye. The
coasting schooners, flapping lazily in the vain expectation
of a wind, were all three-masted; the ferry-boats and
harbor-service steamers were built high up out of the water
with large deck-houses, out of which protruded the engines,
seesawing up and down.
58
From the Battery to Trinity
The great cities of New York and Brooklyn began to
outline themselves against the clear sky. As you enter
London from the Thames, you see little but a few ghost-
like spires, glimmering in a vast canopy of smoke. New
York and Brooklyn stand out clear and smokeless against
the blue of the heavens. The two cities are profiled along
the shores of the bay and the Hudson River, and a strange,
jagged profile it is. Brooklyn combines into a fairly even
mass of buildings, half yellow-gray, half chocolate, with
a fringe of masts along the water. Then the heap of
buildings slowly parts asunder in the middle; you see the
opening of the East River, the frontier of the two cities,
and the slim lines of the Suspension Bridge. But New
York combines into no color and no sky-line. Here is
a red mass of brick, there a gray spire, there a bright white
pile of building — twenty stories of serried windows —
there again a gilded dome. Gradually they disengage
themselves as you pass up the river in a line apparently
endless. The rest of the city lies huddled beneath them —
these buildings, too, many colored, all uneven, each one
seemingly struggling to shoot up alongside of the giants
at its side. That is the first impression of New York, if
impression it can be called. The truth is that New York
yields no impression; the big buildings and the little
buildings will not come into the same view. It dazzles,
and it astonishes, but it does not make a picture.
G. W. Steevens in The Land of the Dollar
Ellis Island ^=^ -^r^ ^::i^ <::::y <:^ ^^:^
T^HE gay spirits soon flag when land is heralded;
-*- for Ellis Island is ahead, with its uncertainties, and
the men and women who were the merriest and who
59
The Wayfarer in New York
most often went to the bar, thus trying to forget, now
are sober, and reflect. The troubled ones are usually
marked by their restless walk and by their eagerness to
seek the confidences of those who have tested the temper
of the law in this unknown Eldorado. . . .
At last the great heart of the ship has ceased its mighty
throbbing, and but a gentle tremor tells that its life has not
all been spent in the battle with wind and waves. The
waters are of a quieter color, and over them hovers the
morning mist. The silence of the early dawn is broken
only by the sound of deep-chested ferry-boats which pass
into the mist and out of it, like giant monsters, stalking on
their cross beams over the deep. The steerage is awake
after its restless night and mutely awaits the disclosures
of its own and the new world's secrets. The sound of
a booming gun is carried across the hidden space, and
faint touches of flame struggling through the gray, are the
sun's answer to the salute from Governor's Island. The
morning breeze, like a "Dancing Psaltress," moves gently
over the glassy surface of the water, lifts the fog higher and
higher, tearing it into a thousand fleecy shreds, and the
far things have come near and the hidden things have been
revealed. The sky line straight ahead, assaulted by a
thousand towering shafts, looking like a challenge to the
strong, and a warning to the weak, makes all of us tremble
from an unknown fear.
The steerage is still mute; it looks to the left at the pop-
ulous shore, to the right at the green stretches of Long
Island, and again straight ahead at the mighty city. Slowly
the ship glides into the harbor, and when it passes under the
shadow of the Statue of Liberty the silence is broken and
a thousand hands are outstretched in greeting to this
60
From the Battery to Trinity
new divinity into whose keeping they now entrust them-
selves.
Some day a great poet will arise among us, who, catching
the inspiration of that moment, will be able to put into
words these surging emotions; who will be great enough
to feel beating against his own soul and give utterance to,
the thousand varying notes which are felt and never
sounded. . . .
He who thinks that these people scent but the dollars
which lie in our treasury, is mightily mistaken, and he who
says that they come without ideals has no knowledge of
the children of men. . . .
Cabin and steerage passengers alike soon find the poetry
of the moment disturbed; for the quarantine and custom-
house officials are on board, driving away the tourist's
memories of the splendor of European capitals by their
inquisitiveness as to his purchases. They make him
solemnly swear that he is not a smuggler, and upon land-
ing immediately proceed to prove that he is one.
The steerage passengers have before them more rigid
examinations which may have vast consequences; so in
spite of the joyous notes of the band, and the glad greetings
shouted to and fro, they sink again into awe-struck and
confused silence. When the last cabin passenger has dis-
appeared from the dock, the immigrants with their baggage
are loaded into barges and taken to Ellis Island for their
final examination. ...
The barges on which the immigrants are towed towards
the island are of a somewhat antiquated pattern, and if
I remember rightly have done service in the Castle Garden
days, and before that some of them at least had done full
service for excursion parties up and down Long Island
6x
The Wayfarer in New York
Sound. The structure towards which we sail and which
gradually rises from the surrounding sea is rather imposing,
and impresses one by its utilitarian dignity and by its
plainly expressed official character.
With tickets fastened to our caps and to the dresses of
the women, and with our own bills of lading in our trem-
bling hands,we pass between rows of uniformed attendants,
and under the huge portal of the vast hall where the final
judgment awaits us. We are cheered somewhat by the
fact that assistance is promised to most of us by the agents
of various National Immigrant Societies who seem both
watchful and efficient.
Mechanically and with quick movements we are ex-
amined for general physical defects and for the dreaded
trachoma, an eye disease, the prevalence of which is greater
in the imagination of some statisticians than it is on board
immigrant vessels.
From here we pass into passageways made by iron rail-
ings, in which only lately, through the intervention of
a humane official, benches have been placed, upon which,
closely crowded, we await our passing before the inspectors.
Already a sifting process has taken place; and children
who clung to their mother's skirts have disappeared,
families have been divided, and those remaining intact
cling to each other in a really tragic fear that they may
share the fate of those previously examined. . . .
The decision one way or the other must be quickly made,
and the immigrant finds himself in a jail-like room often
without knowing just why. There is not much time for
explanation. . . .
The most melancholy of all men are the detained Jews,
for they usually have strong family ties which already bind
62
From the Battery to Trinity
them to this new world, and they chafe under the delay.
Their children or friends are waiting impatiently, crowd-
ing beyond their allotted limit, trying the severely taxed
patience of the officials, asking useless questions, and
wasting precious time in waiting; for the courts work their
allotted tasks with dispatch, but with care and dignity;
and all must wait in deep uncertainty through the long
vigil of a restless night spent on the clean, but not too com-
fortable bunks provided by the government.
Let no one believe that landing on the shores of "The
land of the free, and the home of the brave" is a pleasant
experience ; it is a hard, harsh fact, surrounded by the grind-
ing machinery of the law, which sifts, picks, and chooses;
admitting the fit and excluding the weak and helpless.
Edward A. Steiner
Copyright, IQ06, by Fleming H. Revell Company
The Financial Centre of America <::> ^^ ^^b'
T^INANCE, more perhaps than any other kind of
-'- business, draws to few points, and New York, which
has as little claim to be social or intellectual as to be
the political capital of the country, is emphatically its
financial capital. And as the centre of America is New
York, so the centre of New York is Wall Street. This
famous thoroughfare is hardly a quarter of a mile long,
a little longer than Lombard Street in London. It con-
tains the Sub-Treasury of the United States and the Stock
Exchange. In it and the three or four streets that open
into it are situated the Produce Exchange, the offices of
the great railways, and the places of business of the
financiers and stockbrokers, together representing an ac-
cumulation of capital and intellect comparable to the
63
The Wayfarer in New York
capital and intellect of London, and destined before many
years to surpass every similar spot in either hemisphere.
Wall Street is the great nerve centre of all American busi-
ness; for finance and transportation, the two determining
powers in business, have here their headquarters. It is
also the financial barometer of the country, which every
man engaged in large affairs must constantly consult,
and whose only fault is that it is too sensitive to slight and
transient variations of pressure.
The share market of New York, or rather of the whole
Union, in "the Street," as it is fondly named, is the most
remarkable sight in the country after Niagara and the
Yellowstone Geysers. It is not unlike those geysers in
the violence of its explosions, and in the rapid rise and
equally rapid subsidence of its active paroxysms. And as
the sparkling column of the geyser is girt about and often
half concealed by volumes of steam, so are the rise and fall
of stocks mostly surrounded by mists and clouds of rumor,
some purposely created, some self-generated in the at-
mosphere of excitement, curiosity, credulity, and suspicion
which the denizens of Wall Street breathe. Opinions
change from moment to moment; hope and fear are
equally vehement and equally irrational; men are con-
stant only in inconstancy, superstitious because they are
sceptical, distrustful of patent probabilities, and therefore
ready to trust their own fancies or some unfathered tale.
As the eagerness and passion of New York leave European
stock markets far behind, for what the Paris and London
exchanges are at rare moments Wall Street is for weeks,
or perhaps, with a few intermissions, for months together,
so the operations of Wall Street are vaster, more boldly
conceived, executed with a steadier precision, than those
64
From the Battery to Trinity
of European speculators. It is not only their bearing on
the prosperity of railroads or other great undertakings
that is eagerly watched all over the country, but also their
personal and dramatic aspects. The various careers and
characters of the leading operators are familiar to every
one who reads a newspaper; his schemes and exploits are
followed as Europe followed the fortunes of Prince Alexan-
der of Battenburg or General Boulanger. A great ''corner,"
for instance, is one of the exciting events of the year, not
merely to those concerned with the stock or species of
produce in which it is attempted but to the public at large.
James Bryce in The American Commonwealth
Pan in Wall Street ^^ -^ ^Qy ^:> ^^
A.D. 1867
JUST where the Treasury's marble front
Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations, —
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont
To throng for trade and last quotations, —
Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
Outrival, in the ears of people,
The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled
From Trinity's undaunted steeple; —
Even there I heard a strange, wild strain
Sound high above the modern clamor,
Above the cries of greed and gain.
The curbstone war, the auction's hammer, —
And swift, on Music's misty ways.
It led, from all this strife for millions,
To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days
Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.
F 65
The Wayfarer in New York
And as it stilled the multitude,
And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,
I saw the minstrel where he stood
At ease against a Doric pillar:
One hand a droning organ played,
The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned
Like those of old) to lips that made
The reeds give out that strain impassioned.
'Twas Pan himself had wandered here
A-strolling through this sordid city,
And piping to the civic ear
The prelude of some pastoral ditty!
The demigod had crossed the seas, —
From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr,
And Syracusan times, — to these
Far shores and twenty centuries later.
A ragged cap was on his head:
But — hidden thus — there was no doubting
That, all with crispy locks o'erspread.
His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting;
His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes.
Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them,
And trousers, patched of divers hues.
Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.
He filled the quivering reeds with sound.
And o'er his mouth their changes shifted.
And with his goat's-eyes looked around
Where'er the passing current drifted;
And soon, as on Trinacrian hills
The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him,
66
From the Battery to Trinity
Even now the tradesmen from their tills,
With clerks and porters, crowded near him.
The bulls and bears together drew
From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley,
As erst, if pastorals be true.
Came beasts from every wooded valley;
The random passers stayed to list, —
A boxer Aegon, rough and merry, —
A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst
With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.
A one-eyed Cyclops halted long
In tattered cloak of army pattern,
And Galatea joined the throng, —
A blowsy, apple-vending slattern;
While old Silenus staggered out
From some new-fangled lunch-house handy,
And bade the piper, with a shout,
To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy I
A newsboy and a peanut-girl
Like little Fauns began to caper:
His hair was all in tangled curl.
Her tawny legs were bare and taper;
And still the gathering larger grew.
And gave its pence and crowded nigher,
While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew
His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.
O heart of Nature, beating still
With throbs her vernal passion taught her, -
Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,
Or by the Arethusan water 1
67
The Wayfarer in New York
New forms may fold the speech, new lands
Arise within these ocean-portals,
But Music waves eternal wands, —
Enchantress of the souls of mortals !
So thought I, — but among us trod
A man in blue, with legal baton,
And scoffed the vagrant demigod,
And pushed him from the step I sat on.
Doubting I mused upon the cry,
"Great Pan is dead !" — and all the people
Went on their ways : — and clear and high
The quarter sounded from the steeple.
E. C. Stedman
New York in a Fog ^v> ^::> ^:> ^> ^iiy
'T^HE fog groped and felt its way along the water front.
-^ Then it crept up to the throat of the city, like a gray
hand, and strangled Broadway into an ominous quietness.
It tightened its grip, as the day grew older, leaving the
cross-streets from Union Square to the Battery clotted with
congested traffic. It brought on an untimely protest of
blinking street-lamps, as uncannily bewildering as the mid-
day cock-crowing of a solar eclipse. It caused the vague
and shadowy walls of sky-scrapers to blossom into countless
yellow window tiers, as close-packed as the scales of a snake.
Bells sounded from gloom-wrapt shipping along the saw-
tooth line of the river-slips, tolling the watches and falling
silent and tolling again, as they might have tolled in mid-
ocean, or on some lonely waten;\'ay that led to the utter-
most ends of the earth.
Now and then, out of the distance, a river-ferry or a car-
68
From the Battery to Trinity
float tug could be heard growling and whimpering for room,
as it wrangled over its right-of-way. Everything moved
slowly through the muffled streets. Carriages crept across
the sepulchral quietness with a strange and uncouth rever-
ence, like tourists through a catacomb. Surface cars, crawl-
ing funereally forward, felt their way with gong-strokes, as
blind men feel their way with sticktaps. An occasional
taxicab, swinging tentatively out of a side-street, slewed
and skidded in the greasy mud. Lonely drivers watched
from their seats, watched like sea captains from bridge-
ends when ice has invaded their sea lanes.
Under the gas-lamps, dulled to a reddish yellow, passed
a thin scattering of pedestrians. A touch of desolation
clung about each figure that groped its way through the
short-vistaed street, as though the thoroughfare it trod were
a lonely moraine and the figure itself the last man that
walked a ruin world. It was the worst fog that New York
had known for years; the city lay under it like a mummy
swathed in gray.
Yet the gloom seemed to crown it with a new wonder,
to endow it with a new dignity. That all too shallow
tongue of land that is lipped by the East and North rivers
took on strange and undreamt-of distances. It lay en-
gulfed in twilight mysteries, enriched with unlooked-for
possibilities. Its narrow acres of brick and stone and
asphalt became something unbounded and infinite, as
bewildering and wide as the open Atlantic. It seemed
to harbor fantastic potentialities. It seemed to release
the spirit of romance, as moonlight unfetters a lover's
lips.
Yet Lingg, the wireless operator of the Laminian, be-
came more and more alarmed at the opacity of this fog.
69
The Wayfarer in New York
He felt, as he burrowed mole-like across the mist-blanketed
city, that he had been a fool to leave the ship . . .
He hurried along the fog-wrapt canons, still haunted by
the impression of some unknown figure dogging his steps.
He felt, as night and the fog deepened together, that the
city was nothing more than a many-channelled river-bed,
and that he waded along its bottom, breathing a new ele-
ment, too thick for air, too ethereaHsed for water. He saw
streets that were new to him, streets where the misted
globes of electric lights became an undulating double row
of white tuHps. Then he stumbled into Broadway. But
it was a Broadway with the soft pedal on. Its roar of
sound was so muffled he scarcely knew it. Then he came
to a square where the scattered lamp-globes looked like
bubbles of gold caught in tree-branches. Under these
tree-branches he saw loungers on benches, mysterious and
motionless figures, like broken rows of statuary, sleeping
men in the final and casual attitudes of death. Above
these figures he could see wet maple-leaves, hanging as
still and lifeless as though they had been stencilled from
sheets of green copper. His eyes fell on floating street-
signs, blurs of colored electrics cut off from the invisible
walls which backed them. He caught glimpses of the
softened bulbs of automatic signs, like moving gold-fish
seen through frosted glass. Then he saw more lights,
serried lights, subdued into balloons of misty pearl. They
threaded the fafade of some gigantic hotel, like jewel-
strings about the throat of a barbaric woman. But he
could not remember the place. And again he floundered
on towards the water front, disquieted with vague and
foolish thoughts, as much oppressed by the orderly streets
as though he were escaping from some sea-worn harbor
70
From the Battery to Trinity
slum of vice and outlawry. He still wanted his cabin, as
a long-harried chipmunk wants its tree-hole.
Arthur Stringer in The Gun Runner
Copyright, iQog, by B. W. Dodge dr' Co.
P
The Red Box at Vesey Street ^^^ ^^^ *v>
lAST the Red Box at Vesey Street
Swing two strong tides of hurrying feet,
And up and down and all the day
Rises a sullen roar, to say
The Bowery has met Broadway.
And where the confluent current brawls
Stands, fair and dear and old, St. Paul's,
Through her grand window looking down
Upon the fever of the town;
Rearing her shrine of patriot pride
Above that hungry human-tide
Mad with the lust of sordid gain,
Wild for the things that God holds vain;
Blind, selfish, cruel — Stay there ! out
A man is turning from the rout,
And stops to drop a folded sheet
In the Red Box at Vesey Street.
On goes he to the money-mart,
A broker, shrewd and tricky-smart;
But in the space you saw him stand,
He reached and grasped a brother's hand:
And some poor bed-rid WTetch will find
Bed-life a little less unkind
For that man's stopping. They who pass
Under St. Paul's broad roseate glass
71
The Wayfarer in New York
Have but to reach their hands to gain
The pitiful world of prisoned pain.
The hospital's poor captive lies
Waiting the day with weary eyes,
Waiting the day, to hear again
News of the outer world of men,
Brought to him in a crumpled sheet
From the Red Box at Vesey Street.
For the Red Box at Vesey Street
Was made because men's hearts must beat;
Because the humblest kindly thought
May do what wealth has never bought.
That journal in your hand you hold
To you already has grown old, —
Stale, dull, a thing to throw away, —
Yet since the earliest gleam of day
Men in a score of hospitals
Have lain and watched the whitewashed walls;
Waiting the hour that brings more near
The Life so infinitely dear —
The Life of trouble, toil, and strife.
Hard, if you will — but Life, Life, Life !
Tell them, O friend ! that life is sweet
Through the Red Box at Vesey Street.
H. C. BUNNER
Copyright, iSg6, by Charles Scrihner^s Sons
The Exchanges ^^:> ""^^ '^^ ^^^^ ^v^
'T^HE Stock Exchange is the one usually visited by
-*- the country cousins in Gotham, who sometimes
come away with the impression that they have seen a
72
From the Battery to Trinity
lunatic asylum temporarily freed from the restraint of
the keepers. The method of bidding, with its suggestion
of insanity in the action, and cries of the bidders, seems
as necessary to the Stock Exchange as hammering and
noise to a boiler shop. It is not, however, so hysterical or
frenzied as it looks. Most of the cry is physical and has
for its aim the recognition of the crier as a bidder. To those
in the thick of the bidding it is often as matter-of-fact as
the loud announcement of the train ushers in the railway
stations, or the street cry of the newsboys or fruit hawkers.
Moreover (to shatter another delusion), the operators
down below on the floor are not the Wall Street capitalists
whose names are so familiar, and whose stock manipula-
tions are read about in newspapers. On the contrary, th?y
are merely the executants of orders, called ''floor-brokers."
Among them are "board members" of large firms, who
are looking to it that orders are properly filled; sub-
commission men, who work for other brokers and take
a slice of the commission; and ''room traders," who are
sometimes used as stalking horses by large firms to cover
up their transactions. They are all either bulls or bears,
and are intent upon lifting up or beating down the market,
as their interest may lie. They make a great noise and
transact a large volume of business; but the people for
whom they are doing business do not appear on the floor,
are not seen.
The Produce Exchange on Beaver Street and Broadway
does for all manner of produce substantially what the
Stock Exchange does for stocks. That is to say, its mem-
bers buy and sell, in a "pit," or depressed ring in the floor,
wheat, oats, barley, corn, feed, flour, tallow, oil, lard,
turpentine, resin — all manner of general produce. There
11
The Wayfarer in New York
is also a great deal of miscellaneous and contingent business
transacted within the building. Sales of cargoes, arrange-
ments for shipping, lighterage, insurance, may be speedily
made and concluded without leaving the exchange. Re-
ports from all sources are collected and bulletined, quota-
tions here and abroad are given, prospects of growing crops
with daily and weekly receipts in New York, and stock on
hand in London and elsewhere are announced. The
volume of business continues to grow each year at an as-
tounding rate. The exchange itself profits by this. It
started in small beginnings, under the blue sky, on the side-
walk. It was not formally known as the Produce Ex-
change until 1868, and it did not move into its present
massive building until 1884. Since then its membership
has increased to several thousands ; and its influence upon
trade and transportation has become most potent.
The Maritime Exchange is closely connected with the
Produce Exchange. Its business is to promote the maritime
interests of the city ; and those who do business on or with
the sea — agents, shippers, commission merchants, ware-
housemen, importers, brokers, marine underwriters, ship-
chandlers — are eligible for membership. The exchange
keeps records of the arrivals and departures of ships, their
movements about the world, and their sudden exits by
fire or storm. It also keeps tables of the imports and ex-
ports, regulates and reports upon navigation and light-
houses, and promotes favorable river and harbor legisla-
tion. The Customs House and the Post-Office, as well
as the newspapers, get much of the news about the come
and go of shipping from this source.
Akin to these exchanges are others dealing with the
special needs and wants of special industries. The Con-
74
From the Battery to Trinity
solidated Stock and Petroleum Exchange, among other
things, affords every facility and every information for the
sale and shipping of petroleum. Each year the sales there
run up to something over a billion barrels. The Cotton
Exchange on Beaver Street deals in everything connected
with the cotton industry and the marketing of the product.
The Builders' Exchange has to do v^^ith the buying and
selling of all kinds of building supplies, such as cement,
brick, stone, and the like; while the Metal Exchange on
Pearl Street, the Wool Exchange on West Broadway, the
Fruit Exchange on Park Place, the Brewers' Exchange on
East Fifteenth Street, The Silk Association, the Shoe and
Leather Exchange, all serve a purpose in promoting business
in those commodities. Then there is that old-time gather-
ing of jewelers on Maiden Lane about the Jewelers' Board
of Trade, with the pre-Revolutionary Chamber of Com-
merce now on Liberty Street, and a Fire Insurance Ex-
change on Nassau Street.
John. C. Van Dyke in The New New York
Old Trinity Churchyard ^^^ ^^^ <::> ^^^
nPHERE is no pleasanter spot in New York than the
-*- churchyard of old Trinity on a quiet Sunday morn-
ing in the summer. There are flowers and grasses,
the shade of graceful elms, fresh air, and the twittering
of birds — even the oriole and the robin still come back there
every year in spite of the aggressive sparrow — and there
is no end of companionship. It is a companionship which
I like, because it is open and free. Here every man, woman
and child, except the unquiet prowlers above ground,
presents to our eyes a card of granite or marble, gravely
telling his or her name, age and a few other particulars set
75
The Wayfarer in New York
forth, more or less elaborately — a quaint custom, but not
a bad one for the living to adopt, if they would be equally
frank about it.
Even in the days when the present church building was
new — more than fifty years ago by the calendar — I
found no more pleasant place in which to pass a half-hour
as a boy. It was a more unkempt place then than now,
and bluebirds and thrushes were more frequent visitors.
I found an endless pleasure in tracing the inscriptions on
the tombstones, and it was not long before I had familiar
acquaintances, heroes and heroines, in every corner. Huge
was my delight, too, when, with two or three companions,
we could escape the eye of old David Lyon, the sexton, and
hie down into the crypt beneath the chancel. There we
saw yawning mouths of vaults, revealing to our exploring
gaze bits of ancient coffins and forgotten mortality, and
we poked about these subterranean corridors with dusty
jackets and whispered words, finding its atmosphere of
mould and mystery a strange delight. For somehow the
unknown sleepers, they who seemed to have no means of
making themselves known — unless it was through the
musty tomes of Trinity's burial records — took strongest
hold upon our sympathies, to say nothing of our curiosity.
Everybody who passes old St. Paul's can read for him-
self the patriotism of General Montgomery, the civic
virtues of Thomas Addis Emmet and the eminence of
Dr. McNevin, for monument and shaft tell the story.
So all visitors to the churchyard of old Trinity easily learn
which are the tombstones of Alexander Hamilton, Captain
Lawrence, of the Chesapeake, or William Bradford, the
first Colonial printer, and where rest the bones of quiet
Robert Fulton, the inventor, or dashing Phil Kearney; but
76
From the Battery to Trinity-
there is no herald of the ordinary dead — of those who were
simply upright men and good women in their day — and
there could be none of the unknown dead who are said to
far outnumber the lucky minority, the front doors to whose
graves still stand and yet preserve their door plate, though
the latch-key is gone. ^ t. ,,
John F. Mines
In Old Trinity <:::> ^:> ^o ^^ <;>
A spare half-hour before closing time we gave to the
-^^' Stock Exchange, and it was quite enough, for some
one was short on something, and pandemonium reigned.
As we stood on the corner of Rector Street and Broadway,
hesitating whether to take surface or elevated cars, faint
strains of organ music from Trinity attracted us.
"Service or choir practice; let us go in a few moments,"
said Evan, to whom the organ is a voice that never fails to
draw.
We took seats far back, and lost ourselves among the
shadows. A special service was in progress, the music
half Gregorian, and the congregation was too scattered
to mar the feeling that we had slipped suddenly out of the
material world. The shadows of the sparrows outside
flitted upward on the stained glass windows, until it seemed
as if the great chords had broken free, and, taking form, were
trying to escape.
Now and then the door would open softly and unac-
customed figures slip in and linger in the open space behind
the pews. Aliens, newly landed and wandering about in
the vicinity of their water-front lodging-houses, music and
a church appealed to their loneliness. Some stood, heads
bowed, and some knelt in prayer and crossed themselves on
77
The Wayfarer in New York
leaving; one woman, lugging a great bundle tied in a blue
cloth, a baby on her arm and another clinging to her skirts,
put down her load, bedded the baby upon it, and began
to tell her beads.
The service ended, and the people scattered, but the
organist played on, and the boy choir regathered, but less
formally.
"What is it?" we asked of the verger, who was preparing
to close the doors.
"There will be a funeral of one of the oldest members of
the congregation to-morrow, and they are about to go
through the music of the office."
Suddenly a rich bass voice, strong in conviction, trum-
peted forth — 'T am the resurrection and the life !"
And only a stone's throw away jingled the money
market of the western world. The temple
and the table of the money changers keep
step as of old. Ah, wonderful New York !
AIabel Osgood Wright in
People of the Whirlpool
78
n
WITHIN HALF A MILE OF CITY HALL
NEW BUILDINGS
THE turrets leap higher and higher,
And the Httle old homes go down;
The workmen pound on the iron and steel —
The woodpeckers of the town.
Charles Hanson Towne
Copyright, igo8, by the B. W. Dodge Co.
II
WITHIN HALF A MILE OF CITY HALL
New York's Greatest Pageant ''^^ <:> <::>
TT was the civic procession in honor of the adoption of
-*- the Federal Constitution, of which all similar celebra-
tions since attempted have proved but feeble imitations.
The morning of the 23rd of July, 1878, was ushered
in by a federal salute of thirteen guns from the ship Hamil-
ton, moored at the Bowling Green. This was the signal
for the procession to form. Having been arranged in
proper order, the whole assemblage was wheeled into
column, and marched down Broadway and Whitehall to
Great Dock Street; thence through Hanover Square,
Great Queen and Chatham Streets to the Bowery; and
thence to ''Bayard's Farm," where the procession halted
and was again wheeled into line. The different divisions
of it were conducted to the tents in which tables had been
prepared. Here they were honored with the company
of the president and members of the Continental Congress,
then sitting in this city, and others of distinction. . . .
Some features of the procession, which my memory re-
tains, may prove sufficiently interesting to reward your
patience. . . .
First, there appeared no less renowned a personage than
Christopher Columbus, represented on this occasion by
a certain Captain Moore, who was selected for the part
G 81
The Wayfarer in New York
from the striking resemblance he bore to the portraits of
the Great Navigator. He was followed by those eminent
experimental farmers, Nicolas Crueger and John Watts:
the former very skilfully conducting a plough upon wheels,
drawn by several fine yokes of oxen; the latter guiding
with equal adroitness a toothless harrow, drawn — not the
teeth, but the harrow — by one yoke of oxen and a pair
of horses. Next in my recollection, though not perhaps
in the order of march, was borne on horseback, by Capt.
Anthony Walton White, a golden eagle, bearing a shield
on its breast emblazoned with the arms of the United States.
This was the banner of the Society of Cincinnati, the mem-
bers of which followed in their well-sewed Revolutionary
regimentals.
Then came the members of the several professions and
trades, with their appropriate ensigns and badges; the
workmen mounted upon lofty and capacious stages erected
upon wheel-carriages, each drawn by several pairs of horses.
The men upon these elevated machines worked — or
seemed to work — at their respective trades. The Coopers
were setting up and hooping a huge cask, emblematical
of the Constitution. The Carpenters were in the act of
erecting the eleventh column, inscribed ''New York,"
of a pediment already supported by ten representing the
States that had ratified the Constitution, and were at work
on two others lying prostrate, emblematical of the two
States who hesitated to adopt it. The Upholsterers were
preparing the chair of state for the first President. The
Coachmakers were building him a superb chariot. The
Ship -Carpenters were finishing models of vessels for the
U. S. Navy; the Blockmakers were boring pumps, turning
blocks and fitting sheaves for them ; the Ropemakers were
82
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
laying cables; the Blacksmiths were forging anchors; the
Sail-makers and Riggers were at work, upon sails and
rigging; the Mathematical-histrument- Makers upon quad-
rants and compasses, all for the "Federal Fleet." The
Cutlers were burnishing swords, the Lacemakers were
making epaulettes and the Tailors uniforms, for both army
and navy — so deeply at that early day was the public
mind impressed with the necessity of both for the defense
of the country, the assertion of her territorial and maritime
rights; and the maintenance of the national honor. The
Drum-Manufacturers and other Musical-Instrument-Makers
were also employed with a view to the public service; while
the Printers were striking off and distributing patriotic
songs, and a programme of the ceremony which has been
of material use in refreshing my memory in regard to it.
The most interesting, as well as the most conspicuous
object in the procession was undoubtedly the ** Federal
Ship" — the miniature presentment of a two-and-thirty
gun frigate, about thirty feet keel and ten beam, with every-
thing complete and in proportion in her hull, rigging, sails
and armament. She was manned by about forty seamen
and marines, besides the usual complement of ofiScers,
The veteran commander, James Nicholson, of Revolu-
tionary memory, was her commander, and she bore the
same broad pennant at the main which had floated victori-
ously over his head upon the ocean. But although once
more on board ship, the old commodore was not exactly
in his element, as his ship was navigated more by means
of wheels and several pairs of stout horses than by wind
and sails. He nevertheless displayed great seamanship
in her management. When she had reached the roadstead
abreast of the encampment, she took in sail and anchored in
83
The Wayfarer in New York
close order with the rest of the procession ; the officers off
duty going on shore to dine, while ample messes were sent
to those on board, and for the rest of the crew.
At 4 P.M., she again made the signal for unmooring, by
another salute of thirteen guns, and shortly after got under
way with her convoy. The manner in which she made her
passage through the straits of Bayard's Lane was highly
interesting and satisfactory, being obliged to run under
her fore-tops'l in a squall, and afterwards to heave to, to
reef them all before she ventured to set her courses and bear
up for the Broadway channel. Her subsequent manoeuvres
were not un'attended with peril — but by the good conduct
of her officers and men, and the skill of Mat Daniels, the
pilot, she arrived in safety at her former moorings, amid
the acclamations of thousands, who, by repeated cheers,
testified their approbation of the gallant old commodore
and his crew in weathering the storm and bringing the
"Federal Ship" safely into port. In the evening there was
a general illumination; with a display of fireworks in the
Bowling Green, under the direction of Colonel Bauman,
poet-master of the city, and commandant of artillery, whose
constitutional irascibility was exceedingly provoked by
the moon, which shone with pertinacious brilliance, as
if in mockery of his feebler lights.
William Alexander Duer in
an Address to the St. Nicholas Society
T
Spring in Town '^^:> ^=^ -^^^ •^^^ •^^^
^HE country ever has a lagging Spring,
Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses; showers and sunshine bring.
Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er earth;
84
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
To put their foliage out, the woods are slack,
And one by one the singing birds come back.
Within the city's bounds the time of flowers
Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day
Such as full often, for a few bright hours,
Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May
Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom —
And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom.
For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then
Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June,
That overhung with blossoms, through its glen,
Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon.
And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers
Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours.
From Spring in Town by William Cullen Bryant
As a Young Reporter Sees New York ^^^ ^^>
T^OWN along the East River water front the big,
^~^ brave ships from far-away foreign ports rest at
ease, with their bowsprits slouching out half way across
South Street. Quaint figure-heads are on their bows, and
on their sterns names still more quaint and full of soft
vowels which mean something in some part of the seven
seas; brigs from the West Indies and barks from South
Africa; Nova Scotia schooners and full-rigged clipper
ships from Calcutta and from San Francisco by way of
the Horn.
Here the young reporter liked to prowl about when out on
a weather story, looking at the dififerent foreign flags and at
the odd foreign cargoes unloading in strangely-wrought ship-
ping boxes which smelled of spices, and wondering about the
8S
The Wayfarer in New York
voyage over and about the private history of the bare-footed,
underfed sailors who made it. The stevedores' derricks
puffed and creaked, and far overhead the cars on the bridge
rumbled on, but the big ships seemed calm and patient,
and full of mystery, as if they knew too many wondrous
things to be impressed by anything in America. But all
this had nothing to do with the weather story, or how the
fog was affecting the shipping, or how much behind their
schedule the ferry-boats were running, or whether (by
good fortune) there had been any collisions in the river.
That was what he was down there for.
Then, too, he used to have some good times when his
assignment took him over into what used to be Greenwich ;
along old, crooked, narrow, village-like streets running all
sorts of directions and crossing each other where they had
no right to; where the shops and people and the whole
atmosphere still seemed removed and village-Hke. He had
a lot of fun looking out for old houses with lovable door-
ways and fanlights and knockers, and sometimes good white
Greek columns. And then, up along East Broadway,
which was once so fashionable and is now so forlorn, with
dirty cloakmakers in the spacious drawing-rooms and
signs in Hebrew characters in the windows. He used to
gaze at them as he walked by and dream about the old
days of early century hospitality there ; the queer clothes
the women wore and the strong punch the men drank, and
the stilted conversation they both liked, instead of planning
how to work up his story, and then with a shock would
discover that he had passed the house where he was to
push in and ask a woman if it was true that her husband
had run away with another man's wife; and the worst of
it was that they generally talked about it.
86
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
Not that all his assignments were disagreeable. There
was the bright, windy day he was sent down to the proving-
grounds on Sandy Hook to write about the new disappear-
ing gun-carriage (which covered him and the rest of the
party with yellow powder-dust), and he lunched with the
Secretary of the Navy, who was very jolly and gave
him a half-column interview. There was Izizim, the
pipe-maker, on Third Avenue, and the Frenchman on
Twenty -Third Street, who taught skirt-dancing; and there
was his good friend, Garri-Boulu, the old Hindoo sailor, who
had landed on one of the big Calcutta ships, suflfering with
beriberi, and was now slowly dying in the Presbyterian
Hospital because he wouldn't lose caste by eating meat,
and was so polite that he cried for fear he was giving the
young doctors too much trouble. It took him into odd
places, this news-gathering, and made him meet queer
people, and it was a fascinating life for all its disagreeable-
ness, and it was never monotonous, for it was never alike
two days in succession. It was full of contrasts — almost
dramatic contrasts, sometimes. One afternoon he was
sent to cover a convention of spiritualists who wore their
hair long; that evening, a meeting of the Association of
Liquor Dealers, who had huge black mustaches; and the
next day he was one of a squad of men under an old ex-
perienced reporter up across the Harlem River at work on
a murder "mystery," smoking cigars with Central Office
detectives and listening to the afternoon-paper men, who,
in lieu of real news, made up theories for one edition which
they promptly tore down in the next. That evening found
him within the sombre walls of the New York Foundling
Hospital up on Lexington Avenue, asking questions of
soft-voiced sisters and talking with wise young doctors
87
The Wayfarer in New York
about an epidemic of measles which was killing off the
babies.
He liked all this. He thought it was because he was
a sociologist; but it was because he was a boy. It gave
him a thrill to go down into a cellar after murder-clews with
a detective, just as it would any other full-blooded male.
He was becoming good friends with some of these sleuths
— most of whom, by the way, were not at all sleuth -like in
appearance, and went about their day's work in very much
the same matter-of-fact way as reporters and the rest of
the town.
Jesse L. Williams
Copyright, i8gg, by Charles Scrihner^s Sons
The Poets of Printing House Square ''^> -^si^
A S jolly a lot of good fellows, I know,
•^-^ As you'll meet in this journey of Hfe,
For their hearts are in tune and they sing as they go.
In the midst of humanity's strife.
And the day may be sunny or sodden and gray,
And the world may be blooming or bare,
The weary will always be cheered by a lay
From the poets of Printing House Square.
When the summer time comes with its mantle of green.
And the fountain is merry with song,
Their rhymes flow as gayly and gently, I ween,
As the day of the summer is long.
Forgetful of winter's privation and cold.
They bathe in the balm of the air,
And the heart gathers hope from the song that is sold
By the poet of Printing House Square.
88
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
In the bleak winter days when the fountain is still,
And the skies are forbidding and gray,
He will sing of the summer to settle a bill,
And pay for his coal with a lay.
And the warmth and the music return ; — and the glow
And the sheen of the summer are there.
No winter can conquer the spirit, I know.
Of the poet of Printing House Square.
Some day when the rhyme of the seasons is done,
And the rush of the riot is past —
When the marvellous era of rest is begun,
And our problems are finished at last;
When our songs are all sung, and our debts are all paid
And the heart slips its anchor of care,
I only ask then that my name be arrayed
With the poets of Printing House Square.
Albert Bigelow Paine
By permission of the Author
A Broadway Pageant ''^^ '^^y ^^ry -'si.'
/^VER the Western sea hither from Niphon come,
^^ Courteous, the swart-cheek'd two-sworded envoys.
Leaning back in their open barouches, bare-headed, im-
passive.
Ride to-day through Manhattan.
* * 4c iic 4: * 9fc
When million-footed Manhattan unpent descends to her
pavements.
When the thunder-cracking guns arouse me with the proud
roar I love,
89
The Wayfarer in New York
When the round-mouth'd guns out of the smoke and smell
I love spit their salutes,
WHien the fire-flashing guns have fully alerted me, and
heaven-clouds canopy my city with a delicate thin haze,
When gorgeous the countless straight stems, the forests at
the wharves, thicken with colors.
When every ship richly drest carries her flag at the peak.
When pennants trail and street-festoons hang from the
windows,
When Broadway is entirely given up to foot-passengers
and foot-standers, when the mass is densest,
When the facades of the houses are alive with people, when
eyes gaze riveted tens of thousands at a time.
When the guests from the islands advance, when the pageant
moves forward visible.
When the summons is made, when the answer that waited
thousands of years answers,
I too arising, answering, descend to the pavements, merge
with the crowd, and gaze with them.
Walt Whitman
The Tombs ^^^^ ^^^^ -^vi*- -^o -<;> -<:::>
T TRIED hard when in New York to avoid both the gaols
•*- and the graveyards. To the latter I was fortunately
able to give the widest of berths; but a darker fate
befell me in the matter of the prisons. The obliging
gentleman who introduced me some weeks since to the
police magistrate at Jefferson-market Court insisted that,
after having passed a morning with Justice, I should make
a regular criminal day of it, and see the celebrated Prison
of the Tombs. Not to be behindhand in hospitality, his
worship the police justice himself pressingly urged me,
90
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
before I went down town, to have a peep at his own partic-
ular gaol in the Jefferson-market house. For a while I
feebly resisted these invitations; but when an American
has made up his mind to "put" a stranger "through,"
he means business, and is not to be deterred from carrying
out his programme to the very letter. So, as an ante-
chamber to the Tombs, I took a cursory view of the Jef-
ferson-market Gaol, which occupies a very tall tower of
brick and stone in the Italian Gothic style of architecture.
The cells are airy, and not by any means cheerless; the
inmates being permitted to read the newspapers and to
smoke. But I should be discounting that which I have
to say concerning American prison discipline were I to
say more on the reading and smoking heads in connection
with the Jefferson-market Gaol. The detenus were chiefly
the "drunk and incapables" and the "drunk and dis-
orderlies," who had been committed for short terms in
default of payment of their five and ten dollar fines. Some
of them were not placed in the cells at all ; but were locked
up in association in a large room, down each side of which
ran a single tier of open wooden cribs or bunks furnished
with a blanket and a coverlet, and where, chatting together
quite gaily, they did not seem one whit more uncomfortable
than the steerage passengers whom I had seen on board
of the good ship Scythia.
Some of the female prisoners were doing "chores," or
light house-work, about the gaol, which was altogether
very clean and comfortable-looking, and the strangest
feature about which to me was that it was provided with
a lift or elevator passing from tier to tier of cells. I mention
this structural improvement for the benefit of the architects
and surveyors of her Majesty's gaols in Great Britain.
91
The Wayfarer in New York
There has been dwelHng on my mind a paragraph which
I read lately in a New York paper concerning a gentleman
who was suspected of dealing in counterfeit trade dollars.
The paragraph recited that the gentleman "skipped the
town to avoid further judicial complications." Right
merrily did I "skip" Jefferson-market Gaol; and then
I skipped — literally so — up an iron staircase some thirty
feet high, and into Sixth avenue, and so into one of the
Elevated Railroad cars, which, in a few minutes, deposited
me on a point close to Broadway, crossing which I found
myself at the distance of a few "blocks" from my destina-
tion. The Tombs — rarely has so appropriate a name
been bestowed on a prison — is a really remarkable and
grandiose specimen of Egyptian architecture; and but
for the unfortunate position of the site it would be the most
imposing public building in New York. The structure
occupies an entire block or insula, as an ancient Roman
district surveyor would phrase it, bounded by Centre Street
on the east. Elm Street on the West, Leonard Street on the
South, and Franklin Street on the north; and it is thus in
the very heart of the lower or business quarter of the Island
of Manhattan, and within a few minutes' walk of that
astonishing Wall Street, in the purlieus of which so many
speculative individuals are so persistently and so con-
tinuously qualifying themselves for an ultimate residence
in this grim palace of the felonious Pharaohs and Ptolemies.
The really striking proportions of the building are
dwarfed into comparative insignificance by its unfortunate
structural disposition, which is in a hollow so deep that
the coping of the massive wards of the prison are scarcely
above the level of the adjacent Broadway. The site of
the Tombs was formerly occupied by a piece of water
92
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
known as the Collect pond, which was connected with the
North or Hudson River by a swampy strip, through which
ran a rivulet parallel with the existing Canal Street. The
Collect pond was filled up in the year 1836; and within
the two years following, the Tombs Prison was built on
the reclaimed land. The marshy soil was ill calculated
to support the weight of an edifice so colossal; and al-
though the foundations were laid much deeper than is
customary, some parts of the walls settled to such an extent
that the gravest apprehensions were for a time felt for the
safety of the entire building. Possibly, if the clerks and
warders could have been extricated in time, no great harm
would have been done had the ponderous walls settled
together, until the Tombs and all the rogues within it had
been comfortably embogued in the swampy bosom of the
bygone Collect pond. As it is, the dismal fortress has stood
for a third of a century without any material change, and
is considered perfectly safe. Who gave it the name of
"Tombs" I am unable to say, since it is legally the City
Prison — The Gaol of Newgate, substantially — of New
York- but the criminal stronghold earned its appellation,
I should say, from its general funereal appearance and its
early reputation as a damp and unhealthy place. Its
lugubrious aspect, it should seem, ought to have made the
Tombs a terror to evil-doers; but such, I fear, has not been
the case. The prison is generally full; and the crop of
murderers is, in particular, steady and abundant.
Externally the building is entirely of granite, and appears
to be of only one story, the windows being carried from
a point about two yards above the ground up to beneath
the cornice. The main entrance is in, or, in Transatlantic
parlance, "on," Centre Street, and is reached by a flight
93
The Wayfarer in New York
of wide, dark stone steps, through a spacious portico sup-
ported by four ponderous columns. The external walls
of the remaining three sides are more or less broken up by
columns and secondary doors of entrance, this infusing
some degree of variety into the oppressive monotony of
the pile, the remembrance of which hangs heavily upon you
afterwards, like a nightmare on your soul. I was ac-
companied on my visit to this abode of misery by a gentle-
man who had been formerly Mayor of New York; and
a word from him acted as an "open sesame" to the most
recondite penetralia of the prison. The chief warder,
who took us in charge, was a "character." He had been
a custodian of the Tombs for more than a quarter of
a century — a wonderfully long spell for an office-holder
in America — and he was, if I mistake not, an Irishman.
At least he was endowed with a brogue as rich and melodious
as though he had only left the county Cork the day before
yesterday. He was a wag, too; but in every line of his
honest countenance there beamed one unmistakable and
prevailing expression — that of benevolent pity. . . .
Internally, the Tombs is rather a series of prisons than
a single structure. The cells rise in tiers one above the
other, with a separate corridor for each tier. There is a
grating before each cell, between the bars of which the
visitor can converse with the prisoner within. Throughout
the day the inner, or wooden, door of the cell is left
more than half open. Beyond the circumstance that the
window — which admits plenty of light — is barred, and
is high up in an embrasure of the wall, there need be
nothing whatever dungeon-like about the cell in the Tombs.
The prison furniture is necessarily scanty in quantity and
simple in quality; but the prisoner more or less blessed
94
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
by affluence is at liberty to supplement the equipment of
his apartment by any such fittings and decorations as the
length of his purse and the refinement of his aesthetic
taste may lead him to adopt. . . .
Finally the chief warder took us to his garden,
where there was a vine trained against the wall, with a
pigeon-cote amply stocked, and a pretty little pond bordered
by turf and flowers. The chief spoke in terms of humorous
regret about the disappearance of "a. grand old frog," erst
the delight and ornament of the Tombs garden, but who,
in the course of last fall, had eloped to realms unknown.
Where is that frog now? Croaks he in the Great Dismal
Swamp in Virginia — which, by the way, is not by any
means a dismal region — or is he going about the States,
emulating the Frog Opera, and singing counter-tenor in
the Pollywog Chorus? I shook hands with the benevolent
chief warder and bade him farewell. To my great joy
I found that nothing had turned up against me while I had
been in the Tombs. The authorities had no warrant for my
detention; and by two o'clock in the afternoon I was stand-
ing in Centre Street as free as that ''grand old frog" who,
for reasons unknown, had shown the Tombs a clean pair
of heels. I do not mean to go there again if I can help it.
George A. Sala
From America Revisited. London, 1882
In City Hall Park <^ ^::^ ^v> --Qy -^Ci^
T_JE stands, a simple soldier, there,
^ Who deemed one life too small a fee
For him to give in that great strife
That made his country free.
95
The Wayfarer in New York
And it is free ! High o'er the din •
And turmoil of the city's ways,
Lo ! Justice holds her sword and scales
Above the land she sways.
The commerce of a giant world
Moves at his feet. Within his reach
The tongues of nations meet; the air
Is vibrant with their speech.
He sees where science delves and wrests
The rock ribs of the earth apart,
And fills, with teeming floods of life,
The arteries of her heart.
In sober garb and quiet mien
He stands; from out the western skies,
Athwart the calmness of his face,
The peaceful sunshine lies.
And while our land endures to reap
His sowing, memory shall not fail
Of him who died that she might live, —
The patriot, Nathan Hale !
IMary Edith Buhler
A New York City Character ^<v> -<Ciy ^^
TT'S almost two years now since Mr. Keese (let's call
-■- him Marty Keese ; Mayors, Borough Presidents —
even President Lincoln on one ever-to-be-remembered
Sunday — called him Marty, and he liked the name) —
it's tw'o years since Marty explained for the first time to
an interviewer from The Sun why he found it more difficult
96
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
each day to climb the iron spiral staircase that twists up
through our beautiful City Hall to the apartments just
under the cupola that Marty had occupied ever since he
became custodian of the City Hall almost thirty years ago.
" I used to watch almost every rivet," Marty said then,
" as they drove them into these skyscrapers around City
Hall Park, and the higher the skyscrapers went the prouder
I was of Manhattan" — and he indicated with a gaunt
hand Newspaper Row and the great gray pile that rises
sixteen stories on the triangular plot formed by Nassau and
Beekman streets and Park Row where, wdien ^larty first
rode pigs in the park, stood the old Brick Church with its
sloping banks of turf and the tiny graveyard.
*'I was proud of the high buildings when they first began,
as all New York was proud of them, but now when I get
old enough to have sense, I'm sorry they ever put them up.
It was prettier years ago when the little buildings rimmed my
square, buildings that were dwarfs compared even to that."
He indicated the old reddish brown bank building on
the southwest corner of Broadway and Park Place — the
building on the second floor of which Boss Tweed had his
offices in the days before Marty Keese took an active part
in the beginning of Boss Tweed's downfall — for it was
Deputy Sheriff Marty Keese, you remember, who on
December i6, 1871, took a stage up to the Metropolitan
Hotel in Broadway at Prince Street and climbed up to
Suite 114-118 and arrested the very bad boss.
"Before they built the skyscrapers," Marty went on,
"the light and air could get in at the park trees, and that's
why I felt so much friskier then — because the air was
better. Before the tall buildings made the square so stufify
I could run up here two or three steps at a time."
H 97
The Wayfarer In New York
Marty hadn't been able to do much active work smce
fresh "colds" and advancing years caused him steadily
to lose his fight against the asthma that made him "stop
to cough and to take a rest when only half-way up" the
spiral staircase, but for almost threescore and ten years
before that Marty and the activities of Manhattan were one.
As a fireman his record began with the days when as
a little tad he "ran" with the 23 Engine "gang" when
23 Engine was quartered in what was then called Anthony
Street and is now Worth Street. As a youth he was fore-
man of Matthew Brennan Hose Company 60, about the
time that Tweed was foreman of Big Six; and while Tweed
was dropping lower in the sight of the old volunteer firemen
Marty was growing higher, until on a proud day he became
president of the Volunteer Firemen of New York.
^^ ^* ^^ ^* ^* ^j* ^^
He enlisted in Ellsworth's Zouaves in 1861 and saw his
first real fighting at Bull Run, where he was wounded.
He returned to New York just in time to take his place in
the ranks of the soldiers and firemen that saw the vicious
fighting which marked the draft riots that began with the
week of Monday, July 13, 1863. Besides his fighting on
Southern battlefields Marty did valiant work in another
way just before "Ellsworth's Pet Lambs" marched away
in their enviable gray jackets and the wide trousers trimmed
with red braid, for it was Firemen Marty Keese, A. F.
Ockershausen, Dave Milliken, Zophar Mills, John Decker
and John Dix that raised most of the $30,000 that was
subscribed for the Zouaves in a few days.
If you asked Marty about Civil War days he would begin
by telling you of the fire in Willard's Hotel, Washington,
which the Zouaves — then quartered in the Capitol build-
98
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
ing — put out, for fires and fire fighting always seemed of
first importance to Marty — battles came second. Then
he would show you in his scrapbook a clipping of which
he was proudest — from a New York paper of May 13,
1861:
There were no ladders to get on to the building, which is
five or six stories high, but there was a lightning rod, in the
court-yard. . . . Martin J. Keese, formerly of Matthew T.
Brennan Hose Company No, 60, climbed up the lightning rod
and was the first on the roof.
In Marty Keese's New York you were elected Mayor
or Comptroller or City Chamberlain or Sheriff or what
not because you were prominent as a fireman. Marty
didn't aspire perhaps to offices quite so high as these, but
it was because he was a good fireman that Sheriff Matt
Brennan took Marty into his office, and he served also
under William E. Connor. It was while Marty was a
deputy under Brennan that he arrested Tweed, and when
Slippery Dick was arrested the following month he locked
himself in for days with Slippery Dick in his apartments
in the New York Hotel in Broadway near Waverly Place.
Early in 1881 Marty was appointed custodian of the City
Hall, and he had held the job ever since, whether Tam-
many did or did not hold sway.
His life was a sort of connecting link between the New
York that was a sort of overgrown village and the New
York that is a world metropolis. He wasn't cynical about
the New York we know best, but as you sat with Marty in
the cool shadows of the City Hall lobby he would tell you
stories by the hour about a New York that was much finer
to him. That was ''once upon a time," when Manhattan
was a fairyland ; for, as Marty said, the sun shone brighter
99
The Wayfarer in New York
then because it was younger, and the stars were cleaner
and new washed at night and the Battery was the most
beautiful park in America, where all the little tads were
taken to roll on the grass on Sundays or to gaze with wide
eyes out over a dancing bay that was misty with the trem-
ulous clouds of canvas on all the clipper ships from all
the world.
By permission of the New York Sun
The Bowery ^^^^ii.' -^^ ■'^^^ -^^^ •^v^ -^^i^y
' I ^HE Fifth Avenue of the East Side is the Bowery.
-■- Everyone knows the Bowe^ because for years
the magazine writer and illustrators have been making
copy out of it. It has been regarded by some as the
freak street of the town — the place where one goes to
laugh at the absurd and the queer, or to get sociological
statistics in exaggerated form. Society used to go there,
and to its tributary streets, some years ago, on slumming
expeditions. It does so still, and comes back to its uptown
home better satisfied, perhaps, with its own quarters.
Settlement workers and Charity Organization people go
there, too; and some of them stay there to help better the
social conditions. Besides these there are scores of the
morbidly curious who visit the street seeking they know
not what, and gaining only a dismal impression. All told,
there are many different impressions brought up from the
Bowery and its runways by different people. . . . All
classes are there — tradespeople, clerks, mechanics,
truckmen, longshoremen, sailors, janitors, politicians,
peddlers, pawnbrokers, old-clothes men, with shop girls,
sewing-women, piece workers, concert-hall singers, chorus
girls — and all nationalities. It is one of the most cosmo-
100
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
politan streets in New York. The Italians come into it
from Elizabeth Street, the Chinese from Pell and Doyers
streets, the Germans from beyond Houston Street, the
Hungarians from Second Avenue, and the Jews from almost
everywhere. Every street coming up from the East River
may bring in a separate tale. Taken with a liberal sprin-
kling of Russians, Poles, Rumanians, Armenians, Irish, and
native Americans from the west, north and south, they make
a much-mixed assemblage. But there is no great variety
of hue in it. The prevailing dress is rather somber, as
well as frayed or shiny with wear. Occasionally a butter-
fly from the theater sails by; but the Bowery is not Fifth
Avenue, nor even Mott Street, in color-gayety. Some-
times one is disposed to think it a sad street.
In the theaters the prevailing language corresponds to
the supporting constituency. The old Bowery Theater
that once housed traditions of the English stage with the
elder Booth, Edwin Forrest, and Charlotte Cushman, still
stands to-day, but it now belongs more to the Hebrew than
to the American, and performances are given there in Ger-
man or Yiddish oftener than in English. At the side of
it is the popular Atlantic Gardens, where vaudeville, music,
beer, and the German language are largely provided each
night. Farther up town is the Irving Place Theater, once
more devoted to Germans; and as high up on Madison
Avenue as Fifty-Eighth Street there is still another German
theater. The language seems to prevail on the East Side.
Not but what there are other tongues. The Italians
crowd into the Theatro Italiano on the Bowery, as the
Chinese into the queer little theater on Doyers Street or
the Irish into Miner's; but there is always someone at
your elbow who speaks German, or some kindred dialect.
lOI
The Wayfarer in New York
In other quarters of the city there are colonies where one
hears only Syrian, Greek, Russian, Rumanian, Hungarian ;
but on the Bowery, though all nationalities meet and talk
each its own language, there is, aside from English, a pre-
ponderance of German and Yiddish.
J. C. Van Dyke in The New New York
The Great Man of the Quarter ^^^ ^v:> <:^
' I ''HE doctor wore the only silk hat in the Quarter
-■- — an alien, supercilious high hat that coolly as-
serted the superiority of the head under it as it bobbed
along. It was rusty and rufHed, antiquated as a stove-
pipe; but it was no less important to the influence of his
words than his degree from the Faculte de Medicine de
Constantinople and the fame of his skill. It was a silent-
sly declaration — intent of distinguished position — an in-
exhaustible inspiration to dignity in a squalid environment,
and always it brought salaams from right and left, and a
clear way. For the pristine gloss of it, and for the militant
manner of superiority that accompanied its wearing, the
simple tenement-dwellers of lower Washington Street —
which is the neighborhood of the great soap factory, and
the hive of expatriated Syrians — accounted the doctor
equal with MacNamarra of the corner saloon, who wore
his only on Tuesdays, when the Board of Aldermen met,
and on certain mysterious occasions — such as when the
Irish have sprigs of green on their coat lapels. This was
important to Nageeb Fiani, the dreamer, who had a pastry-
cook for a partner, and kept a little shop just where the
long shadow of the soap-factory chimney reaches at two
o'clock of a midsummer afternoon. The people knew for
themselves that there was no greater musician than he
102
Within Half a Mile of City Hall
from Rector Street to the Battery and in all the colonies
of the Quarter; but the Doctor Effendi said that there was
none greater in all Syria.
When the spirit of revolution stalked abroad — as may
be set down another time — the Minister from Turkey
came of a direful whim to the Quarter. To the doctor,
as the most important of the Sultan's Syrian subjects in
Washington Street, Hadji, servant to the Consul General,
first gave notification of his coming. The Important One,
having artfully concealed the chagrin for which, as he knew,
the practised Hadji was keenly spying, dispatched Nageeb,
the intelligent, Abo-Samara's little son, to inform the
Archimandrite and the rich men of the Quarter, and put
a flea in his ear, no more to give speed to the message than
to impress the Consul's servant with his royal appreciation
of the great honor. Then he sent Hadji off to his master
to say that the devoted subjects of His Benign Majesty,
the Sultan — to whom might God, their God, give every
good and perfect gift, as it is written — alien from his rule
through hard necessity, but ever mindful of their heritage,
his service, would as little children, kiss the hand of him
whom God had blessed with the high favor of the ruler of
precious name.
Norman Duncan in The Soul of the Street
Copyright, igoo. By permission of Doubleday, Page, &" Co.
Chinatown -^^ -^^^ ^^^^ <^ ^^^ '^^^
JUST turn to your right from Chatham Square,
and — there you are ! Chinatown is a different
world; the very silence of it has a foreign sound to one
coming out of the boiler factory of Chatham Square.
In Chinatown the citizens move tacitly on felt-soled shoes.
103
The Wayfarer in New York
And they have a foreign way of walking in the streets,
which are almost as narrow as the narrow sidewalks, and
go with such crooks and turns that one of them — Pell
Street — describes a semicircle, and, with true Oriental
politeness, eventually leads you right back to the street you
just left.
In Chinatown you feel something sinister in the stealthy
tread and prowling manner of these Celestial immigrants.
Harmless soever as they may be, they suggest melodramas
of opium dens and highbinders. You happen on them
in dark hallways, or find them looking at you from strange
crannies of ramshackle structures like night -blooming felines.
Chinatown is truly a separate town, for though it has a
population of hardly more than a thousand, there are seven
times as many Chinese engaged in laundry and other
tasks in other parts of New York, and there are colonies
of pigtailed farmers out on Long Island, to whom China-
town is a Mecca. The town's private affairs are governed
by a committee of twelve prominent Chinese merchants
and an annually elected "Mayor." The business of the
municipality is partly drawn from curious sightseers,
but largely from native patrons; the shops are de-
voted to Celestial foodstuffs, pottery, jewelry, fab-
rics and laundry supplies. The tourists who can-
not read the multicolored banners that hang
out for signs can read only too well the
shop-window allurements of porcelains,
ivories, silks, fans, screens and idols.
Rupert Hughes
in The Real New York.
Copyright, 1904. By permission
of the Author
104
Ill
GREENWICH AND CHELSEA VILLAGES
Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, un-
ruly, musical, self-sufl&cient.
I see that the word of my city is that word from of old.
Walt Whitman
Ill
GREENWICH AND CHELSEA VILLAGES
Lispenard's Meadow ^^> ^^^ ^^ ^^
" TN going from the city to our office (in Greenwich) in
■'- 1808 and 1809," John Randel writes, under date of
April 6, 1864, "I generally crossed a ditch cut through
Lispenard's salt meadow (now a culvert under Canal
Street) on a plank laid across it for a crossing-place about
midway between a stone bridge on Broadway with a narrow
embankment at each end connecting it with the upland,
and an excavation then being made at, and said to be for,
the foundation of the present St. John's Church on Varick
Street. From this crossing-place I followed a well-beaten
path leading from the city to the then village of Greenwich,
passing over open and partly fenced lots and fields, not
at that time under cultivation, and remote from any dwelling-
house now remembered by me except Colonel Aaron Burr's
former country-seat, on elevated ground, called Richmond
Hill, which was about one hundred or one hundred and
fifty yards west of this path, and was then occupied as a place
of refreshment for gentlemen taking a drive from the city.
Its site is now in Charlton Street, between Varick and
Macdougal Streets. I continued along this main path
to a branch path diverging from it to the east, south of
Manetta water (now Minetta Street), which branch path I
followed to Herring Street (now Bleecker Street), passing
107
The Wayfarer in New York
on my way there, from about two hundred to two hundred
and fifty yards west, the country residence of Colonel
Richard Varick, on elevated ground east of Manetta
water, called 'Tusculum,' the site of which is now on
Varick Place, on Sullivan Street, between Bleecker and
Houston streets. On Broadway, north of Lispenard's
salt meadow, now Canal Street, to Sailor's Snug Harbor,
a handsome brick building called by that name, erected
on elevated ground near the bend in Broadway near the
present Tenth Street, and formerly the residence of Captain
Randall; . . . and from the Bowery road westward to
Manetta water, there were only a few scattered buildings,
except country residences which were built back from
Broadway with court-yards and lawns of trees and shrubs
in front of them,'*
John Randel, Jr.
The Plague which Built Greenv\^ich, 1822 <^ ^^^
TT had been a hideous day for New York. From early
-■- morning until long after dark had set in, the streets
had been filled with frightened, disordered crowds. The
city was again stricken with the old, inevitable, ever-
recurring scourge of yellow fever, and the people had
lost their heads. In every house, in every office and shop,
there was hasty packing, mad confusion, and wild flight.
It was only a question of getting out of town as best one
might. Wagons and carts creaked and rumbled and rattled
through every street, piled high with household chattels,
up-headed in blind haste. Women rode on the swaying
loads, or walked beside with the smaller children in their
arms. Men bore heavy burdens, and children helped
according to their strength. There was only one idea, and
108
Greenwich and Chelsea Villages
that was flight — from a pestilence whose coming might
have been prevented, and whose course could have been
stayed. To most of these poor creatures the only haven
seemed to be Greenwich Village; but some sought the
scattered settlements above; some crossed to Hoboken;
some to Bushwick; while others made a long journey to
Staten Island, across the bay. And when they reached
their goals, it was to beg or buy lodgings anywhere and
anyhow; to sleep in cellars and garrets, in barns and
stables.
The panic was not only among the poor and ignorant.
Merchants were moving their offices, and even the Post
Office and the Custom House were to be transferred to
Greenwich. There were some who remained faithful
throughout all, and who labored for the stricken, and whose
names are not even written in the memory of their fellow-
men. But the city had been so often ravaged before, that
at the first sight there was one mere animal impulse of
ffight that seized upon all alike.
At one o'clock, when some of the better streets had once
more taken on their natural quiet, an ox-cart stood before
the door of the Dolphs' old house. A little behind it stood
the family carriage, its lamps unlit. The horses stirred
uneasily, but the oxen waited in dull, indifferent patience.
Presently the door opened, and two men came out and
awkwardly bore a plain coffin to the cart. Then they
mounted to the front of the cart, hiding between them
a muffled lantern. They wore cloths over the lower
part of their faces, and felt hats drawn low over their eyes.
Something in their gait showed them to be seafaring men,
or the like.
Then out of the open door came Jacob Dolph, moving
109
The Wayfarer in New York
with a feeble shuffle between his son and his old negro
coachman — this man and his wife the only faithful of
all the servants. The young man put his father in the
carriage, and the negro went back and locked the doors
and brought the keys to his young master. He mounted
to the box, and through the darkness could be seen a white
towel tied around his arm — the old badge of servitude's
mourning.
The oxen were started up, and the two vehicles moved
up into Broadway. They travelled with painful slowness;
the horses had to be held in to keep them behind the cart,
for the oxen could be only guided by the whip, and not
by word of mouth. The old man moaned a little at the
pace, and quivered when he heard the distant sound of
hammers.
"What is it?" he asked, nervously.
"They are boarding up some of the streets," said his
son; "do not fear, father. Everything is prepared; and
if we make no noise, we shall not be troubled."
"If we can only keep her out of the Potter's Field —
the Potter's Field," cried the father; "I'll thank God —
I'll ask no more — I'll ask no more."
And then he broke down and cried a little feebly, and got
his son's hand in the darkness and put on his own shoulder.
It was nearly two when they came to St Paul's and turned
the corner to the gate. It was dark below, but some
frenzied fools were burning tar-barrels far down Ann Street,
and the light flickered on the top of the Church spire.
They crossed the churchyard to where a shallow grave
had been dug, halfway down the hill. The men lowered
the body into it; the old negro gave them a Httle rouleau
of coin, and they went hurriedly away into the night.
no
Greenwich and Chelsea Villages
The clergyman came out by and by, with the sexton
behind him. He stood high up above the grave, and
drew his long cloak about him and lifted an old pomandcr-
box to his face. He was not more foolish than his fellows;
in that evil hour men took to charms and to saying of spells.
Below the grave and apart, for the curse rested upon them,
too, stood Jacob Dolph and his son, the old man leaning on
the arm of the younger. Then the clergyman began to
read the service for the burial of the dead, over the de-
parted sister — and wife and mother. He spoke low ;
but his voice seemed to echo in the stillness. He came
forward with a certain shrinking, and cast the handful
of dust and ashes into the grave. When it was done, the
sexton stepped forward and rapidly threw in the earth until
he had filled the little hollow even with the ground. Then,
with fearful precaution, he laid down the carefully cut
sods, and smoothed them until there was no sign of what
had been done. The clergyman turned to the two mourners,
without moving nearer to them, and lifted up his hands.
The old man tried to kneel; but his son held him up, for
he was too feeble, and they bent their heads for a moment
of silence. The clergyman went away as he had come;
and Jacob Dolph and his son went back to the carriage.
When his father was seated, young Jacob Dolph said to
the coachman: "To the new house."
The heavy coach swung into Broadway, and climbed up
the hill out into the open country. There were lights still
burning in the farmhouses, bright gleams to the east and
west, but the silence of the damp summer night hung over
the sparse suburbs, and the darkness seemed to grow more
intense as they drove away from the city. The trees by
the roadside were almost black in the gray mist; the raw,
III
The Wayfarer in New York
moist smell of the night, the damp air, chilly upon the high
land, came in through the carriage windows.
H. C. BuNNER in The Story of a New York House
Copyright, 1887, by Charles Scribner's Sons
A Song of Bedford Street ^^::> -^^^ ^^^ -^^
TT'S a long time ago and a poor time to boast of,
•*' The foolish old time of two young people's start,
But sweet were the days that young love made the most of —
So short by the clock, and so long by the heart 1
We lived in a cottage in old Greenwich Village,
With a tiny clay plot that was burnt brown and hard;
But it softened at last to my girl's patient tillage.
And the roses sprang up in our little back yard.
The roses sprang up and the yellow day-lilies;
And heartsease and pansies, sweet Williams and stocks,
And bachelors' -buttons and bright daffodillies
Filled green little beds that I bordered with box.
They were plain country posies, bright-hued and sweet-
smelling,
And the two of us worked for them, worked long and hard ;
And the flowers she had loved in her old-country dwelHng,
They made her at home in our little back yard.
In the morning I dug while the breakfast was cooking,
And went to the shop, where I toiled all the day;
And at night I returned, and I found my love looking
With her bright country eyes down the dull city way.
And first she would tell me what flowers were blooming,
And her soft hand slipped into a hand that was hard,
And she led through the house till a breeze came perfuming
Our little back hall from our little back yard.
112
Greenwich and Chelsea Villages
It was long, long ago, and we haven't grown wealthy;
And we don't live in state up in Madison Square:
But the old man is hale, and he's happy and healthy,
And his wife's none the worse for the gray in her hair.
Each year lends a sweeter new scent to the roses;
Each year makes hard life seem a little less hard;
And each year a new love for old lovers discloses — •
Come, wife, let us walk in our little back yard!
H. C. BUNNER
Copyright, i8g6, by Charles Scribne/s Sons
The Fourteenth Street Theater ^^:> <::> ■'^:>
A S soon as we were settled and poor singed Josephus
-^ ^ had tiptoed in by the fire, evidently trying to make
up for his shabby coat by the profundity of his purr,
Evan set forth his scheme to our hostess. . . .
To my surprise in five minutes Miss Lavinia was ready,
and we sallied forth, Evan sandwiched between us. As
the old Dorman house is in the northeastern corner of
what was far away Greenwich Village, — at the time the
Bouerie was a blooming orchard, and is meshed in by a
curious jumble of thoroughfares, that must have originally
either followed the tracks of wandering cattle or worthy
citizens who had lost their bearings, for Waverley Place
comes to an untimely end in West Eleventh Street, and
Fourth Street collides with Horatio and is headed off by
Thirteenth Street before it has a chance even to catch a
glimpse of the river, — a few steps brought us into
Fourteenth Street, where flaming gas jets announced that
the play of "Jim Bludso" might be seen.
''Dear me!" ejaculated Miss Lavinia, "do people still
go to this theater?" . . .
I 113
The Wayfarer in New York
It is a great deal to be surrounded by an audience all
thoroughly in the mood to be swayed by the emotion of
the piece, plain people, perhaps, but solidly honest.
Directly in front sat a young couple; the girl, in a fresh
white silk waist, wore so fat and new a wedding ring
upon her ungloved hand, which the man held in a tight grip,
that I surmised that this trip into stageland was perhaps
their humble wedding journey, from which they would
return to "rooms" made ready by jubilant relatives, eat a
wonderful supper, and begin life.
The next couple were not so entirely en rapport. The
girl, who wore a gorgeous garnet engagement ring, also
very new, merely rested her hand on her lover's coat sleeve
where she could see the light play upon the stones.
When, after the first act, in answer to hearty rounds of
applause, varied with whistles and shouts from the gallery,
the characters stepped forward, not in the unnatural string
usual in more genteel playhouses, where victor and van-
quished join hands and bow, but one by one, each being
greeted by cheers, hisses, or groans, according to the part ;
and when the villain appeared I found myself groaning
with the rest, and though Evan laughed, I know he
understood.
After it was over, as we went out into the night, Evan
headed toward Sixth Avenue instead of homeward.
"May I ask where we are going now?" said Miss Lavinia
meekly. She had really enjoyed the play, and I know I
heard her sniff once or twice at the proper time, though
of course I pretended not to.
"Going?" echoed Evan. "Only around the corner to
get three fries in a box, with the usual pickle and cracker
trimmings, there being no restaurant close by that you
114
Greenwich and Chelsea Villages
would care for; then we will carry them home and have
a little supper in the pantry, if your Lucy has not locked up
the forks and taken the key to bed. If she has, we can
use wooden toothpicks."
At first Miss Lavinia seemed to feel guilty at the idea of
disturbing Lucy's immaculate pantry at such an hour;
but liberty is highly infectious. She had spent the evening
out without previous intent; the next step was to feel that
her soul was her own on her return. She unlocked the
forks, Evan unpacked the upstairs ice-chest for the dog's-
head bass that wise women always have when they expect
visiting Englishmen, even though they are transplanted
and acclimated ones, and she ate the oysters, still steaming,
from their original package, with great satisfaction. After
we had finished Miss Lavinia bravely declared her in-
dependence of Lucy. The happy don't-care feeling pro-
duced by broiled oysters and bass on a cold night is a
perfect revelation to people used to after-theater suppers
composed of complications, sticky sweets, and champagne.
When we had finished I thought for a moment that she
showed a desire to conceal the invasion by washing the
dishes, but she put it aside, and we all went upstairs to-
gether.
Mabel Osgood Wright in People of the Whirlpool
Greenwich and Chelsea '^^:> -"^^ ^^^^ '*^^
/^^REENWICH is one of the very oldest places on the
^-^ island of Manhattan. At first it was an Indian
village, called Sapokanican, and was probably near the
present site of Gansevoort Market. The Dutch gov-
ernor, Wouter Van Twiller, coveted it, and finally se-
cured it as a tobacco farm. The farmhouse he built
The Wayfarer in New York
upon it, as Mr. Janvier tells us, was the first building erected
outside of the Fort Amsterdam region, and practically the
beginning of Greenwich. The village had an uneventful
history under the Dutch, and when it passed to the English,
it had a suburban character for many years. It was a
place where the Warrens, the Bayards, and the DeLanceys
had country homes. The building of it was a gradual
affair. It was of some proportions when in 1811 the City
Plan, whereby New York was cut up into checkerboard
''blocks," came into existence. The new plan jostled the
rambhng nature of Greenwich to the breaking point, and
yet left some of its quarter-circle and corkscrew streets
sufficiently intact for the people of the middle nineteenth
century to build substantial dwellings along them. These
streets with their red-brick buildings remain to us and
make up perhaps the most picturesque glimpse of old New
York that we have. Along them one sees scattered here
and there the gable-windowed wooden houses of an earlier
period, with a quaint St. Luke's Chapel, or a scrap of a
park, or trees and vines and garden walls that now look
strange in the great city.
But Greenwich Village is one of the fast-disappearing
features of the town. And here again the contrast is pre-
sented. Above the gambrel roofs of the past are hfting
enormous sky -scraping factories and warehouses, the traffic
from the ocean-liners rattles through the streets, the Ninth
Avenue Elevated roars overhead. St. Luke's Park (or,
as it is now called, Hudson Park) has been remodeled into
a sunken water-garden with handsome Italian-looking
loggias that make one gasp when seen against the old brick
residences on either side of it. Abingdon Square (named
for the Earl of Abingdon, who married one of the Warrens,
116
Greenwich and Chelsea Villages
and thus came into possession of many acres in Green-
wich) has only its name left to suggest a connection with
history. Everywhere the new is crowding out the old;
and before long Greenwich, where many an old-time New
York family made the money that carried it up to a brown-
stone front on Fifth Avenue, will be merely a tradition.
It is a comparatively clean portion of the town, this
Greenwich district, though now a foreign population is
crowding in upon it to its detriment. A walk there is
entertaining and, in some of the streets, quite astonishing,
not alone for what one sees, but for what one does not hear.
In spots there is an unwonted silence, as though one were
in some country village. Up Washington Street and up
Tenth Avenue there are scraps of this silence to be found
about old houses, old walls, old trees. At Twentieth Street
the extensive grounds of the General Theological Seminary
(formerly called Chelsea Square), with their commanding
buildings, seem to emphasize the stillness; but at the much
traveled Twenty-third Street it is lost in the roar of trucks
and trolleys.
Unfortunately, perhaps, the average man who walks up
town in the afternoon takes none of these strolls — neither
to the east nor to the west. He bolts up Broadway with
the mob, pushing his way along the sidewalks, dodging
trucks from the side streets, breathing dust and smoke
from all streets, and apparently seeing nothing, not even
his fellow-pedestrians. With some fine scheme in his head
(a pot of money its ultimate outcome), he looks at passing
buildings, lights, and colors, but receives no impression
from them. He is out for bodily exercise, and thinks he is
getting it, but knows no reason why he should not work his
head in another direction at the same time. The c!iarm
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The Wayfarer in New York
of Grace Church is lost upon him; and Union Square
appears to him only as a place where there are some
trees, park benches, and dirty-looking people seated
on the benches reading yellow-looking newspapers.
At Madison Square perhaps he begins to take
notice; but not of Saint Gaudens' "Farragut,"
nor the trees, nor the revel of color all about.
He squints an eye at the present condi-
tion of the newest ascending sky-scraper ;
he takes a look at a new turn-out or
automobile, or looks over the crowd
for chance acquaintances, for he
is in the shopping district and
there are many smartly
dressed men and women
in the throng. In
short, up town has
been reached, and
life once more
begins for
him.
J. C. Van Dyke
in The New New York
ii8
IV
THE WASHINGTON SQUARE NEIGHBORHOOD
BROADWAY
HERE surge the ceaseless caravans,
Here throbs the city's heart,
And down the street each takes his way
To play his little part.
The tides of life flow on, flow on,
And Laughter meets Despair;
A heart might break along Broadway . . .
I wonder who would care?
Charles Hanson Towne
Copyright, igo8, by the B. W. Dodge Co.
IV
THE WASHINGTON SQUARE NEIGHBORHOOD
Grace Church Garden ^> ^=^:> '^^ ''^>'
TTINT of a verdant peace that lies
-■- -^ Far from the great town's noise and heat,
Far from the vision of tired eyes,
And the din of hurrying feet.
Sweet suggestion of quiet ways,
With a wide sky bending overhead.
Where shadows linger and sunshine plays,
And the earth is soft to the tread.
Bit of vivid and cheerful green.
In the midst of tumult, yet apart.
Fair and peaceful, resting serene,
On the city's turbulent heart.
Franxes a. Schneider
The Brasserie Pigault '^^ '^^ ''^ ^^>'
THE Doctor's domain was extensive. Five years
after his return from the war he had taken the two
upper floors of the old house, on a fifteen years' lease.
He had tried to get a lease for a longer term, but even
the conservative old German who was his landlord knew
that rents would go up as the years went on; and fifteen
years was the longest period for which he would agree to
121
The Wayfarer in New York
let Dr. Peters have the rooms at the modest rate that they
then commanded.
He had wanted a home, this lonely bachelor stranded
after the great war. Bachelors sometimes want homes;
they even long for them with a conscious, understanding,
intelligent desire that their married friends never credit
them with. ''You don't know what it is to have a home,"
says Smith, who married at twenty-five, to Jones, who
is unmarried at forty. But Jones does know what it
would be to have a home, for does he not know what it is
not to have a home ? Ay, far more than complacent Smith,
who made his nest from mere blind instinct, long before he
could have become conscious of his own need of a nest —
far more than happy, comfortable, satisfied Smith, does
this lone bird of celibacy of a Jones know of the superiority
of a consecrated abiding-place to his cold, casual twig.
There is always something comically, dismally pathetic
about the bachelor's attempt to construct a home. I was
once at the performance of an opera attempted by a weak
little theatrical troupe that was in bad luck. The tenor
had failed them at the last moment, so a good-looking
supernumerary stood up in the tenor's clothes while the
poor, hard-working, middle-aged soprano sang both parts
of their duets. That is what the bachelor tries to do —
to sing both parts of their duets.
It is always a failure; and so the Doctor found it. . . .
"Perhaps it's Luise's cooking," he thought: "I ought
to be inured to it; but maybe it's like arsenic or morphine
— a sort of cumulative poison. I guess I'm getting
dyspeptic."
He went upstairs to take a look at the kitchen and see
if he could conjure up again his old dream. . . .
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The Washington Square Neighborhood
He tried to think charitably of Luisc; but there was no
room for doubt about the dinner. It was simply bad.
Many people like German cooking; but nobody could like
Luise's German cooking. She had a way of announcing
the names of the dishes, as she set them down with a vicious
slam, and she told him that the viand of the evening was
a "Wiener Schnitzel." He credited her with forethought
in this, for if she had not done so, he would not have been
able to guess the fact that what was before him had once
been a veal cutlet.
He smoked two pipes after his dinner, and then he went
around to the Brasserie Pigault. For fourteen years
he had gone to the Brasserie Pigault. When he first set
up his bachelor establishment, he had resolved to stay at
home nights, and for a month or two the Brasserie had
missed him, and he had sat in his green rep easy-chair,
that was not, and never could have been meant to be easy,
before his meagre little hard-coal fire. But it was not
staying at home, after all ; it was only staying in the house ;
and by and by he went back to the Brasserie Pigault, which
was a home indeed, after its sort, to him and to many
another lonely bachelor.
If you put it that a man habitually spends his evenings
in a beer-shop it does not sound well. It not only suggests
orgies and deep potations, but it is low. One thinks of
Robert Burns, of the police-reports, of neglected wives
waiting at home, of brawls and drunkenness and of a cheap
grade of tobacco.
This is largely due to the influence of a number of
estimable gentlemen who wander about this broad land,
patronizing second-class hotels and denouncing in scathing
terms the Demon Drink. They sternly refuse to admit
123
The Wayfarer in New York
any distinction between one place where liquor is sold and
another place where liquor is sold. Yet I think the most
vehement of these public-spirited men would be incHned
to acknowledge that there is a bright side to the beer
question if he could be induced to pass a few evenings, non-
prof essionally, in such a place as the Brasserie Pigault.
True he could not see there the red-eyed contention
that furnishes him with so much useful oratorical material.
No upraised bludgeon, no gleaming stiletto, would gladden
his eyes. No degraded specimen of humanity would
point a prohibitionist's moral by going to sleep on the floor.
No ribaldry would agreeably shock his expectant ears.
He would see Mme. Pigault, neat and comely, knitting
behind her desk. He would see Mr. Martin and M.
Ovide Marie at their everlasting game of dominos. He
would see little Potain, whose wife died two years ago
after forty-seven years of married life, and who would be
more lonely than he is, if it were not for Mme. Pigault's
hospitality, drinking his one glass of vermouth gomme
and reading all the papers without missing a column.
He would see poor old Parker Prout, the artist, who has
been painting all day long for the Nassau Street auction
shops — they will not hang Prout's pictures, even at the
National Academy — and who has come to the Brasserie
Pigault to buy one glass of beer for himself, and to wait
and hope that somebody will come in who will buy another
for him. He would see good-natured Jack Wilder, the
bright young reporter of the Morning Record, dropping
in to perform that act of charity, and to square accounts
by mildly chaffing old Prout about the art which he still
loves, after forty years of servitude to the auctioneer and
the maker of chromo-lithographs. He would see Dr.
124
The Washington Square Neighborhood
Peters taking his regular rations — two glasses of lager,
the first of each keg — and studying the Courrier to keep
up his French.
And on this particular night there was a rare guest to
be seen under Mme. Pigault's roof, for Father Dube came
in, big, ponderous and genial, rubbing his fat red hands,
and smiling a sociable benediction upon the place and
all within it.
Mme. Pigault, alert and flattered, rose to welcome him,
and he unbuttoned his heavy overcoat, with its great cape,
and leaned on the desk to chat with her for a moment.
How was the baby and Httle Eulalie? And business was
always good? That was to be expected. People knew
where they were comfortable, and everybody was com-
fortable chez Mme. Pigault. And now he saw his good
friend the Doctor sitting there. The Doctor looked as if
he would like a httle game of dominos. He would go
and challenge his good friend the Doctor. And yes,
why not? He would take a glass of that excellent
Chablis of Mme. Pigault's, that he had tasted when he had
last visited Mme. Pigault. Was it so long ago as Easter?
Ah, but the time goes! and an old man is slow. He
cannot see his friends as often as he could wish. And
Mme. Pigault being prosperous and blessed by heaven,
has no need of him. Ah, the Doctor is waiting. And
Mme. Pigault will not forget the Chablis?
And so this simple-minded old priest, who knew no
better than to sit down in his parishioner's brasserie and
take a glass of wine and play a game of dominos with a
heretic, lumbered over to the Doctor's table, and struggled
out of his overcoat, with Louis's help, and sat down op-
posite his good friend Peters. And Louis bustled eagerly
125
The Wayfarer in New York
about, and opened a new bottle of the Chablis, and brought
the box with the best dominos, that Mme. Pigault took
from her desk; and cleaned a slate; and Mme. Pigault
looked on proudly as her favorite customer and her spiritual
guide shuffled and drew.
H. C. BuNNER in The Midge
Copyright^ i886, by Charles Scribner's Sons
The Astor Place Opera House Riot o "^^
TN 1826 Mr. Edwin Forrest became a dramatic star of
■*- first magnitude — puffed everywhere as ''the Ameri-
can tragedian." In 1827 Mr. William C. Macready first
visited the United States, starring the country, playing
alternate engagements with Mr. Forrest, but in no very
decided spirit of rivalry.
In 1835 Ml"- Forrest played most successfully in England;
in 1844 Mr. Macready again visited the United States.
But on this occasion he played usually in cities where
there was more than one theater and of course where a
rival manager immediately sought to offset the new at-
traction by the best talent to be found — and thus almost
invariably Mr. Forrest played against him with the heavy
advantage of being American, so that the tour of the great
English actor was a comparative failure.
A degree of partisanship was everywhere excited which
found its vent in the next professional tour which Mr.
Forrest made in England. A strong opposition to him
he charged to his rival, and Mr. Forrest even hissed Mr.
Macready's performance of "Hamlet" (because, so he
said, the English actor had "thought fit to introduce a
fancy dance") in Edinburgh.
On his return to America, Mr. Forrest freely expressed
126
The Washington Square Neighborhood
the feeling that he had been unfairly treated in England,
and Mr. Macrcady's appearance in Boston in 1848 was
greeted by the first of many bitter newspaper articles.
Mr. Macready's contemptuous allusion to this article nearly
precipitated social war in New York when Macready
appeared at the Opera House (then at Astor Place) while
Forrest was acting in the old Broadway Theater. The
storm, however, blew over and expended itself in Phila-
delphia through violent and vindictive signed "cards"
which must have "boosted" the circulations of the Public
Ledger and other morning papers of the day, but had no
other efifect except to harden the determination of Mr.
Forrest's friends to prevent Mr. Macready from ever
playing another engagement in America. In May, 1849,
Mr. Macready attempted to play "Macbeth" in New York
and was hissed from the stage by a packed audience. Mr.
Macready supposed the engagement ended, but his friends
and the enemies of Forrest insisted on a different course.
Influential citizens, headed by Washington Irving, pledged
the public to sustain him.
So matters stood when it was announced that he should
appear again on the loth of May. Of what followed we
have a contemporary account: —
"On the stage of the Astor Place Opera House the Eng-
lish actor Macready was trying to play the part of 'Mac-
beth,' in which he was interrupted by hisses and hootings,
and encouraged by the cheers of a large audience who
had crowded the house to sustain him. On the outside
a mob was gathering, trying to force an entrance, and
throwing stones at the barricaded windows. In the house
the police were arresting those who made the disturbance
— outside they were driven back by volleys of paving stones.
127
The Wayfarer in New York
" In the midst of this scene of clamor and outrage was
heard the clatter of an approaching troop of horse. 'The
military, the military are coming ! ' Further on was heard
the quick tramp of infantry and there was seen the gleam of
bayonets. A cry of rage burst from the mob, inspired with
sudden fury at the appearance of an armed force. They
ceased storming the Opera House, and turned their volley
of paving stones against the horsemen. Amid piercing
yells men were knocked from their horses, the untrained
animals frightened, and the force speedily so routed that
it could not afterwards be rallied.
" Next came the turn of the infantry. They marched
down the sidewalk in a soHd column; but had no sooner
taken position for protection of the house than they were
assailed with volleys of missals (sic). Soldiers were
knocked down and carried ofif wounded. Officers were
disabled. An attempt to charge with the bayonet was
frustrated by the dense crowds seizing the muskets and
attempting to wrest them from the hands of the soldiers.
At last the awful word was given to fire — there was a gleam
of sulphurous light, a sharp, quick rattle, and here and
there in the crowd a man sank upon the pavement with
a deep groan. Then came a more furious attack and a
wild yell for vengeance ! Then the rattle of another
death-dealing volley, far more fatal than the first. The
ground was covered with killed and wounded — the pave-
ment was stained with blood. A panic seized the multitude,
which broke and scattered in every direction.
" The horrors of that night can never be described. The
military, resting from their work of death, in stern silence
were grimly guarding the Opera House. Its interior was
a rendezvous and a hospital for the wounded military and
128
The Washington Square Neighborhood
police. Here and there around the building and at the
corners of the streets were crowds of men talking in deep
and earnest tones of indignation. There were little pro-
cessions moving off with the dead or mutilated bodies of
friends and relations.
" The result of that night's work was the death of twenty-
two victims, either shot dead upon the spot or mortally
wounded, so that they died within a few days; and the
wounding of some thirty more, many of whom will be
maimed for life."
From a contemporary pamphlet
The Beginning of the End of Lafayette Place (1880)
A TOT many years ago Lafayette Place was one of the
■'■ ^ most imposing patrician quarters of New York.
The clamors of Broadway came to it only in a dreamy
murmur. Its length was not great, but it had a lordly
breadth. Within easiest access of the most busy portions,
its quiet was proverbial. So infrequent were vehicles
along its pavements, that in summer the grass would often
crop out there, like fringy scrollwork, near the well -swept
sidewalks and cleanly gutters. At one end, where this
stately avenue is crossed by a narrower street, rose an im-
mense granite church, in rigid classical style, with the
pointed roof of an ancient temple, and immense gray fluted
pillars forming its portico. Then at this southern end
stood the gray old grandeur of St. Bartholomew's where
for nearly half a century the blooming brides of our "best
families" were married and their fathers and mothers lay
in funeral state as the years rolled on. At the northern
end was a spacious dwelling house whose oaken hall, with
its richly mediaeval carvings and brilliant window of stained
K 129
The Wayfarer in New York
glass, might well have served for some antique abbey
over sea. But this delightful old house has disappeared
and a vast brick structure, which is one of those towering
altars that we so often build to commerce, has sprung up
in its stead. There was also a certain edifice closely ad-
jacent to this, which had a forte cochtre in the real
Parisian style, and supplied a delightful touch of foreign
novelty. But that, too, has disappeared; like the house with
the charming cloistered hall, its very quaintness was its ruin.
But Lafayette Place is Lafayette Place still. Its trans-
formation into cheap lodgments is gradual though sure.
The siege goes steadily on, but the besieged have not yet
succumbed. Every year the handsome family carriages
that roll up and down its avenue grow fewer and fewer;
every year its pavements, worn by the feet of dead and
gone Knickerbockers, are more frequented by shabby
Germans or slatternly Irish. But the solid solemnity
of the Astor Library still draws scholars and bookworms
within its precinct, though the dignity of possessing the
Columbia Law School, into which slim, bright-faced
collegians would once troop of a morning, has now de-
parted forever. And a few abodes are still to be found here
with the burnished door plates and the glimpses of rich
inner tapestries that point toward wealthful prosperity.
Edgar Fawcett in A Hopeless Case
Copyright, 1880. By permission of Houghton Mifflin Co.
The Bread Line ^v> ^=::> ^^:> ^s:^^ ^^1:^^
TT was eleven o'clock when they stepped out into
-*- the winter night. Barrifield, who was a married
man and a suburban Brooklynite, took the South Ferry
car at Broadway. The other three set their faces
130
The Washington Square Neighborhood
north in the direction of their apartments. Van Dorn
was a widower, Perner a confirmed bachelor, and Living-
stone also unmarried. They were untrammeled, there-
fore, as to their hours and habits. . . .
On the corner of Tenth Street they halted. Across the
way there was a long line of waiting men that extended
around the corner in either direction.
''What's that?" exclaimed Perner.
"Why, don't you know?" said Van Dorn. "That's the
bread line. They get a cup of coffee and a loaf of bread every
night at twelve o'clock. Old Fleischmann, who founded the
bakery, made that provision in his will. They begin to collect
here at ten o'clock and before, rain or shine, hot or cold 1"
"It's cold enough to-night!" said Livingstone.
They drew nearer. The waifs regarded them listlessly.
They were a ragged, thinly clad lot — a drift-line of hunger,
tossed up by the tide of chance.
The bohemians, remembering their own lavish dinner
and their swiftly coming plenitude, regarded these un-
fortunates with silent compassion.
"I say, fellows," whispered Livingstone, presently, "let's
get a lot of nickels and give one to each of them. I guess
we can manage it," he added, running his eye down the line
in hasty calculation.
The others began emptying their pockets. Perner the
business-like stripped himself of his last cent and borrowed
a dollar of Van Dorn to make his share equal. Then they
separated and scoured in different directions for change.
By the time all had returned the line had increased con-
siderably.
"We'd better start right away or we won't have enough,"
said Livingstone.
131
The Wayfarer in New York
He began at the head of the Hne, and gave to each out-
stretched hand as far as his store of coins lasted. Then
Van Dom took it up, and after him, Pemer. They had
barely enough to give to the last comers. The men's
hands stretched out long before they reached them. Some
said ''Thank you"; many said ''God bless you"; some
said nothing at all.
"There's more money in that crov^d than there is in this
now," said Perner, as they turned away.
"That's so," said Livingstone. "But wait till a year
from to-night. We'll come down here and give these
poor devils a dollar apiece — maybe ten of them."
^J^ ^0 %^ *J* ^,^ mT^ aj^
"Boys, do you recollect the dinner we had a year ago
to-night?" This from Livingstone.
The others nodded. They were remembering that, too,
perhaps.
"Then the bread Hne afterward?" said Perner. "We
gave them a nickel apiece all around, and were going to
give them a dollar apiece to-night. And now, instead
of that—"
"Instead of that," finished Van Dom, "we can go down
to-night and get into the line ourselves. Light up, Stony;
we'll take a look at your picture, anyhow."
There was a brisk, whipping sound against the skylight
above them. It drew their attention, and presently came
again. Livingstone arose hastily.
" Sleet 1 "
He spoke eagerly, and looked up at the glass overhead.
Then he added in a sort of joyous excitement :
"Fellows, let's do it! Let's go down there and get into
the line ourselves. I've been waiting for this sleet to see
132
The Washington Square Neighborhood
how they would look in it. Now we're hungry, too. Let's
go down and get into the Hne and see how it feels/"
Van Dorn and Perner stared at him a moment to make
sure that he was in earnest. There was consent in the
laugh that followed. The proposition appealed to their
sense of artistic fitness. There was a picturesque com-
pleteness in thus rounding out the year. Besides, as
Livingstone had said, they were hungry.
They set forth somewhat later. There was a strong wind
and the sleet bit into their flesh keenly. It got into their
eyes and, when they spoke, into their mouths.
"I don't know about this," shouted Van Dorn, pres-
ently. ''I think it's undertaking a good deal for the sake
of art."
"Oh, pshaw. Van, this is bully!" Livingstone called
back. He was well in advance, and did not seem to mind
the storm.
Perner, who was tall, was shrunken and bent by the cold
and storm. His voice, however, he Ufted above it.
"Art ! " he yelled. "I'm going for the sake of the coffee ! '*
The line that began on Tenth Street had made the turn
on Broadway and reached almost to Grace Church when
they arrived. The men stood motionless, huddled back
into their scanty collars, their heads bent forward to shield
their faces from the sharp, flying ice. Strong electric
light shone on them. The driving sleet grew on their
hats and shoulders. Those who had just arrived found it
even colder standing still. Van Dorn's teeth were rattling.
"Do you suppose there's always enough to go round?"
he asked of Perner, who stood ahead of him.
Talking was not pleasant, but the waif behind him
answered :
133
The Wayfarer in New York
"Wasn't last night. I was on the end of the line and
didn't git no coffee. Guess there'll be enough to-night,
though, 'cause it's New Year."
*'If they don't have coffee to-night, I'll die," shivered
Perner. . , .
The waif from behind was talking again. He had
turned around so they could hear.
"Last New Year there was some blokes come along an'
give us a nickel apiece all round. I was on the end an'
got two. When they went away one of 'em said they was
comin' back to-night to give us a dollar apiece."
"They won't come," said Perner.
"How d' y' know?"
"We're the men."
"Aw, what yeh givin' us?"
"Facts. We've started a paper since then."
Albert Bigelow Paine in The Bread Line
Copyright, IQOO, by The Century Company
Washington Square <:> ^=^ ^^ ^^^ "^^
TAR. SLOPER had moved his household gods up-
^-^ town, as they say in New York. He had been
living ever since his marriage in an edifice of red brick,
with granite copings and an enormous fanlight over the
door, standing in a street within five minutes' walk of the
City Hall, which saw its best days (from the social point
of view) about 1820. After this, the tide of fashion began
to set steadily northward, as, indeed, in New York, thanks
to the narrow channel in which it flows, it is obliged to do,
and the great hum of traffic rolled farther to the right and
left of Broadway. By the time the Doctor changed his
residence, the murmur of trade had become a mighty up-
134
The Washington Square Neighborhood
roar, which was music in the ears of all good citizens
interested in the commercial development, as they delighted
to call it, of their fortunate isle. Doctor Sloper's interest
in this phenomenon was only indirect — though, seeing
that, as the years went on, half his patients came to be
overworked men of business, it might have been more
immediate — and when most of his neighbors' dwellings
(also ornamented with granite copings and large fanlights)
had been converted into offices, warehouses, and shipping
agencies, and otherwise applied to the base uses of com-
merce, he determined to look out for a quieter home. The
ideal of quiet and of genteel retirement, in 1835, was found
in Washington Square, where the Doctor built himself
a handsome, modern, wide-fronted house, with a big
balcony before the drawing-room windows, and a flight of
white marble steps ascending to a portal which was also
faced with white marble. This structure, and many of
its neighbors, which it exactly resembled, were supposed,
forty years ago, to embody the last results of architectural
science, and they remain to this day very solid and honor-
able dwellings. In front of them was the Square, contain-
ing a considerable quantity of inexpensive vegetation, in-
closed by a wooden paling, which increased its rural and
accessible appearance ; and round the corner was the more
august precinct of the Fifth Avenue, taking its origin at this
point with a spacious and confident air which already
marked it for high destinies. I know not whether it is
owing to the tenderness of early associations, but this
portion of New York appears to many persons the most
delectable. It has a kind of established repose which is
not of frequent occurrence in other quarters of the long
shrill city; it has a riper, richer, more honorable look than
The Wayfarer in New York
any of the upper ramifications of the great longitudinal
thoroughfare — the look of having had something of a
social history. It was here, as you might have been in-
formed on good authority, that you had come into a world
which appeared to offer a variety of sources of interest;
it was here that your grandmother lived, in venerable
solitude, and dispensed a hospitality which commended
itself alike to the infant imagination and the infant palate ;
it was here that you took your first walks abroad, following
the nursery-maid with unequal step, and sniffing up the
strange odor of the ailanthus-trees which at that time
formed the principal umbrage of the Square, and diffused
an aroma that you were not yet critical enough to disHke
as it deserved; it was here, finally, that your first school,
kept by a broad-bosomed, broad-based old lady with a
ferule, who was always having tea in a blue cup, with a
saucer that didn't match, enlarged the circle both of your
observations and your sensations.
Henry James in Washmgton Square
Copyright, 1880, by Henry James
Another View of Washington Square -'^^ <^
TT was a wretched place, stiffly laid out, shabbily kept,
"*■ planted with mean, twigless trees, and in the middle
the basin of an extinct fountain filled with foul snow,
through which the dead cats and dogs were beginning to
sprout at the solicitation of the winter's sunshine.
A dreary place and drearily surrounded by red brick
houses, with marble steps monstrous white, and blinds
monstrous green — all destined to be boarding houses
in a decade.
Theodore Winthrop in Cecil Dreeme
136
THE EAST SIDE
It was upon Henry James, we believe, that the hard in-
tensity of our Ghetto life — "all formidable foreground" —
produced an impression like that of a long street of tenements
at night, — and in each window the glitter of a candle push-
ing through the darkness. The fire-escapes, too, inevitably
suggested "a. spaciously organized cage for the nimbler classes
of animals in some great zoological garden." To him they
suggested an "abashed afterthought" of communications, for-
gotten in the first construction, by which the inhabitants lead,
like the squirrels and monkeys, the merrier life. But they
may as well suggest the degeneration which so easily comes
a-creeping wherever the fire-escape of the tenement stretches
its iron tendrils over the walls of the city street.
Anon.
V
THE EAST SIDE
A Spring Walk ^:> <::> -cy -^ -^
IN the late spring John and Katharine often walked to-
gether of an afternoon, between half-past five and sunset.
They went about together in unfrequented places, as
a rule, not caring to meet acquaintances at every turn.
Neither of them had any social duties to perform, and they
were as free to do as they pleased as though they had not
represented the rising generation of Lauderdales.
The spring had fairly come at last. It had rained, and
the pavement dried in white patches, the willow trees in
the square were a blur of green, and the Virginia creeper
on the houses here and there was all rough with Uttle stubby
brown buds. It had come with a rush. The hyacinths
were sticking their green curved beaks up through the
park beds, and the little cock-sparrows were scrapping,
their wings along the ground.
There was a bright youthfulness in everything, — in the
air, in the sky, in the old houses, in the faces of the people
in the streets. The Italians with their fruit carts sunned
themselves, and turned up their dark rough faces to the
warmth. The lame boy who lived in the house at the
corner of Clinton Place was out on the pavement, with
a single roller skate on his better foot, pushing himself
along with his crutch, and laughing all to himself, pale
but happy. The old woman in gray, who hangs about
139
The Wayfarer in New York
that region and begs, had at last taken the dilapidated woollen
shawl from her head, and had replaced it by a very, very
poor apology for a hat, with a crumpled paper cherry and
a green leaf in it, and only one string. And the other
woman, who wants her car-fare to Harlem, seemed more
anxious to get there than ever. Moreover the organ-
grinders expressed great joy, and the children danced to-
gether to the cheerful discords, in Washington Square,
under the blur of the green willows — shm American
children, who talked through their noses, and funny little
French children with ribbons in their hair, from South
Fifth Avenue, and bright-eyed darky children with one
baby amongst them. And they took turns in holding it
while the others danced. . . .
But Katharine and John Ralston followed less fre-
quented paths, crossing Broadway from Clinton Place east,
and striking past Astor Place and Lafayette Place — where
the Crowdies lived — by Stuyvesant Street eastwards to
Avenue A and Tompkins Square. And there, too, the
spring was busy, blurring everything with green. Men
were getting the benches out of the kiosk on the north side,
where they are stacked away all winter, and others were
repairing the band stand with its shabby white dome, and
everywhere there were children, rising as it were from the
earth to meet the soft air — rising as the sparkling little
air bubbles rise in champagne, to be free at last — hundreds
of children, perhaps a thousand, in the vast area which
many a New Yorker has not seen twice in his life, out
at play in the light of the westering sun. They stared
innocently as Katharine and Ralston passed through their
midst, and held their breath a moment at the sight of a real
lady and gentleman. All the little girls over ten years old
140
The East Side
looked at Katharine's clothes and approved of them, and
all the boys looked at John Ralston's face to see whether
he would be the right sort of young person to whom to
address an ironical remark, but decided that he was not.
But Katharine and John Ralston went on, and crossed
the great square and left it by the southeast corner, from
which a quiet street leads across the remaining lettered
avenues to an enormous timber yard at the water's edge,
a bad neighborhood at night, and the haunt of the class
generically termed dock rats, a place of murder and sudden
death by no means unfrequently, but by day as quiet and
safe as any one could wish.
They stood by the edge of the river, on the road that runs
along from pier to pier. Katharine laid her hand upon
Ralston's arm, and felt how it drew her gently close to him,
and glancing at his face she loved it better than ever in the
red evening light.
The sun was going down between two clouds, the one
above him, the other below, gray and golden, behind
Brooklyn bridge, and behind the close-crossing pencil masts
and needle yards of many vessels. From the river rose the
white plumes of twenty little puffing tugs and ferry-boats
far down in the distance. Between the sun's great flattened
disk and the lover's eyes passed a great three-masted
schooner, her vast main and mizzen set, her foresail and jib
hauled down, being towed outward. It was very still, for
the dock hands had gone home.
**I love you, dear," said Katharine, softly.
But Ralston answered nothing. Only his right hand
drew her left more closely to his side.
F. Marion Crawford in The Ralst&ns
141
The Wayfarer in New York
An East Side Wedding Feast -"C^ ^n::^ -^^
STILL brooding over the enormous possibilities of
the future, I stopped to rest and refresh myself in
a modest and respectable little German beer-saloon, sit-
uated on the tabooed side of the barbed-wire fence — on
the very borderland between low life and legitimate literary
territor}'. It is an ordinary enough little place, with a bar
and tables in front, and, in a space curtained off at the rear,
a good-sized room often used for meetings and various
forms of merry-making. I never drop in for a glass of
beer without thinking of a supper given in that back room
a few years ago at which I was a guest. ... It was an
actor who gave the supper — one of the most brilliant and
talented of the many foreign entertainers who have visited
our shores — and nearly every one of his guests had won
some sort of artistic distinction. It is not the sort of a place
that suggests luxurious feasting, but the supper which
the worthy German and his wife set before us was, to me,
a revelation of the resources of their national cookery.
The occasion lingers in my memory, however, chiefly by
reason of the charm and tact and brilliancy of the woman
who sat in the place of honor — a woman whose name rang
through Europe more than a quarter of a century ago as
that of the heroine of one of the most sensational duels of
modern times. . . . Recollections of this feast brought
to mind another . . . given on the occasion of a great
wedding in a quarter of the town which plays an important
part in civic and national affairs on the first Tuesday after
the first ^Monday in November — one in which the trade
of politics ranks as one of the learned professions — a
quarter where events date from the reigns of the different
142
The East Side
police captains. The bride was a daughter of a famous
politician, and I am sure that in point of beauty and taste-
ful dress she might have passed muster at Tuxedo. She
was tall, graceful, and very young, — not more than
seventeen. One could see traces of her Hebrew lineage
in her exquisitely lovely face, and I am sure she was well
dressed, because she wore nothing that in any way detracted
from her rare beauty or was offensive to the eye. She
had been brought up near the comer of the Bowery and
Hester Street, in the very center of one of the most vicious
and depraved quarters of the town; and as I talked with
her that night she told me how most of her childhood had
been spent playing with her little brothers and sisters in
the garden which her father had built for them on the roof
of the house in which they lived, and on the ground floor
of which he kept the saloon which laid the foundations of
his present political influence. She spoke simply and in
good English, and one could easily see how carefully she
had been shielded from all knowledge even of that which
went on around her. An extraordinary company had
assembled to witness the ceremony and take part in the
festivities which followed, and as I sat beside two brilliant,
shrewd, wordly-wise Hebrews of my acquaintance we re-
marked that it would be a long while before we could expect
to see another such gathering. The most important of the
guests were those high in political authority or in the police
department, men whose election districts are the modern
prototype of the English ''pocket boroughs" of the last
century; while the humblest of them all, and the merriest
as well, was the deaf-and-dumb bootblack of a down-town
police court, who appeared in the unwonted splendor of
a suit which he had hired especially for the occasion, and
143
The Wayfarer In New York
to which was attached a gorgeous plated watch-chain.
"Dummy" had never been to dancing-school, but he was
an adept in the art of sliding across the floor, and he showed
his skill between the different sets, uttering unintelligible
cries of delight and smiling blandly upon his acquaintances
as he glided swiftly by them. . . . For three hours I sat
with my two Israelitish friends — a pool -room keeper and
a dime-museum manager respectively — and talked about
the people who passed and repassed before us, and I am
bound to say that the conversation of a clever New York
Jew of their type is almost always edifying and amusing.
"It's a curious thing," said one of my companions at last,
"but I really believe that we three men at this table are the
only ones in the whole room who have any sort of sense
of the picturesqueness of this thing, or are onto the gang
of people gathered together here. There's probably not
a soul in the room outside of ourselves but what imagines
that this is just a plain, every-day sort of crowd and not
one of the most extraordinary collections of human beings
I've ever seen in my life, and I've been knocking round
New York ever since I was knee-high. There are thou-
sands of people giving up their good dust every week to
go in and look at the freaks in my museum, and there's not
one of them that's as interesting as dozens that we can see
here to-night for nothing. Just look at that woman over
there that all the politicians are bowing down to ; and they've
got a right to, too, for she's a big power in the dis-
trict and knows more about politics than Barney Rourke.
They never dared pull her place when the police were
making all those raids last month. Those diamonds
she wears are worth ten thousand if they're worth a cent.
There's a man who wouldn't be here to-night if it wasn't
144
The East Side
for the time they allow on a sentence for good behavior,
and that fellow next him keeps a fence down in Elizabeth
Street. There's pretty near every class of New Yorkers
represented here to-night except the fellows that write the
stories in the magazines. Where's Howells? I don't
see him anywhere around," he exclaimed, ironically,
rising from his chair as he spoke and peering curiously
about. "Look under the table and see if he's there taking
notes. Oh yes, I read the magazines very often when I
have time, and some of the things I find in them are mighty
good; but when those literary ducks start in to describe
New York, or at least this part of it — well, excuse me,
I don't want any of it. This would be a great place,
though, for a story-WTiter to come to if he really wanted to
leam anything about the town."
James L. Ford in The Literary Shop
Copyright, i8g4. By permission of A. Wessells Company
Cat Alley <::> ^^ ^:> ^:y ^:> "^
CAT ALLEY was my alley. It was mine by right
of long acquaintance. We were neighbors for twenty
years. Yet I never knew why it was called Cat
Alley. There was the usual number of cats, gaunt and
voracious, which foraged in its ash-barrels; but beyond
the family of three-legged cats, that presented its own
problem of heredity, — the kittens took it from the mother,
who had lost one leg under the wheels of a dray, — there
was nothing specially remarkable about them. It w^as
not an alley, either, when it comes to that, but rather a row
of four or five old tenements in a back yard that was
reached by a passageway somewhat less than three feet
wide between the sheer walls of the front houses. These
L 145
The Wayfarer in New York
had once had pretensions to some style. One of them had
been the parsonage of the church next door that had by-
turns been an old-style Methodist tabernacle, a fashionable
negroes' temple, and an Italian mission church, thus
marking time, as it were, to the upward movement of the
immigration that came in at the bottom, down in the
Fourth Ward, fought its way through the Bloody Sixth,
and by the time it had travelled the length of Mulberry
Street had acquired a local standing and the right to be
counted and rounded up by the political bosses. Now
the old houses were filled with newspaper offices and given
over to perpetual insomnia. Week-days and Sundays,
night or day, they never slept. Police headquarters was
right across the way, and kept the reporters awake. From
his window the chief looked down the narrow passageway
to the bottom of the alley, and the alley looked back at him,
nothing daunted. No man is a hero to his valet, and the
chief was not an autocrat to Cat Alley. It knew all his
human weaknesses, could tell when his time was up
generally before he could, and winked the other eye with
the captains when the newspapers spoke of his having read
them a severe lecture on gambling or Sunday beer-selling.
Byrnes it worshipped, but for the others who were before
him and followed after, it cherished a neighborly sort of
contempt.
In the character of its population Cat Alley was properly
cosmopolitan. The only element that was missing was the
native American, and in this also it was representative of
the tenement districts in America's chief city. The sub-
stratum was Irish, of volcanic properties. Upon this were
imposed layers of German, French, Jewish, and Italian,
or, as the alley would have put it, Dutch, Sabe, Sheeny, and
146
The East Side
Dago; but to this last it did not take kindly. With the
experience of the rest of Mulberry Street before it, it fore-
saw its doom if the Dago got a footing there, and within a
month of the moving in of the Gio family there was an
eruption of the basement volcano, reenforced by the sani-
tary policeman, to whom complaint had been made that
there were too many "Ginnies" in the Gio flat. There
were four — about half as many as there were in some of
the other flats when the item of house rent was lessened
for economic reasons; but it covered the ground: the flat
was too small for the Gios. The appeal of the signora was
unavailing. **You got-a three bambino," she said to the
housekeeper, ''all four, lika me," counting the number
on her fingers. "I no putta me broder-in-law and me
sister in the street-a. Italian lika to be together."
The housekeeper was unmoved. "Humph!" she said;
"to liken my kids to them Dagos! Out they go." And
they went.
It had been the talk of the neighborhood for years that
the alley would have to go in the Elm Street widening which
was to cut a swath through the block, right over the site
upon which it stood; and at last notice was given about
Christmas time that the wreckers were coming. The
alley was sold, — thirty dollars was all it brought, — and
the old tenants moved away, and were scattered to the four
winds. Barney alone stayed. He flatly refused to budge.
They tore down the church next door and the buildings
on Houston Street, and filled what had been the yard, or
court, of the tenements with debris that reached halfway
to the roof, so that the old locksmith, if he wished to go out
or in, must do so by way of the third-story window, over
a perilous path of shaky timbers and sliding brick. He
147
The Wayfarer in New York
evidently considered it a kind of siege, and shut himself
in his attic, bolting and barring the door, and making secret
sorties by night for provisions. When the chimney fell
down or was blown over, he punched a hole in the rear well
and stuck the stovepipe through that, where it blew de-
fiance to the new houses springing up almost within arm's
reach of it. It suggested guns pointing from a fort, and
perhaps it pleased the old man's soldier fancy. It certainly
made smoke enough in his room, where he was fighting
his battles over with himself, and occasionally with the
janitor from the front, who climbed over the pile of bricks
and in through the window to bring him water. When
I visited him there one day, and, after giving the password,
got behind the bolted door, I found him, the room, and
everything else absolutely covered with soot, coal black
from roof to rafter. The password was "Letter!" yelled
out loud at the foot of the stairs. That would always
bring him out, in the behef that the government had finally
sent him the long-due money. Barney was stubbornly
defiant, he would stand by his guns to the end ; but he was
weakening physically under the combined effect of short
rations and nightly alarms. It was clear that he could
not stand it much longer.
The wreckers cut it short one morning by ripping off
the roof over his head before he was up. Then, and only
then, did he retreat. His exit was characterized by rather
more haste than dignity. There had been a heavy fall
of snow overnight, and Barney slid down the jagged slope
from his window, dragging his trunk with him, in imminent
peril of breaking his aged bones. That day he disappeared
from Mulberry Street. I thought he was gone for good,
and through the Grand Army of the Republic had set
148
The East Side
inquiries on foot to find what had become of him, when one
day I saw him from my window, standing on the opposite
side of the street, key-ring in hand, and looking fixedly
at what had once been the passageway to the alley, but
was now a barred gap between the houses, leading nowhere.
He stood there long, gazing sadly at the gateway, at the
children dancing to the Italian's hand-organ, at Trilby
trying to look unconcerned on the stoop, and then went
his way silently, a poor castaway, and I saw him no more.
So Cat Alley, with all that belonged to it, passed out of
my life. It had its faults, but it can at least be said of it,
in extenuation, that it was very human. With them all it
had a rude sense of justice that did not distinguish its early
builders. When the work of tearing down had begun,
I watched, one day, a troop of children having fun with a
see-saw they had made of a plank laid across a lime barrel.
The whole Irish contingent rode the plank, all at once,
with screams of delight. A ragged little girl from the
despised *'Dago" colony watched them from the corner
with hungry eyes. Big Jane, who was the leader by
virtue of her thirteen years and her long reach, saw her and
stopped the show.
''Here, Mame," she said, pushing one of the smaller
girls from the plank, "you get off an' let her ride. Her
mother was stabbed yesterday."
And the little Dago rode, and was made happy.
Jacob A. Riis in The Battle with the Slum
An East Side Music Hall ^^:> '^^ ^^::y ^^
A X orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-
-^ ^ headed men, on an elevated stage near the center
of a great green hued hall, played a popular waltz.
149
The Wayfarer in New York
The place was crowded with people grouped about little
tables. A battalion of waiters slid among the throng,
carrying trays of beer glasses and making change from the
inexhaustible vaults of their trousers pockets. Little
boys, in the costumes of French chefs, paraded up and down
the irregular aisles vending fancy cakes. There was a low
rumble of conversation and a subdued cHnking of glasses.
Clouds of tobacco smoke rolled and wavered high in air
about the dull gilt of the chandeliers.
The vast crowds had an air throughout of having just
quitted labor. Men with calloused hands, and attired
in garments that showed the wear of an endless drudging
for a living, smoked their pipes contentedly and spent five,
ten, or perhaps fifteen cents for beer. There was a mere
sprinkling of men who smoked cigars purchased elsewhere.
The great body of the crowd was composed of people who
showed that all day they strove with their hands. Quiet
Germans, with maybe their wives and two or three children,
sat listening to the music with the expressions of happy
cows. An occasional party of sailors from a war ship,
their faces pictures of sturdy health, spent the earlier hours
of the evening at the small round tables. Very infrequent
tipsy men, swollen with the value of their opinions, engaged
their companions in earnest and confidential conversation.
In the balcony, and here and there below, shone the im-
passive faces of women. The nationalities of the Bowery
beamed upon the stage from all directions.
Pete walked aggressively up a side aisle and took seats
with Maggie at a table beneath the balcony.
"Two beehs!"
Leaning back, he regarded with eyes of superiority the
scene before them. This attitude affected Maggie strongly.
150
The East Side
A man who could regard such a sight with indifference
must be accustomed to very great things.
It was obvious that Pete had visited this place many times
before, and was very familiar with it. A knowledge of
this fact made Maggie feel little and new.
He was extremely gracious and attentive. He displayed
the consideration of a cultured gentleman who knew what
was due.
"Say, what's eatin' yeh! Bring d' lady a big glass!
What use is dat pony?"
''Don't be fresh, now," said the waiter, with some
warmth, as he departed.
"Ah, git off d' eart' !" said Pete after the other's retreat-
ing form.
Maggie perceived that Pete brought forth all his elegance
and all his knowledge of high-class customs for her benefit.
Her heart warmed as she reflected upon his condescension.
The orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed
men gave vent to a few bars of anticipatory music, and a girl
in a pink dress with short skirts, galloped upon the stage.
She smiled upon the throng as if in acknowledgment of
a warm welcome, and began to walk to and fro, making
profuse gesticulations, and singing, in brazen soprano
tones, a song the words of which were inaudible. When
she broke into the swift rattling measures of a chorus some
half-tipsy men near the stage joined in the rollicking re-
frain, and glasses were pounded rhythmically Uf)on the
tables. People leaned forward to watch her and to try
to catch the words of the song. When she vanished there
were long rollings of applause.
Obedient to more anticipatory bars, she reappeared amid
the half-suppressed cheering of the tipsy men. The
151
The Wayfarer in New York
orchestra plunged into dance music, and the laces of the
dancer fluttered and flew in the glare of gas jets. She
divulged the fact that she was attired in some half dozen
skirts. It was patent that any one of them would have
proved adequate for the purpose for which skirts are in-
tended. An occasional man bent forward, intent upon
the pink stockings. Maggie wondered at the splendor
of the costume and lost herself in calculations of the cost
of the silks and laces.
The dancer's smile of enthusiasm was turned for ten
minutes upon the faces of her audience. In the finale
she fell into some of those grotesque attitudes which were
at the time popular among the dancers in the theaters up-
town, giving to the Bowery public the diversions of the
aristocratic theater-going public at reduced rates.
''Say, Pete," said Maggie, leaning forward, ''dis is great."
''Sure!" said Pete, with proper complacence.
A ventriloquist followed the dancer. He held two
fantastic dolls on his knees. He made them sing mournful
ditties and say funny things about geography and Ireland.
"Do dose Httle men talk?" asked Maggie.
"Naw," said Pete, "it's some big jolly. See?"
Two girls, set down on the bills as sisters, came forth and
sang a duet which is heard occasionally at concerts given
under church auspices. They supplemented it with a dance
which, of course, can never be seen at concerts given under
church auspices.
After they had retired, a woman of debatable age sang
a negro melody. The chorus necessitated some grotesque
waddlings supposed to be an imitation of a plantation darky
under the influence, probably, of music and the moon.
The audience was just enthusiastic enough over it to have
152
The East Side
her return and sing a sorrowful lay, whose lines told of a
mother's love, and a sweetheart who waited, and a young
man who was lost at sea under harrowing circumstances.
From the faces of a score or so in the crowd the self-con-
tained look faded. Many heads bent forward with eager-
ness and sympathy. As the last distressing sentiment
of the piece was brought forth, it was greeted by the kind
of applause which rings as sincere.
As a final effort, the singer rendered some verses which
described a vision of Britain annihilated by America, and
Ireland bursting her bonds. A carefully prepared climax
was reached in the last line of the last verse, when the singer
threw out her arms and cried, ''The Star-spangled Banner."
Instantly a great cheer swelled from the throats of this
assemblage of the masses, most of them of foreign birth.
There was a heavy rumble of booted feet thumping the
floor. Eyes gleamed with sudden fire, and calloused hands
waved frantically in the air.
After a few moments' rest, the orchestra played noisily,
and a small, fat man burst out upon the stage. He began
to roar a song, and to stamp back and forth before the foot-
lights, wildly waving a silk hat and throwing leers broad-
cast. He made his face into fantastic grimaces until he
looked like a devil on a Japanese kite. The crowd laughed
gleefully. His short, fat legs were never still a moment.
He shouted and roared and bobbed his shock of red wig
until the audience broke out in excited applause.
Pete did not pay much attention to the progress of events
upon the stage. He was drinking beer and watching
Maggie.
Her cheeks were blushing with excitement and her eyes
were glistening. She drew deep breaths of pleasure. No
153
The Wayfarer in New York
thoughts of the atmosphere of the collar-and-cuflf factory
came to her.
With the final crash of the orchestra they jostled their
way to the sidewalk in the crowd. Pete took Maggie's
arm and pushed a way for her, offering to fight with a man
or two. They reached Maggie's home at a late hour and
stood for a moment in front of the gruesome doorway.
"Say, Mag," said Pete, "give us a kiss for takin' yeh
t' d' show, will yer? "
Maggie laughed, as if startled, and drew away from him.
"Naw, Pete," she said, "dat wasn't in it."
"Ah, why wasn't it? " urged Pete.
The girl retreated nervously.
"Ah, go ahn!" repeated he.
Maggie darted into the hall, and up the stairs. She
turned and smiled at him, then disappeared.
Pete walked slowly down the street. He had something
of an astonished expression upon his features. He paused
under a lamp-post and breathed a low breath of surprise.
"Gee!" he said, "I wonner if I've been played fer a
duffer."
From Maggie, by Stephen Crane
Copyright, i8q6, by D. Appleton &* Co.
Mulberry Bend •*v> -^o --q^ --Cy ■<;:iy
nPHE Mulberry Bend, the wicked core of the "bloody
-^ Sixth Ward," was marked for destruction, and
all slumdom held its breath to see it go. With that gone,
it seemed as if the old days must be gone too, never
to return. There would not be another Mulberry Bend.
As long as it stood, there was yet a chance. The slum had
backing, as it were.
154
The East Side
What was it like? says a man at my elbow, who never
saw it. Like nothing I ever saw before, or hope ever to see
again. A crooked three-acre lot built over with rotten
structures that harbored the very dregs of humanity.
Ordinary enough to look at from the street, but pierced
by a maze of foul alleys, in the depths of which skulked
the tramp and the outcast thief with loathsome wrecks
that had once laid claim to the name of woman. Every
foot of it reeked with incest and murder. Bandits' Roost,
Bottle Alley, were names synonymous with robbery and red-
handed outrage. By night, in its worst days, I have gone
poking about their shuddering haunts with a policeman
on the beat, and come away in a ferment of anger and dis-
gust that would keep me awake far into the morning hours
planning means of its destruction. That was what it was
like. Thank God, we shall never see another such ! . . .
I had been out of town and my way had not fallen through
Mulberry Bend in weeks until that morning when I came
suddenly upon the park that had been made there in my
absence. Sod had been laid, and men were going over
the lawn cutting the grass after the rain. The sun shone
upon flowers and the tender leaves of young shrubs, and
the smell of new-mown hay was in the air. Crowds of
little Italian children shouted with delight over the "garden,"
while their elders sat around upon the benches with a look
of contentment such as I had not seen before in that place.
I stood and looked at it all, and a lump came in my throat
as I thought of what it had been, and of all the weary years
of battling for this. It had been such a hard fight, and
now at last it was won. To me the whole battle with the
slum had summed itself up in the struggle with this dark
spot. . . .
155
The Wayfarer in New York
In fifteen years I never knew a week to pass without
a murder there, rarely a Sunday. It was the wickedest,
as it was the foulest, spot in all the city. In the slum the
two are interchangeable terms for reasons that are clear
enough for me. But I shall not speculate about it, only
state the facts. The old houses fairly reeked with outrage
and \iolence. When they were torn down, I counted
seventeen deeds of blood in that place which I myself
remembered, and those I had forgotten probably numbered
seven times seventeen. The district attorney connected
more than a score of murders of his own recollection with
Bottle Alley, the Whyo Gang's headquarters. Five years
have passed since it was made into a park, and scarce
a knife had been drawn or a shot fired in all that neigh-
borhood. Only twice have I been called as a pohce re-
porter to the spot. It is not that the murder has moved
to another neighborhood, for there has been no increase
of violence in Little Italy or wherever else the crowd went
that moved out. It is that the light has come in and made
crime hideous. It is being let in wherever the slum has
bred murder and robbery, bred the gang, in the past.
Jacob A. Riis in The Battle with the Slum
II
My Vacation on the East Side" ^^::^ ^^ ^oy
"/'"^REEN fields, fair forests, singing streams, pine-
^-^ clad mountains, verdant vistas — from the monot-
ony of the city to the monotony of nature. I wanted
a complete change, and so I went to the East Side of
New York for my vacation. That is where I have been."
Thus did our friend explain his strange disappearance
and unusual absence from Boston for a whole week. For
the first time since he came here from New York he had
156
The East Side
been missing from his home, his regular haunts, such as
the caf^s, Jewish book-stores and the debating club, and
none of those whom I asked knew whither he had betaken
himself. The direct cause of his disappearance, explained
Keidansky, was a railroad pass, which he had secured from
a friendly editor for whom he had done some work. He
went on explaining. "I wanted to break away for a while
from the sameness and solemnness, the routine and re-
spectability of this town, from my weary idleness, empty
labors, and uniformity of our ideas here, so when the op-
portunity was available I took a little journey to the big
metropolis. One becomes rusty and falls into a rut in
this suburb. I was becoming so sedate, stale and quiet
that I was beginning to be afraid of myself. The revo-
lutionary spirit has somewhat subsided. Many of the
comrades have gone back on their ideas, have begun to
practise what they preach, to improve their conditions by
going into business and into work, and I often feel lonely.
Anti-imperialism, Christian Science and the New Thought
are amusing; but there is not enough excitement here.
Boston is not progressive ; there are not enough foreigners
in this city. People from many lands with all sorts of ideas
and the friction that arises between them — that causes
progress. New York is the place, and it is also the refuge
of all radicals, revolutionaries, and good people whom the
wicked old world has cast out. America, to retain its orig-
inal character, must constantly be replenished by hounded
refugees and victims of persecution in despotic lands.
To remain lovers of freedom we must have sufferers from
oppression with us. Sad commentary, this, upon our hu-
man nature; but so are nearly all commentaries upon
human nature. Commentaries upon the superhuman
^S7
The Wayfarer in New York
are tragic. New York with its Germans and Russians
and Jews is a characteristic American city. Boston and
other places are too much like Europe — cold, narrow
and provincial. I came to Boston some time ago because
I had relatives here — the last reason in the world why
any one should go anywhere; but I was ignorant and
superstitious in those days. I have since managed to
emancipate myself, more or less, from the baneful influences
of those near; but meanwhile I have established myself,
have become interested in the movements and institutions
of the community, and here I am. The symphony con-
certs, the radical movement, the library, lectures on art,
the sunsets over the Charles River, the Faneuil Hall
protest meetings against everything that continues to be,
the literary paper published, the Atlantic Monthly, Ga-
maliel Bradford, Philip Hale and so many other fixtures
of Boston have since endeared it to me and I stayed. Be-
sides, it would cost me too much to ship all my books
to New York. . . . But this time I wanted a complete
change; I wanted something to move and stir me out of
the given groove, the beaten path I was falling into, some
excitement that would shake the cobwebs out of my brain,
so I turned towards the East Side.
"They are all there, the comrades, the radicals, the red
ones, and dreamers ; people who are free because they own
nothing. Poets, philosophers, novelists, dramatists, artists,
editors, agitators, and other idle and useless beings, they
form a great galaxy in the New York Ghetto. For several
years, ever since I left New York, I had been receiving
instruction and inspiration from them through the medium
of the Yiddish and the Socialist press, where my own things
often appeared beside their spirited outpourings, and now
158
The East Side
I was overcome by an overpowering desire to meet them
again, talk matters over and fight it all out. There is no
sham about the East Side branch of the ancient and most
honorable order of Bohemians — the little changing, mov-
ing world that is flowing with the milk of human kindness
and the honey of fraternal affections, where those who live
may die and those who die may live. Here among the
East Side Bohemians people feel freely, act independently,
speak as they think and are not at all ashamed of their
feelings. They have courage. They wear their convictions
in public. They do as they please, whether that pleases
everybody else or not. They talk with the purpose of
saying something. They write with the object of express-
ing their ideas. They tell the truth and shame those who
do not. Hearts are warm because they own their souls.
Those who really own their souls will never lose them. . . .
"I cannot tell you more, but these meetings and these
talks at various times and in various places made my
vacation on the East Side delightful. Then there were
lectures and meetings and social gatherings of the com-
rades. The sun of new ideas rises on the East Side.
Everywhere you meet people who are ready to fight for
what they believe in and who not do believe in fighting.
For a complete change and for pure air you must go among
the people who think about something, have faith in some-
thing. Katz, Cahan, Gordin, Yanofsky, Zolotaroff,
Harkavy, Frumkin, Krantz, Zanetkin, Zeifert, Lessin,
Elisovitz, Winchevsky, Jeff, Leontief, Lipsky, Freidus,
Frominson, Selikowitch, Palay, Barondess, and many
other intellectual leaders, come into the caf& to pour out
wisdom and drink tea, and here comes also Hutchins
Hapgood to get his education. Each man bears his own
159
The Wayfarer in New York
particular lantern, it is true, but each one carries a light
and every one brings a man with him. . . .
''Why," added Keidansky, as a final thunderbolt,
"I have gained enough ideas on the East Side
to last me here in Boston for ten years."
Bernard G. Richards
in Discourses of Keidansky.
By permission
i6o
VI
FROM UNION SQUARE TO MADISON
SQUARE
UNION SQUARE
WHEN night descends, electric argent lamps,
Like radiant cactus blossoms, blaze on high;
The city seems a world of warlike camps,
While Broadway with his legions thunders by.
Walter Malone
VI
FROM UNION SQUARE TO MADISON
SQUARE
On the ''Rialto" ^> ^;> ^^ ^s> -^i,
T TE was one of those wanderers who leave their homes to
-*- -■- try their fortunes in large cities and who go from
place to place with no certain means of earning a living
but with a resourceful knowledge of how to support
themselves from day to day. He had begun life as a
hotel clerk, and had left his desk to sell tickets in the
box office of a theater. Then he had gone as the "press
agent" of a theatrical company "on the road," and when
the failure of the company had left him "stranded" in
a Western town, he had done some newspaper work,
managed a news-stand in Chicago, been conductor on a
street-car in St. Louis, worked in a cigar shop in Pittsburg,
traveled in the cabooses of freight trains to New England,
"clerked it" in Boston, and come to New York as helper
to a baggage man on a passenger boat. Here, fascinated
by the Hfe of the "Rialto" — which satisfied all his rest-
less cravings for Bohemianism and continual change — he
had Hved in the background of the stage world, a looker-on,
playing "thinking parts," in Broadway theaters, sometimes
assisting in stage management in the cheaper houses and
sometimes returning to the ticket wicket of a box office.
Lately he had had a "run of bad luck" and he had been
left for the summer with nothing to do but this "boosting"
163
The Wayfarer in New York
and "spieling" at Coney Island, or on the Bowery. He
had been going the round of the employment agencies
on the morning he met Don. "As soon as the theatrical
season opens," he said, "I'll be all right." . . .
The "Rialto," on these August mornings, was the resort
of all the actors and actresses who were still in search of
an engagement for the "season"; and Don accompanied
Walter Pittsey, from agency to agency, in the atmosphere
of a life that was new to him. Here were the leading men
of road companies, bearing themselves with an obvious
"stage presence," dressed in the correct summer costume
of the footlights and preserving the unreality of the stage
in the very faultlessness of clothes that had the appearance
of being part of a theatrical "wardrobe." Here were
comedians, more or less "low," who carried a lighter man-
ner, a necktie fluttering in the breeze, a straw hat slanted
over the eyes, a hand waved in an airy greeting as they
hurried by. Chorus girls of conspicuous complexions, in
gowns of lace and applique, raised their dragging skirts
to show silk petticoats of pink or green, and stared through
their heavy chiffon veils at the would-be "ingenues" in
their simple frocks. Soubrettes, "heavies," "general
utilities" and young graduates from dramatic schools,
walked haughtily past the groups of untrained and awk-
ward beginners who had registered — as Don had — with
the agent who engaged "supers." And they all passed
and repassed, met and nodded, bowed and shook hands
effusively, in a way that reminded Don of the students
in the college corridors, meeting after their Christmas
holidays, hailing friends and acknowledging acquaintances.
There was the same air of camaraderie, tempered by the
same marked distinction of distance in the manner of the
164
From Union Square to Madison Square
upper years to the lower ones; there was the same tone of
social irresponsibility in the circle of a privileged life;
and there was the same note of unreality and evanescence
derived, in this case, from the exaggerated manner of
these Bohemians who "made up" for the street as if for
a stage entrance and walked in the sunshine as if it had
been a calcium light.
Harvey J. O'Higgins in Don-A-Dreams
Copyright, igo6, by The Century Co.
The Art and Nature Club ^^ ^> ^c^ 'Qy
"AT the Art and Nature Club you can dress as much
•^^' or as little as you please, and we can get a table
in a cosey comer, and afterwards sit about upstairs for
an hour, for there will be music to-night. I have asked
Martin Cortright to join us. It has its interesting side,
this — a transplanted Englishman married to a country
girl, introducing old bred-in-the-bone New Yorkers to
New Manhattan."
We did not tell Miss Lavinia where we were going until
we were almost there, and she was quite upset, as dining
at the two or three hotels and other places affected by the
Whirlpoolers implies a careful and special toilet to run the
gauntlet of society reporters, for every one is somebody
in one sense, though in another "nobody is really any one."
She was reassured, however, the moment that she drew
her high-backed oak chair up to the table that Evan had
reserved in a little alcove near the fireplace. Before the
oysters arrived, and Martin Cortright appeared to fill the
fourth seat, she had completely relaxed, and was beaming
at the brass jugs and pottery beakers ranged along a shelf
above the dark wainscot, and at the general company,
165
The Wayfarer in New York
while the warmth from the fire logs gave her really a very
pretty color, and she began to question Martin as to who
all these people, indicating the rapidly filling up tables,
were. But Martin gazed serenely about and confessed
he did not know.
The people came singly, or in twos and threes, men and
women together or alone, a fact at which Miss Lavinia
greatly marvelled. Greetings were exchanged, and there
was much visiting from table to table, as if the footing was
that of a private house.
"Nice-looking people," said Miss Lavinia, meditatively
scrutinizing the room through her lorgnette without a trace
of snobbery in her voice or attitude, yet I was aware that
she was mentally drawing herself apart. "Some of them
quite unusual, but there is not a face here that I ever saw
in society. Are they members of the Club? Where do
they come from? Where do they live?"
Evan's lips shut together a moment before he answered,
and I saw a certain steely gleam in his eye that I always
regarded as a danger signal.
"Perhaps they might ask the same question about you,"
he answered; "though they are not likely to, their world
is so much broader. They are men and women chiefly
having an inspiration, an art or craft, or some vital reason
for living besides the mere fact that it has become a habit.
They are none of them rich enough to be disagreeable or
feel that they own the right to trample on their fellows.
They all live either in or near New York, as best suits
their means, vocations, and temperaments. Men and
women together, they represent, as well as a gathering
can, the hopeful spirit of our New York of New Manhattan
that does not grovel to mere money power."
i66
From Union Square to Madison Square
Miss Lavinia seemed a little abashed, but Martin Cort-
right, who had been a silent observer until now, said: "It
surprises me to see fraternity of this sort in the midst of
so many institutions of specialized exclusiveness and the
decadence of clubs that used to be veritable brotherhoods
by unwise expansion. I like the general atmosphere, it
seems cheerful, and, if one may blend the terms, con-
servatively Bohemian."
"Come upstairs before the music begins, so that we
can get comfortably settled in the background, that
I may tell you who some of these *unknown-to-Whirl-
pool-society ' people are. You may be surprised," said
Evan to Miss Lavinia, who had by this time finished
her coffee.
The rooms were cheerful with artistic simplicity. The
piano had been moved from the lounging room into the
picture gallery opposite to where a fine stained-glass win-
dow was exhibited, backed by electric lights.
We stowed ourselves away in a deep seat, shaped some-
thing like an old-fashioned school form, backed and
cushioned with leather, to watch the audience gather.
Every phase of dress was present, from the ball gown to
the rainy weather skirt, and enough of each grade to keep
one another in countenance. About half the men wore
evening suits, but those who did not were completely at
their ease.
There was no regular ushering to seats, but every one
was placed easily and naturally. Evan, who had Miss
Lavinia in charge, was alert, and rather, it seemed to me,
on the defensive; but though Martin asked questions, he
was comfortably soothing, and seemed to take in much at
a glance.
167
The Wayfarer in New York
That short man with the fine head, white hair and beard,
aquihne nose, and intense eyes is not only a poet, but the
first American critic of pure literature. He lives out of
town, but comes to the city daily for a certain stimulus.
The petite woman with the pretty color who has crossed
the room to speak to him is the best known writer of New
England romance. That shy-looking fellow standing
against the curtain at your right, with the brown mustache
and broad forehead, is the New England sculptor whose
forcible creations are known everywhere, yet he is almost
shrinkingly modest, and he never, it seems, even in thought,
has broken the injunction of "Let another praise thee, not
thine own lips."
Half a dozen promising painters are standing in the door-
way talking to a young woman who, beginning with news-
paper work, has stepped suddenly into a niche of fiction.
The tall, loose-jointed man at the left of the group, the
editor of a conservative monthly, has for his vis-a-vis the
artist who has had so much to do with the redemption of
American architecture and decoration from the mongrel
period of the middle century. Another night you may
not see a single one of these faces, but another set, yet
equally interesting.
Meanwhile Martin Cortright had discovered a man,
a financier and also a book collector of prominence, who
was reputed to have a complete set of some early records
that he had long wished to consult; he had never found
a suitable time for meeting him, as the man, owing to hav-
ing been oftentime the prey of both unscrupulous dealers
and parasitic friends, was esteemed difficult.
Infected by the freedom of his surroundings, Martin
plucked up courage and spoke to him, the result being
1 68
From Union Square to Madison Square
an interchange of cards, book talk, and an invitation to
visit the library.
Mabel Osgood Wright in People of the Whirlpool
Mannahatta ^^^ "^^ ''^> ^^^ '"^^ ^=^
T WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my
city,
Whereupon, lo ! up sprang the aboriginal name.
Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane,
unruly, musical, self-sufficient,
I see that the word of my city is that word from of old,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays,
superb,
Rich, hemm'd thick all around with sailships and steam-
ships, an island sixteen miles long, solid-founded.
Numberless crowded streets, high growths of iron, slender,
strong, light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies,
Tides swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sun-
down.
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining
islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters,
the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model'd,
The down -town streets, the jobbers' houses of business, the
houses of business of the ship-merchants and money-
brokers, the river-streets.
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week,
The carts hauling goods, the manly race of drivers of horses,
the brown-faced sailors,
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing
clouds aloft,
169
The Wayfarer in New York
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells, the broken ice in the
river, passing along up or down with the flood-tide
or ebb-tide.
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form'd,
beautiful -faced, looking you straight in the eyes,
Trottoirs throng'd, vehicles, Broadway, the women, the
shops and shows,
A million people — manners free and superb — open voices
— hospitality — the most courageous and friendly
young men.
City of hurried and sparkHng waters! city of spires and
masts !
City nested in bays! my city!
Walt Whitman
A Philistine in Bohemia -^^ <:> -^^^ -^^i^
/^EORGE WASHINGTON, with his right arm up-
^-^ raised, sits his iron horse at the lower corner of
Union Square, forever signalling the Broadway cars to
stop as they round the curve into Fourteenth Street. But
the cars buzz on, heedless, as they do at the beck of a private
citizen, and the great General must feel, unless his nerves
are iron, that rapid transit gloria mundi.
Should the General raise his left hand as he has raised
his right it would point to a quarter of the city that forms
a haven for the oppressed and suppressed of foreign lands.
In the cause of national or personal freedom they have
found a refuge here, and the patriot who made it for them
sits his steed, overlooking their district, while he listens
through his left ear to vaudeville that caricatures the pos-
terity of his proteges. Italy, Poland, the former Spanish
possessions and the polyglot tribes of Austria-Hungary
170
From Union Square to Madison Square
have spilled here a thick lather of their cfTervesccnt
sons.
Kate Dempscy's mother kept a furnished -room house in
this oasis of the aliens. The business was not profitable.
If the two scraped together enough to meet the landlord's
agent on rent day and negotiate for the ingredients of
a daily Irish stew they called it success. Often the stew
lacked both meat and potatoes. Sometimes it became as
bad as consommd with music.
In this mouldy old house Katy waxed plump and pert
and wholesome and as beautiful and freckled as a tiger
lily. She was the good fairy who was guilty of placing
the damp, clean towels and cracked pitchers of freshly
laundered Croton in the lodgers' rooms.
You are informed (by virtue of the privileges of as-
tronomical discovery) that the star lodger's name was Mr.
Brunelli. His wearing a yellow tie and paying his rent
promptly distinguished him from the other lodgers. His
raiment was splendid, his complexion olive, his mustache
fierce, his manners a prince's, his rings and pins as mag-
nificent as those of a travelling dentist. . . .
"Sure, I like him," said Katy. "He's more pohteness
than twinty candidates for Alderman, and he makes me
feel like a queen whin he walks at me side. But what is
he, I dinno? I've me suspicions. The marnin' '11 coom
whin he'll throt out the picture av his baronial halls and
ax to have the week's rint hung up in the ice chist along
wid all the rist of 'em."
'"Tis thrue," admitted Mrs. Dempsey, "that he seems
to be a sort iv a Dago, and too coolchured in his spache
for a rale gintleman. But ye may be misjudgin' him.
Ye should niver suspect any wan of bein' of noble
171
The Wayfarer in New York
descint that pays cash and pathronizes the laundry rig'-
lar."
"He's the same thricks of spakin' and blarneyin' wid
his hands," sighed Katy, "as the Frinch nobleman at Mrs.
Toole's that ran away wid Mr. Toole's Sunday pants and
left the photograph of the Bastile, his grandfather's chat-
taw, as security for tin weeks' rint."
Mr. Brunelli continued his calorific wooing. Katy con-
tinued to hesitate. One day he asked her out to dine, and
she felt that a denouement was in the air. While they are
on their way, with Katy in her best muslin, you must take
as an entr'acte a brief peep at New York's Bohemia.
'Tonio's restaurant is in Bohemia. The very location
of it is secret. If you wish to know where it is ask the
first person you meet. He will tell you in a whisper.
'Tonio discountenances custom; he keeps his house-
front black and forbidding; he gives you a pretty bad
dinner; he locks his door at the dining hour; but he
knows spaghetti as the boarding-house knows cold veal;
and — he has deposited many dollars in a certain Banco
di — something with many gold vowels in the name on
its windows.
To this restaurant Mr. Brunelli conducted Katy. The
house was dark and the shades were lowered; but Mr.
Brunelli touched an electric button by the basement door,
and they were admitted.
Along a long, dark, narrow hallway they went and
then through a shining and spotless kitchen that opened
directly upon a back yard.
The walls of houses hemmed three sides of the yard;
a high, broad fence, surrounded by cats, the other. A wash
of clothes was suspended high upon a line stretched from
172
From Union Square to Madison Square
diagonal corners. Those were property clothes, and were
never taken in by 'Tonio. They were there that wits
with defective pronunciation might make puns in con-
nection with the ragout. . . .
Mr. Brunelli escorted Katy to a little table embowered
with shrubbery in tubs, and asked her to excuse him for
a while.
Katy sat enchanted by a scene so brilliant to her. The
grand ladies, in splendid dresses and plumes and sparkling
rings; the fine gentlemen who laughed so loudly, the cries
of "Garsong!" and "We, monseer," and "Hello, Mamel"
that distinguish Bohemia; the lively chatter, the cigarette
smoke, the interchange of bright smiles and eye-glances —
all this display and magnificence overpowered the daughter
of Mrs. Dempsey and held her motionless.
Mr. Brunelli stepped into the yard and seemed to spread
his smile and bow over the entire company. And every-
where there was a great clapping of hands and a few cries
of "Bravo!" and "'Tonio! 'Tonio!" whatever those
words might mean. Ladies waved their napkins at him,
gentlemen almost twisted their necks off, trying to catch
his nod.
When the ovation was concluded Mr. Brunelli, with
a final bow, stepped nimbly into the kitchen and flung off
his coat and waistcoat.
Flaherty, the nimblest "garsong" among the waiters,
had been assigned to the special service of Katy. She was
a little faint from hunger, for the Irish stew on the Dempsey
table had been particularly weak that day. Delicious odors
from unknown dishes tantalized her. And Flaherty began
to bring to her table course after course of ambrosial food
that the gods might have pronounced excellent.
173
The Wayfarer in New York
But even in the midst of her LucuHian repast Katy laid
down her knife and fork. Her heart sank as lead, and a
tear fell upon her filet mignon. Her haunting suspicions
of the star lodger arose again, fourfold. Thus courted
and admired and smiled upon by that fashionable and
gracious assembly, what else could Mr. Brunelli be but
one of those dazzling titled patricians, glorious of name
but shy of rent money, concerning whom experience had
made her wise? With a sense of his ineligibility growing
within her there was mingled a torturing conviction that
his personality was becoming more pleasing to her day
by day. And why had he left her to dine alone ? . . .
At last the company thinned, leaving but few couples
and quartettes lingering over new wine and old stories.
And then came Mr. Brunelli to Katy's secluded table,
and drew a chair close to hers.
Katy smiled at him dreamily. She was eating the last
spoonful of a raspberry roll with Burgundy sauce.
"You have seen!" said Mr. Brunelli, laying one hand
upon his collar bone. "I am Antonio BrunelH ! Yes;
I am the great 'Tonio ! You have not suspect that ! I loave
you, Katy, and you shall marry with me. Is it not so?
Call me 'Antonio,' and say that you will be mine."
Katy's head dropped to the shoulder that was now
freed from all suspicion of having received the knightly
accolade.
"Oh, Andy," she sighed, "this is great! Sure, I'll
marry wid ye. But why didn't ye tell me ye was the cook?
I was near turnin' ye down for being one of thim foreign
counts!"
O. Henry in The Voice of the City
Copyright, igo8. By permission of Doubleday, Page &= Co.
174
From Union Square to Madison Square
At the Old Bull's Head, 1878 -;:><:><;:>
"XJEW YORKERS who were of the rising generation
^ ^ twenty-five and thirty years ago, recall a burly phrase,
now obsolete, then passing current in the gossip of their
elders; as when some retailer of scandal would say: "But
you mayn't tell So-and-so of it, or it will be known
before night from Bull's Head to the Battery." Many
whose ears were wonted to this phrase in childhood,
never understood its local origin and literal meaning.
Yet for a hundred and fifty years, Bull's Head Tavern
with its cattle-market had been one of the institutions of
Manhattan, — the main outpost of the city in its steady
march northward to the Harlem River.
Respect for the pleading relics of the past is growing
in New York, if even one out of a thousand journeying
every quarter hour on Third Avenue, sees anything to
awaken a pleasant thought at Twenty-Fourth Street, where,
looking westward, the eye is arrested by two long rows of
mostly mean, low stables bordering a badly paved and
littered street, before it can reach a charming background
picture formed of the foliage and stately edifices of Madison
Square. Turning eastward more stables form an un-
pleasant foreground to the sail-studded waters of the East
River. There on the northwest corner stands the presiding
genius of this unkempt scene. Old Bull's Head Tavern,
brown, angular and homely. Only an etching could
catch the elusive charm of this weather-beaten structure.
The more minutely it is described, the homelier it will
appear.
In the earlier periods of new communities, the old
butchers' association had the pompous airs of an Antwerp
Guild. In all civic festivals it was an indispensable factor,
175
The Wayfarer in New York
and took a prominent part in the great federal procession
of July 23, 1788.
Bull's Head Tavern advanced gradually to its present
position in Twenty-Fourth Street. A little more than two
hundred years ago, when Peter Stuyvesant's wooden leg
thumped across the floors of the Stadt Huys in Whitehall,
the Hvestock market adjoined Trinity churchyard. Years
afterward a drover's inn was built at the gates of the city,
on the present site of the Astor House, where from 1720 till
1740 Adam Van der Bergh, a genial host, discussed cattle
and small ale with the drovers. Bull's Head in the Bowery,
with Stephen Carpenter as host, and standing where the
Bowery Theater now is, was the last halting place for the
stages, before the gallant six were whipped down Chatham
Square and up Chatham Street to enter the city with dash
and clatter. . . .
About the year 1825 the butchers' association purchased
two blocks of ground on Twenty-Fourth Street between
Third and Lexington Avenues, and converted the space
into cattle yards, Thomas Swift of Poughkeepsie at the
same time building Bull's Head Tavern. He was not a
successful tavern keeper and rented the hostelry to David
Valentine. The latter also abdicated about 1820 in favor
of Daniel Drew. The reign of "Uncle Dan'l," as he was
called, was the golden age at Bull's Head. The old sign-
board swung from a post at the corner of the street, and
underneath it hung the cheerful dinner bell. A low Dutch
stable stood beyond, and in front of this a wooden pump
and trough. Cattle pens filled the remaining space to
Lexington Avenue and also the opposite side of the street.
At that time Third Avenue was macadamized from
Eighth Street to Spark's Four Mile House at Sixtieth
176
From Union Square to Madison Square
Street, the two miles between the latter being the finest
drive on Manhattan Island. . . .
In 1848, the cattle market was warned by the encroaching
population to move on. When the butchers and drovers
withdrew from Bull's Head in Twenty-Fourth Street, the
horse-dealers eagerly took possession, making it the equine
capital of this continent, and perhaps of the world.
C. C. BUEL
Scribner^s Monthly, January, 1879
The Social Map ^^ ^^^ '"^^ ^^^ ^^:i.'
A MONG the many peculiarities which contribute to
"^ ^ make New York unlike other cities is the construc-
tion of what may be called its social map. As in the
puzzles used in teaching children geography, all the pieces
are of different shapes, different sizes and different colors;
but they fit neatly together in the compact whole though
the lines which define each bit are distinctly visible, especially
when the map has been long used by the industrious child.
What calls itself society everywhere else calls itself society
in New York also, but whereas in European cities one
instinctively speaks of the social scale, one familiar with
New York people will be much more inclined to speak of
the social map. I do not mean to hint that society here
exists on a dead level, but the absence of tradition, of all
acknowledged precedents and of all outward and perceptible
distinctions makes it quite impossible to define the position
of any one set in regard to another by the ordinary scale
of superiority or inferiority. In London or Paris, for
instance, ambitious persons are spoken of as climbing; in
New York it would be more correct to speak of them as
migrating or attempting to migrate from one social field
N 177
The Wayfarer in New York
to the next. It is impossible to imagine j&elds real or
metaphorical yielding more different growths under the
same sky.
F. Marion Crawford in Marion Darche
To the Farragut Statue ^;> ^«:^ -«;:^ -5;^
*0 live a hero, then to stand
In bronze serene above the city's throng;
Hero at sea, and now on land
Revered by thousands as they rush along;
T
If these were all the gifts of fame —
To be a shade amid alert reality,
And win a statue and a name —
How cold and cheerless immortality!
But when the sun shines in the Square,
And multitudes are swarming in the street,
Children are always gathered there.
Laughing and playing round the hero's feet.
And in the crisis of the game —
With boyish grit and ardor it is played —
You'll hear some youngster call his name:
*'The Admiral — he never was afraid!"
And so the hero daily lives,
And boys grow braver as the Man they see !
The inspiration that he gives
Still helps to make them loyal, strong, and free!
Robert Bridges in Bramble Brae
Copyright, IQ02, by Charles Scrihner^s Sons
178
From Union Square to Madison Square
Madison Square Garden ^^^^ ^^::> ^v> <::>
TF there is any more beautiful temple of pleasure in the
-*- world than Madison Square Garden, it must be in some
of the undiscovered regions, for it has not yet been seen
by civilized men trying to forget civilization.
What forms of amusement has the New Yorker not seen
in this microcosm? Here he is brought as a child to see
the Greatest Show on Earth on a greater scale than in
any tent — though not so easy to crawl under. Here the
menagerie has overwhelmed him with its animals almost
as fearful and wonderful as the menagerie of adjectives
Tony Hamilton has gathered out of the backwoods of
the dictionary. That complicated, noisy menagerie smell
has dislocated his nose, as later the three-ring circus has
dislocated his eyes.
Playing so important a part in the New York child's
education, it is small wonder he loves it when he is grown.
And it grows with him; for when the circus is over, he
goes to the Dog Show, and gets deliciously frightened out
of his wits by the barking of a thousand canines, leaping
and tugging at their chains, and thrusting their heads out
to bite, or, what is worse, to lather him with their impartial
tongues. His little sister is taken to the Cat Show, where
the priceless Angoras doze and purr, and where the town's
practical joker, Bryan G. Hughes, once took first prize with
a common tomcat picked up in the gutter. Once a year
the Garden calls in all the country cousins and the farmers,
real or amateur, to see the Poultry Show, where lovers of
the Plymouth Rock can quarrel with the devotees of the
Brahma and the Cochin China, and where the gamecocks
and the featherweight bantams challenge one another to
mortal combat all day long in safety.
179
The Wayfarer in New York
When the New Yorker grows older he probably joins a
regiment — Squadron A, or the Seventh if he has the price
— one of the others otherwise. The Mihtary Tourna-
ment draws him to the Garden next, and his heart jounces
as he sees the cavalryman running alongside his bareback
horses, four abreast, and, as they take a hurdle, vaulting
across three loping steeds and flouncing squarely on the
fourth horse, but facing toward the tail. There he will
see the artillery teams come dashing round the oval,
swirling the tanbark in clouds as they slidder on a sharp
turn and nicely drive between the narrow posts. There the
New Yorker's ears crackle from the musketry and can-
nonade of the sham battles. Each of the regiments is
represented in the opening review, and then the Canadians
stalk in in khaki and the gorgeous Highlanders, with their
squealing bagpipes, flaunt their tartans.
In this big space the New Yorker has seen the charge
up San Juan Hill done in miniature, and the tears came
to his eyes as the boys swung past chanting, ''There'll
be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night." It was at
"The Wild West Show" he saw this, for the show has other
things to tempt the spectator weary of Indians. But who
can ever weary of the tame savages in their outrageous
make-up, or the old Deadwood stagecoach that goes round
and round, pursued by Indians shooting it full of paper
wads and falling off to the ground as they themselves die
twice a day from an overdose of blank cartridges?
The famous six-day bicycle race takes place here an-
nually, and all night long the benches are crowded with
enthusiasts watching the jaded riders pumping away on
their eternal treadles. The yellow journals picture them
as going mad with fatigue, but in reality they bear the grind
1 80
From Union Square to Madison Square
with amazing indifference, except when a spectator offers
a cash prize for a short race; then they brighten up and
flash round Hke demons. They seem always to keep one
more spurt up their sleeves.
Then there's the Sportsmen's Show, and the building be-
comes a great landscape, with all manner of wild places
condensed into one medley. This year one end was a
range of mountains with real trees and real streams of real
water. The water turned two old-fashioned wheels and
then cascaded into a big lake in the center. One end of
the lake was thick with all manner of waterfowl, and in
another part was a fish hatchery, where trout went to
school from the day of their birth to their day of readiness
for a frying-pan diploma. . . .
Rupert Hughes in The Real New York
Copyright, IQ04
A Song of City TraflSc ^=^ ^'^^ ^'Ci*' -<;:^
T HAVE heard the roar and clamor through the city's
crowded ways
Of ihe never-ending pageant moving down the busy
days —
Coaches, wagons, hearses, engines, clanging cars, and
thundering drays!
I have watched them moving past me as the day began to
dawn;
I have watched them creeping onward when the sun's last
light was gone.
Like a serpent long and sinuous, gliding on, and on, and on.
Never, since I can remember, has this long procession
ceased;
181
The Wayfarer In New York
Rather has the surging torrent ever lengthened and in-
creased,
And the human traffic changed not — prince and beggar,
fool and priest.
They have marched, and still are marching, through the
city's wilderness —
O the sadness of their going who shall know or who shall
guess ?
Prophet, lady, sage, and merchant, cap-and-bells in wis-
dom's dress!
Ah ! poor throngs of the great city, drops within that mighty
stream.
When the night descends upon you and the streets are all
agleam.
Of some distant hills of silence do your worn hearts never
dream ?
When the brazen voice of traffic and the loud call of the
mart
Strangle all the hope within you, bruise your soul and break
your heart,
Do you think of some far valley where life plays another
part?
Sometimes in your startled slumbers, ere the morn comes
up again,
Do you dream of some blue mountain or some wonderful
green glen.
Where the silver voice of silence calls the weary world of
men?
182
From Union Square to Madison Square
Or perhaps you dream, as I do, of the quiet woodland
ways;
But the long procession lures you through the fleeting nights
and days,
And you miss the old, old beauty for which still your spirit
prays;
Miss it all, and, missing, weep not; join once more the
bands of trade,
Join again the city's tumult, that long clamoring parade —
Join once more the foolish struggle which not God, but
man, has made !
Losing love and losing friendship, making life but wounds
and scars;
Missing beauty and calm rapture, and the shelter of the
stars —
Poor, sad mortals, hearing only noise of wheels and clang
of cars !
Charles Hanson Towne
Copyright, igo8, by B. W. Dodge 6^ Co.
A Bird's-Eye View from the Waldorf ^^ ^^>
/^N the first morning I got up and went to my
^-^ eighth-story window: New York was spread out
in bright sunshine below. Never have I seen a city
more hideous or more splendid. Uncouth, formless, pie-
bald, chaotic, it yet stamps itself upon you as the most
magnificent embodiment of Titanic energy and force.
The foreground of my picture was a lightning-conductor,
sweeping down from some dizzy, unimagined height aslant
to the street below. Beneath was a wing of the Waldorf;
183
The Wayfarer in New York
on the left a deep, silent courtyard, whence some pittance
of air and light filtered into the lower floors; on the right
a huge skeleton of iron girders that is to fill out into yet
another gigantic branch of this gigantic hotel. Beyond
lay the red, flat, sloping roofs of two streets of houses
four or five-storyed, with trees straggling up to the light
between them : this might have been a bit of Bloomsbury.
Beyond these, shutting out the direct front, rose to double
their height the great, square, dirty white-and-yellow back
of a huge Broadway store ; the bhnd-looking windows and
outside iron stairs contradicted the comfortable Blooms-
bury streets with a suggestion of overcrowding and squalor.
To the right of this, half -covered with creepers, a little
church cocked a squat Gothic spire at heaven. To the
left was a peep of Broadway, with cable cars ceaselessly
gliding to and fro; right on top of them, as it seemed, the
trains of the Elevated Road puffed and rattled in endless
succession. Just over the iron fretwork peeped a little
blue shop and a little red shop side by side; elbowing
them a big greenish theater, and beyond that again
a great white block of business houses with a broad blue
band of advertisements across its dead side. Emerging
above that, another street; beyond that, another square
block of windows; a clock-tower; then in a shapeless
brown jumble the city stretches out to the steely band of
the Hudson and the pale green hills of New Jersey beyond.
Walk down town towards the business quarter — if one
part is the business quarter anymore than another: the
impression is everywhere the same. The very buildings cry
aloud of struggling, almost savage, unregulated strength.
No street is laid out as part of a system, no building as an
architectural unit in a street. Nothing is given to beauty;
184
From Union Square to Madison Square
everything centers in hard utility. It is the outward ex-
pression of the freest, fiercest individualism. The very
houses are aHve with the instinct of competition, and strain
each one to overtop its neighbors. Seeing it, you can well
understand the admiration of an American for something
ordered and proportioned — for the Rue de Rivoli or
Regent Street. Fine buildings, of course, New York has
in every pure and cross-bred style of architecture under the
sun. Most are suggestions of the Italian Renaissance,
as is the simple yet rich and stately Produce Exchange,
built of terra-cotta and red brick of a warmer, and yet less
impudent, red than ours. In this Hves the spirit of the
best Florentine models. Fifth Avenue is lined with such
fine buildings — here rococo, there a fine Gothic cathedral,
then, again a hint of Byzantine, or a dandy suggestion of
Mauresque.
Indeed, architects here appear far more awake to what
is beautiful than ours. Working on the old models, they
seldom fail to impart a suggestion of originality. You will
hardly find an eyesore like the new Admiralty in New
York. But too many of the best buildings are half wasted
for want of space and place. The Produce Exchange has
nearly half its front cut off by a row of steamship offices.
Many of the most ambitious buildings in narrow Wall
Street are so high that it would break any man's neck to
look to the top of them. Each for himself is the motto of
New York building, and confusion takes the hindmost
and the foremost, the topmost and the whole jumble.
No man could do its architecture justice unless he had
a pair of eyes in the top and the back and both sides of his
head, with a squint in each of them.
The city stretches north from Battery Point, between the
i85
The Wayfarer in New York
East River and the Hudson, so that it is over thirteen miles
long by about three w^ide. The best way to see it as a
whole, therefore, is from some such point as the Brooklyn
Bridge, whence I have seen it at night, stretched out in
front of a rosy sunset that bathed even New York in soft-
ness. From that point the low red houses sloping up from
the waterside looked like a carpet for the giants to tread
upon. These skyscraping monsters stretched in a
jagged backbone along the central northern line
of the city — mere white frames for windows,
most of them appear — square, hard
outlines, four times as high as
they are broad, with regular
rows on rows of case-
ments as close as
the squares in
a chess-
board.
G. W. Steevens in
The Land of the Dollar
i86
VII
FROM MADISON SQUARE THROUGH
CENTRAL PARK
"T^WAS a summery day in the last of May —
J- Pleasant in sun or shade;
And the hours went by, as the poets say,
Fragrant and fair on their flowery way;
And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway,
And the Fountain gaily play'd.
N. P. Willis
VII
FROM MADISON SQUARE THROUGH
CENTRAL PARK
The Architecture of New York ^^^ ^=^ ^^::>
'T^HIS is the first sensation of life in New York —
-*- you feel that the Americans have practically added
a new dimension to space. They move almost as
much on the perpendicular as on the horizontal plane.
When they find themselves a little crowded, they simply
tilt a street on end and call it a skyscraper. This hotel,
for example (the Waldorf-Astoria), is nothing but a couple
of populous streets soaring up into the air instead of crawl-
ing along the ground. When I was here in 1877, I re-
member looking with wonder at the Tribune building,
hard by the Post Office, which was then considered a
marvel of architectural daring. Now it is dwarfed into
absolute insignificance by a dozen Cyclopean structures
on every hand. It looks as diminutive as the Adelphi
Terrace in contrast with the Hotel Cecil. I am credibly
informed that in some of the huge down-town buildings
they run "express" elevators, which do not stop before
the fifteenth, eighteenth, twentieth floor, as the case may
be. Some such arrangement seems very necessar}', for
the elevator Bummelzugs, which stop at every floor, take
189
The Wayfarer in New York
quite an appreciable slice out of the average New York
day. I wonder that American ingenuity has not provided
a system of pneumatic passenger-tubes for lightning com-
munication with these aerial suburbs, these "mansions in
the sky."
The achitecture of New York, according to Mr. Steevens,
is "the outward expression of the freest, fiercest individu-
alism. . . . Seeing it, you can well understand the ad-
miration of an American for something ordered and pro-
portioned — for the Rue de RivoH or Regent Street."
I heard this admiration emphatically expressed the other
day by one of the foremost and most justly famous of
American authors; but, unlike Mr. Steevens, I could not
understand it. "What!" I said, "you would Haussmann-
ise New York! You would reduce the glorious variety
of Fifth Avenue to the deadly uniformity of the Avenue de
rOpera, where each block of buildings reproduces its
neighbour, as though they had all been stamped by one
gigantic die ! " Such an architectural ideal is inconceivable
to me. It is all very well for a few short streets, for a square
or two, for a quadrant like that of Regent Street, or a
crescent or circus like those of Bath or Edinburgh. But to
apply it throughout a whole quarter of a city, or even
throughout the endless vistas of a great American street,
would be simply maddening. Better the most heaven-
storming or skyscraping audacity of individualism than
any attempt to transform New York into a Fourierist
phalanstery or a model prison. I do not doubt that there
will one day be some legal restriction on Towers of Babel,
and that the hygienic disadvantages of the microbe-breed-
ing "well" or air-shaft will be more fully recognised than
they are at present. A time may come, too, when the ideal
190
Madison Square through Central Park
of an unforced harmony in architectural groupings may
replace the now dominant instinct of aggressive diversity.
But whatever developments the future may have in store,
I must own my gratitude to the "fierce individualism"
of the present for a new realisation of the possibilities of
architectural beauty in modern life. At almost every turn
in New York, one comes across some building that gives
one a little shock of pleasure. Sometimes, indeed, it is
the pleasure of recognising an old friend in a new place
— a patch of Venice or a chunk of Florence transported
bodily to the New World. The exquisite tower of the
Madison Square Garden, for instance, is modelled on that
of the Giralda, at Seville; while the new University Club,
on Fifth Avenue, is simply a Florentine fortress-palace of
somewhat disproportionate height. But along with a good
deal of sheer reproduction of European models, one finds
a great deal of ingenious and inventive adaptation, to say
nothing of a very delicate taste in the treatment of detail.
New York abounds, it is true, with monuments of more than
one bygone and detestable period of architectural fashion,
but they are as distinctly survivals from a dead past as is
the wooden shanty which occupies one of the best sites on
Fifth Avenue, in the very shadow of the new Delmonico's.
I wish tasteless, conventional and machine-made architec-
ture were as much of a "back-number" in England as it is
here. A practised observer could confidently date any
prominent building in New York to within a year or two,
by its architectural merit; and the greater the merit the
later the year.
In short, architecture is here a living art.
WiLLi.^M Archer in America To-day
Copyright, i8qq, by Charles Scrihner^s Sons
191
The Wayfarer in New York
The Tenderloin 'Qy ^Qy -^^ -c^ '^^^
'T^HERE is a West Side as well as an East Side,
■^ where pauperized Americans live in brick shanties,
where negroes and poor whites and Irish-Americans
gather in forlorn quarters, and where poverty, crime, and
disease are almost as prevalent as elsewhere in the city.
Moreover, right through the heart of the Upper City,
between the two dismal Sides, cuts that Great White Way,
which has for its high-light the district known as "The
Tenderloin" — a feature truly enough American, and not
the less of a blotch and a patch on the city because illuminated
by electricity, and made gaudy by the extravagance of the
foolish. . . .
The Great White Way is the place where the rapid career
usually begins, and the East Side is often the place of its
ending. For the processes of degeneracy may finally
land the one-time habitue of "The Tenderloin" into the
pitiless precincts of the Bowery, or the darkness of the Mott
Street opium-joints. "The Tenderloin" is always full
of evil promise. Here is where crime is born and brought
to maturity. Here is where the police throw out their
first drag-net for the defaulter, the embezzler, the forger,
the well-dressed thief. Most of the race-track, the pool-
room, the bucket-shop people belong here; and confidence
men, badger-game men, with pickpockets and ordinary
swindlers, are always in its offing, keeping a weather-eye
open for prey. The gay ladies sooner or later become
the stool-pigeons of the swindlers and help them in their
hawking. Such criminals as these seem more cunning
than brutal, but perhaps they are more dangerous for that
very reason. The police have to keep them on the blotter
192
Madison Square through Central Park
all the time. "The Tenderloin" is perhaps under stricter
surveillance than the Bowery and its purlieus.
J. C. Van Dyke in The New New York
When the Owls First Blinked Election News ^:>
"DROADWAY cable-cars and elevated trains poured
-'-^ their hordes into the open spaces on election
night. There were thousands massed in Herald Square;
an enormous crowd in Madison Square, confused, up-
roarious. Here and there, razzle-dazzle duets and trios
wandered up and down the thoroughfare, celebrating on
more or less unsteady feet the day's victory for reform.
The intensity of feeling in any election is usually indicated
by the amount of intoxication among the voters. There
was more than the usual number of plain and ornamental
drunks on the streets that night. The good-natured
crowd seemed for the hour to have dropped the attitude of
reserve and suspicion, and to have adopted a carnival readi-
ness to be gay, or at least more or less excited, with any
comer. And unless the enthusiasm was distinctly over-
pitched the police made no attempt to interfere with the
hilarious privileges of the people.
The Bowery was crowded with Tammany voters who
strolled along in an endless stream, gossiping and talking
over the defeat of the day, between times cursing the intri-
cate ballot system.
Grand Street was brilliant from end to end, and every
young man with a good social bent promenaded the street
with his best girl or stood in the great crushes around the
bulletin boards. It was a great night for the little boys
and the bonfires. Every street was ablaze with flaming
pyramids of light around which flitted small and ragged, or
o 193
The Wayfarer in New York
sturdy and well-dressed, gnomes, who piled on barrels,
boxes, and boards, even election booths stolen from both
parties. The lofty tenements stood out in bold rehef or
faded into flickering shadows, their fire-escapes crowded
with silent spectators.
From the wider streets off Herald Square the yellow light
of these big fires fell on and mellowed the ornamented
fagade of the building which was the focus of interest,
the beautiful old-world palace housing the newspaper which
had its beginnings sixty years ago in a Wall Street cellar, —
not a basement but a genuine cellar, — with an office equip-
ment of a broken chair and a board over two flour barrels.
The unique feature of the night's display of election news
was the blinking of the owls on the Herald Building's roof.
The birds, solemn, imperturbably sitting in rows on the roof,
had an air of wisdom about them far out of the ordinary
as they sent out the tidings of who had carried the state
and who had swept the city. The novel idea had captured
the town and a vast army wanted to see how this ingenious
application of electricity worked. Suddenly the light
flashed in the owls' eyes ; then it died out. Then it flashed
again; that was all. *'Two bhnks: — Republicans run-
ning ahead in the state." A minute passed; the owls
blinked twice again. Another minute passed. They
blinked twice more; that made three pair of blinks.
What did it mean? Scores had the key to the signals
pasted in their hats. The key said: "Any of the signals
repeated three times at intervals of a minute will indicate
that the result is certain." And the stereopticon professor
threw a portrait of New York's next Governor on the screen
while the crowd hurrahed. The Bulletins brought out
cheers, but the owls were the favorites.
194
Madison Square through Central Park
And through it all, overhead, l)elow the great bronze
statue of Minerva, the Wise Woman — without a vote — the
figures of heroic workmen swung their great bronze ham-
mers with a calm precision disturbed by no storm of nature
about, or noise of men below — and above them eternal
Wisdom sang: —
" Year after year I see them come
To toil and triumph — or martyrdom.
I see them come and I see them pass,
To sleep and silence and graveyard grass,
And the ebb and flow of that restless sea,
Its storms and its surges, are naught to me.
And I calmly weave the eternal rhyme
And beat it out on the bell of Time."
Condensed from current articles in The New York Herald
Three Days of Terror, 1863 ^^^ ^^ -^^^ ^>
■pVERYTHING looked hot, glaring, and artificial,
■*— ' and everybody looked shabby, jaded, and care-
worn. An overworked horse dropped dead in the street
before me, and I was glad to take refuge for a time
in the Astor Library.
Returning thence at mid-day I first saw signs of disturb-
ance. A squad of policemen passed before me into Third
Avenue, clerks were looking eagerly from the doors, and
men whispering in knots all up and down the street ; but
I was too much a stranger to be certain that these appear-
ances were unusual, though they annoyed me so much
that I crossed at once to Second Avenue, along which I
pursued my way peacefully, and once at home thought nQ
more of it. We were indulging ourselves in siestas after
our noonday lunch, when a great roaring suddenly burst
19s
The Wayfarer in New York
upon our ears — a howling as of thousands of wild Indians
let loose at once ; and before we could look out and collect
our thoughts at all the cry arose from every quarter, "The
mob! the mob!" ''The Irish have risen to resist the
draft ! "
In a second my head was out of the window, and I saw
it with my own eyes. We were on a cross-street between
First and Second Avenues. First Avenue was crowded
as far as we could see it with thousands of infuriated crea-
tures, yelling, screaming and swearing in the most frantic
manner; while crowds of women, equally ferocious, were
leaning from every door and window, swinging aprons and
handkerchiefs, and cheering and urging them onward.
The rush and roar grew every moment more terrific. Up
came fresh hordes faster and more furious; bareheaded
men, with red, swollen faces, brandishing sticks and clubs,
or carr}ang heavy poles and beams; and boys, women,
and children hurrying on and joining with them in this mad
chase up the avenue like a company of raging fiends.
. . . The armory on Twenty-second Street was broken
open, sacked, and fired, and the smoke and flames rolled
up directly behind us. . . .
But another day had come, Wednesday, July 15th.
A long, bright, blazing midsummer day was before us.
There was little change in the aspect of affairs without.
The city was not all burned down, we found. The news-
papers were still alive, and insisting that more troops were
on hand and the mob checked ; but we saw no signs of it.
The morning indeed passed more quietly. The rioters
were resting from the labors of the night; but business
was not resumed, and swarms of idle men still hung about
the streets and stores. No cars were running in the
196
Madison Square through Central Park
avenues, no carts in the streets. No milkmen came, and
no meat-men, and not a soldier or policeman showed his
head. . . .
The day, though quieter than the preceding, was far
more irksome. The brick walls and glaring streets,
the heat, confusion, and confinement were intolerably
wearisome. The sun blazed more and more fiercely.
The stillness was oppressive and ominous. It seemed the
calm before a storm. Already clouds was gathering in
the horizon. As night approached we heard drums beating
and gangs of rioters marched up their favorite avenue.
The whole population bestirred itself at once. Men,
women, and children rushed out cheering and clamoring,
some hurrying on with the crowd, some hanging around the
corner. Many soon returned, laden with spoil — bedding,
clothing, and furniture. The crowd increased rapidly
in the street and around the liquor store. Great excite-
ment prevailed. There was loud talking, with fierce
gestures. Some ran thither with fire-arms, some with poles
and boards. Then someone shouted, ''They are coming ! "
and a small band of soldiers appeared marching up our
street. The mob seemed to swell into vast dimensions,
and densely filled the whole street before them. Hun-
dreds hurried out on the house-tops, tore up brickbats, and
hurled them with savage howls at the approaching soldiers.
Shots were fired from secret ambushes, and soldiers fell
before they had fired. Then they charged bravely into
the mob, but their force was wholly inadequate. One
small howitzer and a company of extemporized militia
could do little against those raging thousands. A fierce
conflict raged before our eyes. With breathless interest
we watched them from door and windows. We feared the
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The Wayfarer in New York
soldiers would be swallowed up and annihilated. Some
now appeared in sight with a wounded officer and several
wounded men, looking from side to side for shelter. Their
eyes met ours with mute appeal. There was no time to be
lost; the mob might any moment be upon them. There
was a moment's consultation, a hasty reference to J., an
unhesitating response: "Yes, by all means" ; we beckoned
them in, and in they came. Doors and windows were at
once closed, and the house became a hospital, and seemed
filled with armed men. The wounded men were carried
into my brother's room; the Colonel was laid on the bed,
and the others propped up with pillows. There were a few
moments of great commotion and confusion. We flew
for fans, ice-water, and bandages. Some of the soldiers
went out into the fight again, and some remained with the
wounded. A surgeon, who had volunteered as a private
under his old commander, dressed the wounds of the suf-
ferers. The Colonel was severely wounded in the thigh
by a slug made of a piece of lead pipe, producing a com-
pound fracture. The wounds of two others, though less
dangerous, were severe and painful. . . . Twilight was
now upon us and night rapidly approaching ; we were open
to attack at once from the front and the rear, the roof, the
front basement and the balcony above it; resistance was
hopeless, could only make the case worse, and must not
be attempted. Not only so but all signs of the presence
of soldiers must be removed. Arms, military apparel and
bloody clothing were concealed. The Colonel was con-
veyed to a cellar and placed on a mattress. The young
soldier, next to him most seriously wounded, was removed
to a rear room on an upper floor, and placed in charge of
my mother and myself. ... Of course we knew but
^ 198
Madison Square through Central Park
imperfectly at the time of the search, what was going on.
We Icnew that men bent on their destruction were seeking
for them. We heard the clamor without, the cry for "the
soldiers," the rush into the hall. We heard the movement
through the parlors and downward to the basement.
Then came the irruption of the fierce crowd into the lower
hall. . . . Again, came screams from below, the heavy
tramp of many men, now moving upward, talking eagerly
and rapidly. They paused in the hall. We dared not
move or breathe. Would they come up the stairs? No,
the door is opened, men pass out, it is closed after them
and all is silent. . . .
It was now, we thought, past midnight. We had no hope
of relief, no thought or expectation but of struggling on
alone hour after hour of distress and darkness; but as I
was listening in my window to some unusually threatening
demonstrations from the mob, I heard the distant clank
of a horse's hoof on the pavement. Again and again it
sounded, more and more distinctly; and then a measured
tread reached my ears, the steady, resolute tramp of a
trained and disciplined body. No music was ever half
so beautiful ! It might, it must be, our soldiers ! Ofif I
flew to spread the good news through the household, and
back again to the window to hear the tramp nearer and
fuller and stronger, and see a long line of muskets gleam
out from the darkness, and a stalwart body of men stop
at our door. "Halt!" was cried; and I rushed down
stairs headlong, unlocked the door without waiting for
orders, and with tears of joy and gratitude which everyone
can imagine, and nobody can describe, welcomed a band
of radiant soldiers and policemen, and in the midst of them
all who should appear but my brother, pale and exhausted,
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The Wayfarer in New York
who had gotten off the house-top in some mysterious way
and brought this gallant company to our rescue !
There was no time for inquiries or feHcitations. The
wounded men were our first care. Our young soldier
in his delight had hobbled to the stairway, and was borne
down in triumph by his sympathizing comrades, while
a larger company brought the Colonel from the cellar. A
pitiful sight he was, all bleeding and ghastly, shivering with
cold and suffering great pain. Both soldiers were placed
carefully in the carriage brought for their conveyance, and
then we ladies were requested to accompany them im-
mediately. It was unsafe to remain in the house, soldiers
could not be spared to protect it, and it was best for us
to go at once to the Central Police Station.
Ellen Leonard in Harper's Magazine
The Little Church Round the Corner ^:> ^^
" "DRING him not here, where our sainted feet
-■-^ Are treading the path to glory;
Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet
Repeats for us his story.
Go, take him where such things are done
(For he sat in the seat of the scorner),
To where tTiey have room, for we have none, —
To the little church round the corner."
So spake the holy Man of God,
Of another man, his brother.
Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod.
Had only asked that a Christian rite
Might be read above them by one whose light
Was, "Brethren, love one another";
200
Madison Square through Central Park
Had only asked that a prayer be read
Ere his flesh went down to join the dead,
While his spirit looked with suppliant eyes,
Searching for God throughout the skies.
But the priest frowned "No," and his brow was bare
Of love in the sight of the mourner.
And they looked for Christ and found him — where?
In that little church round the corner.
Ah! well, God grant when, with aching feet,
We tread life's last few paces,
That we may hear some accents sweet,
And kiss, to the end, fond faces.
God grant that this tired flesh may rest
('Mid many a musing mourner).
While the sermon is preached and the rites are read
In no church where the heart of love is dead.
And the pastor's a pious prig at best.
But in some small nook where God's confessed, —
Some little church round the corner.
A. E. Lancaster
The Path of In-the-Spring ^^^ ^:^ ^^> ^^
"X X /"EST of the walk leading from the south to the
^ ^ Reservoir Castle in the park there is a little brick
path, steep and uneven and running crookedly down-
ward like a mere mood of the sober walk itself. The
path is railed in from the crowding green things on either
side, but the rail hardly thwarts a magnificent Forsythia
which tosses its sprays to curve high over the way like the
curve of wings in flight. It was a habit of ours to seek out
this path once or twice every Spring, and to stand beneath
20I
The Wayfarer in New York
these branches. Some way when we did that we were
sure that it was Spring, for we seemed to catch its high
moment; as for another a bell might strike somewhere
with "One, two, three: Now it is the crest of May. Four,
five, six: Now this apple-tree is at the very height of its
bloom. This is the moment of this rose." We called this
path the path of In-the-Spring. We always went there
in the mornings, for in Spring we think that it seems to
be more Spring in the morning than in the afternoon. And
it was here of an April Nine-o'clock that we saw our first
pair of grosbeaks of the year. . . .
*'I suppose that that little path really has no ending,"
he said; "you cannot end direction. Yes, the path of
In-the-Spring must run right away to the end of the
world."
We walked on happily, counting the robins, listening to
a near phoebe call to a far phoebe, watching two wrens
pull slivers from a post for a nest they knew. Across the
green, but too far away for certainty, we thought we saw
a cherry bough in flower. .. . — r\r\ . — ?
we heard the grosbeak once again from somewhere in-
visible. The mornings on which we walk in the park seem
to us almost like youth.
Zona Gale in The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre
Columbia at the Outbreak of the Civil War ^^^
TN the early spring of 1861 only one building obstructed
-*" the \iew from the south portico of Columbia to the
gray walls of the reserv'oir on Fifth Avenue — the old
wooden stage station at the southeast corner of 43d Street.
If it happened to be raining hard and one had taken the
Fifth Avenue stage, in order to be in time for chapel, the
202
Madison Square through Central Park
vehicle would come no further than that corner. One had
to go afoot, as did Professors Anthon and Schmidt, every
college day of the week.
The avenue was unpaved from curb to curb and only
a single file of flagstones served as sidewalk. Twice a day,
from 8.30 to 9 A.M. or i to 1.30 p.m., as many as forty or
even fifty students could there be counted going to or from
the college. The rest of the possible one hundred and
eighty took the Third or Sixth Avenue cars. Madison
Avenue extended only to 42d Street, and the long rectangles
bounded by Fourth and Fifth Avenues, 46th, 47th, 48th,
and 49th Streets, were deep hollows largely given over to
goats and squatters. Beyond 45th Street were the huge
pens of the Bull's Head stock market. It was but a step
from the classic halls to the haunts of our Hibernian fellow-
citizens who dwelt under the aegis of Tammany.
The big cathedral was then about one course high above
the cornerstone. The builders were many, and apparently
all of one nationality. A parish school flourished just back
of us on 50th Street, and its rollicking brood rejoiced in
overrunning the college grounds out of college hours and
turning the goats in there to graze, to the wrath and disgust
of Janitor Weeks. Our playground was supposed to be
the vacant lot inclosed and leveled off west of Fifth
Avenue, but we never played there. Baseball was young,
and popular, but Columbia had no nine. A number of
us grammar school youngsters had earlier started a club,
and sometimes played in the open field south of 49th Street,
but even the presence of "Prex " and certain grave and
reverend seniors as spectators did not avert piracy. A ball
batted beyond the infield was frequently nabbed by a swift-
vanishing squadron from the neighboring shanties, and
203
The Wayfarer in New York
no search warrant could retrieve it. The poor had we ever
with us in those days — the police never.
The Harlem and the New Haven railways ran flush with
the street along Fourth Avenue. There was no tunnel
south of Hamilton Square until one came to 42 d Street.
Several students rode in from Harlem, New Rochelle, or
Morrisania each morning, jumping off as the train slowed
up at 45th Street, and presently, day after day, the trains
came laden with volunteers — long trains that would come
to a stop and block the passage of 49th Street, to the end
that revered professors, Hke Davies and Peck, seeking to
reach a Third Avenue car to take them home to loth Street,
had the alternative of crawling under or walking several
blocks around. When this blockade occurred after college,
undergraduate indignation was instant and unanimous.
When it happened, as once it did, just before chapel, it
aroused only the livehest enthusiasm and delight.
Eastward across Fourth Avenue lay what had been the
Potter's Field, a malodorous neighbor much in evidence
and disrepute, during the long process of disinterment in
'58 and '59. By the summer of '63 all those open tracts
had become one vast tented field hospital, crowded with
sick and wounded from the army. But long before that
my name had been dropped from the rolls of the old col-
lege and transferred to those of Uncle Sam.
One brilliant, glorious day we had the commencement of
June, '61, held at the Academy of Music in 14th Street,
when, before a crowded house, the graduating class re-
ceived its diplomas, man after man applauded by rejoiceful
friends as he came down from the stage ; but the audience
rose and went wild with enthusiasm when, toward the very
last, were called the names of a certain two or three who
204
Madison Square through Central Park
had marched away at the call of President Lincoln of the
Union, and now were home on brief furlough to receive
their sheepskins, and a metaphorical pat on the back, at
the hands of President King of Columbia. As the first
one turned to face the throng, the blush mounting high
to his forehead, the silken gown fluttering back and re-
vealing the soldier uniform beneath, the shout that went
up shook the great auditorium from pit to dome, and broke
forth anew as the President closed his thrilling war speech
to his graduates, some of whom left for the front that very
night, followed within a day or two by others who had just
passed the entrance examination. Columbia was a martial
college in those days. The President had been a soldier
in the War of 1812 and, though his years forbade his taking
the field in '61, every able-bodied son and grandson went
on to represent him. Our three mathematical professors,
Davies, Hackley and Peck, were graduates of West Point,
our great Dr. Lieber was himself an adviser of the adminis-
tration, and a tower of strength on all questions of interna-
tional law.
Charles King in the Columbia University Quarterly
New York Clubs ^:> ^=^ ^^> ^^> ^^^
nPHE stranger in town ought to find some bunk besides
-■■ a hotel. If you happen to be a Chinaman, try the
Reform Club in Doyer Street. If you come from Nip-
pon, the Hinade or Rising Sun Club, founded in 1896, will
welcome you, especially if you subscribe to the httle mag-
azine it publishes; and at Columbia University there is
a Japanese students' club. If you are a Syrian, Hungarian,
Bohemian — anything — just wander around the East
Side in your native costume. If you are a Hindu, try
205
The Wayfarer in New York
a theosophical meeting-room. If you are a Democrat, ask
a policeman. If you are an anarchist, don't.
There are political clubs of all persuasions. The far-
famed Tammany Hall in East Fourteenth Street is only
a club of ambitious nature, organized after the manner of
Indian tribes with sachems and sich. The Democrats
have two other clubs, thanks to a split in the ranks. The
Manhattan Club^ formerly in A. T. Stewart's old mansion,
has now gone to Twenty-sixth Street, where, in the summer,
one may sit on the balcony and mingle his black coffee and
brown cigar, the aromatic foliage of Madison Square, and
his Jeffersonian principles in one peaceful reverie. The
other club, the Democradc, at Fiftieth Street and Fifth
Avenue, was founded by the ex-proprietor of New York,
Mr. Croker. It is the home of the Tammany wing of the
party. Brooklyn has also a finely housed Jefferson Club.
Besides, every election district has its political clubs, named
after district leaders, who pay for the compliment with an
occasional chowder party on an excursion boat.
The Republicans have a Union League Club in Brooklyn,
and one better known in New York. The latter was founded
in 1673 to aid the Union at a time when New York senti-
ment was not unanimous for the continuation of the war.
. . . The Union League knows only peace nowadays,
but the comfort of its basking windows encourages and fills
a clubhouse costing $400,000. It includes an art -gallery,
and its loan exhibitions are events. There is another
Republican Club on West Fortieth Street, of large member-
ship. The Reform Club, at No. 2 East Thirty-fifth Street,
is devoted to amelioration in general and the City Club to
the never-ending need of municipal antiseptics.
The creeds as well as the factions have their clubs,
206
Madison Square through Central Park
most prominent being the sumptuous Catholic Club, facing
Central Park on Fifty-ninth Street, the Church Club, of
Episcopalian persuasion, at No. 578 Fifth Avenue, the
Hebrew Associations, the Harmonic at 45 East Twenty-
third Street, the Progress at Central Park West and Eighty-
eighth Street, and the Freundschaft in Seventy-second
Street. But, pious as are these monasteries, it takes some-
thing more than faith to get into them. Faith without
works is like a watch in the same condition.
Among the colleges, the finest clubhouses are those of
Old Eli and Fair Harvard. Harvard's is the elder, and it
is a charming example of Colonial grace and dignity and
comfort, though it has recently suffered considerable
enlargement. Yale faces Harvard defiantly across Forty-
fourth Street, as on many a gridiron. The Yale house is
of the modern school, soaring to eleven stories; but its
grillroom is quaint and old-fashioned, with a big fireplace
and all the comforts of an old tavern. Columbia Uni-
versity has a house in Madison Square. Princeton flies
her orange and black flag in Thirty-fourth Street, Cornell
is in Forty-fifth Street, and Pennsylvania in Forty-fourth
Street.
At these clubs newly graduated men, still living on their
fathers, are admitted at a very low rate. As they get older
and incur families the dues increase with their other troubles.
Chief of all college clubs is the super-palatial University,
which requires of its candidates that they should have at
least rubbed up against the walls of one of the more
important colleges.
The Hardware Club, the Merchants', the Lawyers',
the Downtown Association and the Aldine (formerly com-
posed of Barabbas publishers, now of business men) are
207
The Wayfarer in New York
mainly luncheon resorts where one can combine the mid-
day meal with business conference and indigestion.
The Bar Association and the Academy of Medicine,
however, are most palatially housed, and the Engineers
of various sorts have homes where one gossips daily of
horse -powers, watts, ohms and tangential stress. The
men whose trade is war on land or sea have their Army
and Navy Club. The Authors' Club occupies rooms
donated by Andrew Carnegie, who has recently offered to
build a lairdly asylum for all the other mechanicians.
Of athletic clubs the principal are the Crescent, of
Brooklyn, with its boathouse on the Bay, and the New York
Athletic, chief of American athletic clubs. Its annual
Ladies' Day receptions are thronged, the women guests
being entertained not only by stunts in the gymnasium,
but by aquatic contests and water polo in the swimming
pool. The club also owns Travers Island, with a club-
house and grounds where outdoor games are held. Other
athletic associations are the Fencers', the Riders', a Coach-
ing Club, a Japanese jiu-jitsu club and numerous German
Turnvereinen.
There are two professional clubs conducted on the liicus
a non lucendo principle — the Press Club, to which almost
no pressman belongs, and the Players' Club, of which one
of its hterary lights observed, ''The good thing about
the Players' Club is that you never meet any of those
actors there." While this is hyperbole, the club is
largely recruited from authors and artists, though it was
founded and endowed by Edwin Booth as a home for his
fellows of the stage, and though it is a rule that no dramatic
critic may break in and corrupt. The Players' has one
of the most comfortable residences in the city, and its
208
Madison Square through Central Park
atmosphere is full of a cheerful dignity. It is the lair of
one of the town's pet wits, Beau Herford, whose epigrams
radiate thence throughout the avenues.
The Salmagundi is composed of the most important
artists of the country; after the manner of their Parisian
schooling, they amuse themselves artistically and with
elaborateness. They give costume dinners, Christmas
parties and auctions, where good fellowship is indulged in
in decorative style.
The Strollers had its origin in a Columbia College
dramatic club; it has since broadened out into a group of
young society men, with a mixture of artists and illustrators.
It occupies the house lately held by the New York Yacht
Club. Here it has a small theater, where "Roisters"
or "Strolls" are given frequently during the winter. It
devotes also a week every year to the production of an
operetta original with the members and played by the
members, save for an auxiliary of pretty girls. The list
of patronesses for these entertainments exhausts the Social
Register.
The Lotos Club is famous throughout the land for its
distinguished guests and their treatment. An American
or a foreign visitor cannot claim to have had the final
accolade of fame till the Lotos has given him a banquet.
But at this banquet he will be treated not with reverence,
but as a shining mark for the target practice of the best
wits. The art exhibitions at the Lotos are also notable.
The Lambs is composed almost altogether of the more
successful actors and play^vrights. Here the most formi-
dable tragedians and the most despotic comedians lay off
the motley and make-up and become "just lambs." The
club metaphor is carried to the last degree; the chief officer
p 209
The Wayfarer in New York
is the "Collie," the entertainments are "gambols," pre-
sided over by "the Boy"; once a year the club has
a water party, called "the Washing." The un-
equaled spirit of comradeship and co-
operation and the great prosperity
of the club are stout contradic-
tions of prevailing supersti-
tions concerning actors.
Rupert Hughes in
The Real New
York
Copyright,
1904
JIO
vni
UPPER MANHATTAN AND HARLEM
FIFTH AVENUE AT NIGHT
LIKE moonstones drooping from a fair queen's ears
The pale lights seem —
White gems that shimmer when the dark appears
And the old dream —
The ancient dream that comes with every night
Through the long street —
The quiet and the shadows, and the light
Tread of far feet.
Charles Hanson Towne
Copyright, igo8, by the B. W. Dodge Co.
VIII
UPPER MANHATTAN AND HARLEM
Riverside Drive and Morningside Heights <^ "^^
" /^ENTRAL PARK is as dififerent from Hyde Park or
^^ Regent's Park or the Bois de Boulogne as day from
night. They are flat and barren compared with the
ups and downs and the countless graceful shapes of this
place. Fortunately, it's too dark for you to see the
statues. Some of them are the worst on the earth." . . .
The automobile swept out of the Park at Seventy-second
Street and crossed to Riverside Drive. Here the mighty
Hudson burst upon their view, and the long avenue, now
almost deserted, was filled with silence and epic poetry.
The houses along one side were all of ambitious archi-
tecture, and, in the dark, they made a rich white wall three
miles long. The other side was all trees and terraces
down to the river banks. Across the wide floor of the
Hudson, glistening with eddies and streaked currents,
the Palisades reared their dim heights and led the eye into
a distance of majestic beauty.
The marble tower of the Soldiers and Sailors' Monument
rose in ghostly white, and seemed a smaller prelude to
Grant's Monument. This big tomb lost much of its
rigidity in the envelopment of night, and its succession of
square Doric base, circle of Ionic columns and p}Tamidal
dome lifted the soul to an exaltation.
**Just opposite this tomb," said Miss De Peyster,
213
The Wayfarer in New York
tenderly, "is the little grave of an 'amiable child,' a poor
little boy five years old, who died in 1797. The grave has
not been disturbed, and it seems less lonely now lying so
dose to General Grant and his wife."
After a long and silent inbreathing of the loftiness of
the scene, Miss ColHs murmured:
"It is more beautiful even than the Golden Gate."
This is a San Franciscan's last tribute.
Now De Peyster ordered the chauffeur to turn into
Morningside Heights. From the parapet they looked no
longer on the calm of the Hudson, but on the checkerboard
of city squares outlined in chains of light. Even the ser-
pentine trestle of the Elevated road had a grace in this
half-day, and the massive arch of the unfinished Cathedral
of St. John the Divine rose in a solemn, gray rainbow of
stone. . . . Then the automobile went spinning down the
steep incline of One Hundred and Tenth Street, whence it
dived again into the deep luxuries of Central Park, and
sped through its miles of woodland into that long aisle of
palaces and temples, Fifth Avenue, where the Cathedral
held up the high beauty of its twin frosty spires to the
clear, dark sky, bejeweled with constellations and royal
planet-gems.
Rupert Hughes in The Real New York
Copyright, igo4
The Founding of Harlem <^ ^v> ^-^^i^ ''Ci^
"I T /"HEN Montagne arrived in New Amsterdam twenty-
^ * seven years had elapsed since Hudson's successful
voyage, and twenty years since Governor Peter Minuit
had bought the island of Manhattan for a sum of money
equal to about twenty-four dollars.
214
Upper Manhattan and Harlem
The adventurous Montague was accompanied by his
wife and son, Joliannts, junior. On the voyage was Ixjrn
a daughter, who was named Marie, after her grandmother
De Forest. The little family landed at the Battery, —
called "Capsee" by the first Dutch settlers, — and spent
a short time in the village, where Montague exchanged
news, gathered information as to the outlying districts,
furnished himself with a dugout, and demonstrated his
daring temper by forthwith paddling up the East River far
beyond the limits of the colony, past Blackwell's Island,
and landed with his family and farm hands at the turn in
the shore which afterward received the name of Montague's
Point. Thereafter he ascended the creek which then
formed a tributary of the Harlem, subsequently known as
Montague's Creek, which wound its course from a point
approximating the intersection of i32d Street and Eighth
Avenue. An old Indian trail followed the course taken
by St. Nicholas Avenue to-day. At its intersection with
Seventh Avenue, Dr. Montague started a bark cabin to
shelter his family for the winter, and, simultaneously,
Henry De Forest, Dr. Montague's brother-in-law, also took
up his residence on Montague's Point.
Governor Kieft was at this time ruler of New Amsterdam.
From him Dr. Montague obtained a grant of the land on
which he had settled, and expressed a sense of gratitude
for the contrasting peace of his new home in calling it
"Quiet Dale." He was yet to find, as did his neighbors,
that this retreat was not so peaceful as it first seemed.
The Red Man lurked too near at hand.
The land which Montague occupied, and to which he
gave the sentimental name, soon became known as Mon-
tague's Flat. The tract, divided by the present line of
215
The Wayfarer in New York
St. Nicholas Avenue, ran from 109th Street to 124th Street,
and contained about 200 acres.
Shortly after these settlements, former director Van
Twnller^ became interested in the Harlem district, and
settled on Ward's Island. His friend, Jacobus Van
Curler, preempted the flat opposite Ward's Island known
as the Otterspoor, a name signifying "otter tracks." This
was afterguards sold to Coenraet Van Keulen, a New York
merchant, and hence the name Van Keulen's Hook, which
clung to this part of the district for a hundred years after
Harlem's founding.
In this triangle, whose southern line was i02d Street,
and whose northernmost point touched the Harlem River
at about 125th Street, lay these three Harlem settlements
while the first winter passed.
With the ushering-in of spring Van Curler finished his
primitive dwelling and out-buildings on the northern bank
of Montagne's Creek, and secured a stock of all things
necessary for a well-regulated plantation of the day, —
domestic animals, farming tools, and a canoe for passing
to and from New York. At that time, and for a con-
siderable time thereafter, there was no thought of reaching
New York except by water.
Henry De Forest died in July of the next year, and Dr.
Montagne took charge of the widow's plantation. He also
saw to the proper harv^esting of her crops, and boarded
with Van Curler while finishing the house and barn which
his brother-in-law had started in the rough.
From an account of the bill of fare at Van Curler's, still
surviving, it appears that the guests were fed on savory
' Governor Kieft's predecessor.
216
upper Manhattan and Marlcni
venison; deer being so plentiful on the Island as to stray
within gunshot of the farmhouse. Besides game, they
had fish and salted eels. Pea soup was included in the
menu, together with wheat and r}e bread, eggs and poultry.
The settlers also adopted the Indian dish called sapaan,
made of Indian corn.
Dr. Montagne continued to look after the estate of his
sister-in-law until the year following, when a former mem-
ber of Van Twiller's council, Andries Hudde, won the hand,
heart and lands of the young widow De Forest. Particu-
larly noteworthy is this event, leading up as it did to the
first groundbrief, or land patent, which was issued relative
to Harlem lands, "granting, transporting, ceding, giving
over, and conveying, to Andries Hudde, his heirs and suc-
cessors, now and forever," a site owned less than a genera-
tion later by the Town of New Harlem.
Carl Horton Pierce in New Harlem
Manhattan ^^^ ^=^ ^^^ ^=^ ^^^ '"^^
OHE that sits by the sea, new-crowned with a five-fold
*^ tiara;
She of the great twin harbors, our lady of rivers and
islands;
Tower-topped Manhattan,
With feet reeded round with the masts of the five great
oceans
Flowering the flags of all nations, flaunting and furling, —
City of ironways, city of ferries,
Sea-Queen and Earth-Queen!
Look, how the line of her roofs coming down from the north
Breaks into surf-leap of granite-jagged sierras —
217
rSi^
The Wayfarer in New York
Upheaval volcanic, lined sharp on the violet sky-
Where the red moon, lop-sided, past the full,
Over their ridge swims in the tide of space,
And the harbor waves laugh softly, silently.
Look, how the overhead train at the Morningside curve
Loops like a sea-born dragon its sinuous flight.
Loops in the night in and out, high up in the air.
Like a serpent of stars with the coil and undulant reach
of waves.
From under the Bridge at noon
See from the yonder shore how the great curves rise and
converge.
Like the beams of the universe, like the masonry of the sky.
Like the arches set for the corners of the world,
The foundation-stone of the orbic spheres and spaces.
Is she not fair and terrible, O Mother —
City of Titan thews, deep-breasted, colossal limbed,
Splendid with the spoil of nations, myriad-mooded Man-
hattan?
Behold, we are hers — she has claimed us ; and who has
power to withstand her?
Richard Hovey in Along the Trail
Copyright, i8g8. By permission of Duffield df Co.
Columbia University on Morningside ^^ ^^^
T REMEMBER with a sort of definite vagueness, as
-^ though it had come to me in some former life, the impres-
sion which I received of Columbia's new home on Morn-
ingside, on the second day of May, 1896. It was then that
the formal dedication occurred in the presence of a dis-
218
Upper Manhattan and Harlem
tinguished gathering. Oddly enough, although the coming
change of site had lx;en known for several years, I had never
visited the place before. Indeed, I had never until that
day known anything by personal observation of the upper
portion of Manhattan Island — a fact which is rather
characteristic of the New Yorker, a being who lives in his
own particular angulus terrarum and seldom forsakes those
beaten paths of urban life which he has chosen for himself.
It was a beautiful day. An enormous crowd was
gathered. There were music and the fluttering of flags and
a general air of exhilaration, as befitted an occasion which
meant so much to our university. But I must confess
that, personally, my feeling was one of some depression.
Only those bred up in the old college, to whom every brick
of its unpretentious halls and every inch of its diminutive
campus were dear, can understand this feeling. The old
Columbia was small in its physical appearance, but it was
rich in memories and traditions. To think of leaving it
was like the thought of leaving a home about which there
had clustered a thousand intimate associations. Indeed,
the homeliness — using the word in its English sense —
the friendliness, and even the smallness of the old Columbia
constituted its peculiar charm. They had given to its
sons a sense of solidarity, of unity, and therefore of affec-
tion, all of which were priceless.
Hence it followed that the vision of a new environment
was at the time neither attractive nor stimulating. There
was what appeared to be, by comparison, a vast amount of
space; room, it seemed, for indefinite expansion; but that
was all. A big, white tent, some unfamiliar brick buildings,
several excavations and a general rawness, were about all
that the eye could see on that afternoon in May when Mr.
219
The Wayfarer in New York
Hewitt pronounced his fine oration and when President
Eliot, on behalf of the sister universities, offered congratula-
tions because Columbia was to have "a setting com-
mensurate with the work of its intellectual and spiritual
influence." But a good many Columbia men must have
experienced, as I did then, only a very half-hearted en-
thusiasm; and when, in the following year, the teaching
staff and the students were actually transferred to Morning-
side, the feeling which prevailed was more a feeling of
regret than one of pleasure. To be sure, anyone could
understand how, in the end, the nascent university was
destined to make its way to a position of commanding
influence; but it seemed none the less as though all this
were for a distant future, and that during many years to
come we should be inhabiting a sort of academic mining-
camp, with all its crudity and discomforts, and with the
sense of having left far better things behind.
To-day it is with some chagrin that I recall these casual
impressions, and remember how little faith I had in what
could be achieved in a single decade by farseeing intelli-
gence, by constructive imagination, and by efficient hands.
And therefore what I am writing here is somewhat in the
nature of a penitential confession. Ten years and more
have elapsed since then; but what has been achieved
would, I think, in any other country than our own, be re-
garded as a miracle had it been performed even within a
century. The stately structures which crown the heights
of Morningside speak every year with more and more im-
pressiveness of the essentially Hellenic union of external
grace and beauty with inward power and perfection.
Sometimes, in the early summer, just at dusk, I love
to stand before the Library, as the soft light is beginning to
220
Upper Manhattan and Harlem
flush the stately columns of its facade, and there enjoy the
pure and softened influence of the scene — the spacious
court with its plashing fountains, the domes and terraces,
the greenery of the foliage and turf. And then, although
it is but ten short years since Columbia possessed herself
of this new home and these surroundings, one feels some-
thing of that pride and almost personal affection which
crept into the mind of Matthew Arnold, when he wrote
of Oxford as "steeped in sentiment, and spreading her
gardens to the moonlight." And we may share, with no
less sincerity than Arnold's, the belief that our splendid
university, which touches not merely the intellect but the
imagination of her sons, "keeps ever calling us nearer to
the true goal, to the ideal, to perfection — to beauty in a
word, which is only truth seen from another side."
Harry Thurston Peck
General George Clinton to Dr. Peter Tappen ^^
King's Bridge 21st. Sept. 1776.
T HAVE been so hurried & Fatigued out of the ordinary
■^ way of my Duty by the removal of our Army from New
York & great Part of the public stores to this Place
that it has almost worn me out tho' as to Health I am
well as usual: but how my Constitution has been able
to stand lying out several Nights in the Open Air & ex-
posed to Rain is almost a Miracle to me — Whom at Home
the least Wet indeed some Times the Change of Weather
almost laid me up.
The Evacuation of the City I suppose has much alarmed
the Country. It was judged untenable in Council of Gen.
Officers considering the Enemy possessed of Long Island
&c., and was therefore advised to be evacuated. The
221
The Wayfarer in New York
Artillery (at least all worth moving) & almost all the public
stores were removed out of it so that when the Enemy
landed & attacked our Lines near the City we had but
few Men there (those indeed did not behave well) our Loss
however by our Retreat from there either in Men or Stores
is very inconsiderable. I would not be understood that
it is my Opinion to evacuate the City neither do I mean
now to condemn the Measure it is done intended for the
best I am certain.
The same Day the Enemy possessed themselves of the
City, to wit, last Sunday they landed the Main Body of
their Army & encamped on York Island across about the
Eight Mile Stone & between that & the four Mile Stone.
Our Army at least one Division of it lay at Col. Morris's
& so southward to near the Hollow Way which runs across
from Harlem Flat to the North River at Matje Davit's
Fly. About halfway between which two places our Lines
run across the River which indeed at that Time were only
began but are now in a very defensible state. On Monday
Morning the Enemy attacked our Advanced Party Com-
manded by Col. Knowlton (a brave Ofi&cer who was killed
in the Action) near the Point of Matje Davit's Fly the Fire
was very brisk on both sides our People however soon
drove them back into a Clear Field about 200 Paces South
East (west) of that where they lodged themselves behind
a Fence covered with Bushes our People pursued them but
being oblidged to stand exposed in the open Field or take
a Fence at a Considerable Distance they preferred the
Latter it was indeed adviseable for we soon brought a
Couple of Field Pieces to bear upon them which fairly put
them to flight with two discharges only the Second Time
our People pursued them closely to the top of a Hill about
222
Upper Manhattan and Harlem
400 paces distant where they received a very Considerable
Reinforcement & made their Second Stand. Our People
also had received a Considerable Reinforcement, and at
this Place a very brisk Action commenced which con-
tinued for near two Hours in which Time we drove the
Enemy into a Neighboring orchard from that across a
Hollow & up another Hill not far Distant from their own
Encampment, here we found the Ground rather Dis-
advantageous & a Retreat insecure we therefore thot
proper not to pursue them any farther & retired to our
first Ground leaving the Enemy on the last Ground we
drove them to — that Night I commanded the Right Wing
of our Advanced Party or Picket on the Ground the Action
first began of which Col. PawHng & Col. Nicoll's Regi-
ment were part and next Day I sent a Party to bury our
Dead. They found but 17. The Enemy removed their
in the Night we found above 60 Places where dead Men has
lay from Pudles of Blood & other appearances & at other
Places fragments of Bandages & Lint. From the best
Account our Loss killed & wounded is not much less than
seventy, seventeen of which only dead (this account of our
Loss exceeds what I mentioned in a Letter I wrote Home
indeed at that Time I only had an account of the Dead
— the Wounded were removed — 12 o'clock m. Sunday
two Deserters from on Board the Bruno Man of War
lying at Morrisania say the Enemy had 300 killed on
Monday last,) the Rest most likely do well & theirs is
somewhat about 300 — upwards it is generally believed —
Tho I was in the latter Part indeed almost the whole of the
Action I did not think so many Men were engaged. It
is without Doubt however they had out on the Occasion
between 4 and 5000 of their choicest Troope & expected
223
The Wayfarer in New York
to have drove us off the Island. They are greatly mortified
at their Disappointment & have ever since been exceed-
ingly modest & quiet not having even patroling Parties
beyond their Lines — I lay within a Mile of them the Night
after the battle & never heard Men work harder I believe
they thought we intended to pursue our Advantage &
Attack them next Morning.
If I only had a Pair of Pistols I could I think have shot
a Rascal or two I am sure I would at least have shot a
puppy of an Officer I found slinking off in the heat of the
Action.
(iV. Y. City during the American Revolution, published by
the N. Y. Mercantile Library Association)
The Great Game at the Polo Grounds ^v^ ^::>
T^OR nearly every one of the twenty thousand or so per-
-*■ sons inside the Polo Grounds there is one outside.
There are thousands of them on Coogan's Bluff. The
viaduct is black with them; the third rail cannot keep
them off the elevated. Four or five adventurous spirits
have climbed to the roof of the grand stand in their in-
tense desire to see the game and are balancing, straddling
and clinging to their airy perch as best they can. Others
on the narrow edges of the signboards near the clubhouses
have clung and kicked their heels for two uncomfortable
hours. Hundreds have scaled the fence between the Polo
Grounds and Manhattan Field and at one rush several
lengths of fence went down entirely.
It is a high holiday or carnival spirit that seems to actuate
the crowd, or was until the Chicago players begin appear-
ing on the field. Then the recollection of former stormy
scenes creates a feeling that is less frolicsome than bitter.
224
Upper Manhattan and Ilarlem
The greatest applause of all greets McGraw when he walks
across the moor, and a great amount of expression of the
other sort was in store for Captain Chance. He walks
through it all calmly, with head erect.
They are grizzlies, these Cubs — ursine colossi who
tower high and frowningly refuse to reckon on anything
but victory. It is true that the New Yorks did not hit hard
enough to foster their run-getting game to any extent and
that Mathewson pitched good baseball in every inning but
one. His one lapse, however, was fatal. Then and then
only did the Chicagos find the secret of Mathewson's
delivery, but they make that one rally the turning-point
of the game. Without it they would have become merely
also rans; with it they are champions.
At three comes a long, delirious yell, a hush, and the game
is on. There certainly is an outpouring of mirth when
Chance after hitting safely is caught off at first by a light-
ning throw from Mathewson. You would have thought
it the precise play that 30,000 persons had come to see.
That it should be the great Chance is almost more joy
than the crowd can stand. Chance is not well pleased.
He calls Heaven to witness that he is safe. He pleads with
the umpire. He throws his cap upon the dust and stamps
on it. Various Cubs assist with futile oratory. . . .
But joy is hushed in the third inning. When it's over
the Cubs have four runs. As for that high-yelling crowd,
it is as quiet as the little throng that hangs around the door
of a country church of a Sunday morning waiting for the
parson to pass in.
There are diversions after that. One can always roast
the visitor, scold the umpire, or plead with one's own to
come in with a run. But the mischief was done in that
Q • 225
The Wayfarer in New York
third inning and gloom grows deeper. People begin to
thirst for a disputed decision to fight over. There being
none, some of them fight anyhow. . . .
The Cubs, now champions, gallop joyously from the field.
And meantime all over the city other thousands had been
following the game by means of tickers, telephones and
bulletins. Broadway talked of nothing else. In all the
cafds, hotel lobbies, and restaurants people kept track of
the score. Waiters whispered the latest returns; they
were given out mixed with orange bitters and the car-
bonic; barbers poured them out between strokes of the
razor. Even the manicure girls could have told the score
long before the crowds streamed down from Coogan's
Bluff.
By permission of The Sun, New York
The Old Jumel Mansion^ ^o ^'^^ ''^ ''O
A VISITORS to High Bridge — the pretty little village
^ which stands at the northern limit of Manhattan
Island — cannot have failed to observe the stately, some-
what antiquated mansion standing in the midst of
a pretty park of some fifty acres, and overlooking city
and river and the varied Westchester plains. It is the
chief in point of interest as it is the sole survivor of the
many historic houses that once graced the island, but is
so environed with city encroachments and improvements
that its destruction seems likely to be but a question of
time. Even now the shrill whistle of the metropolitan
locomotives is heard beneath its eaves. Tenth Avenue
passes but a block away, and eager speculators have staked
* Written about 1880. The old mansion is now owned by the
Daughters of the Revolution and maintained as a Museum.
226
Upper Manhattan and Harlem
out city lots at its very gates, so hardly is it pressed by the
great city in its eager outreaching for new territory.
Few persons who pass the place know, perhaps, the many
points of historic and romantic interest that it has: how
it occupies historic ground, being built on the far-famed
Harlem Heights, within a mile of the site of old Fort
Washington; that it was built for the dower of a lady of
such beauty and grace that she was able to win the heart
of the Father of his Country himself; that within its walls
Washington established his headquarters while the mastery
of the island was in dispute with the British, and that
thither Washington came again in 1790 with all his Cabinet,
on his return from a visit to the battlefield of Fort Wash-
ington; or that afterward, a once famous Vice-President
of the United States was married in its parlors. . . .
The old oak bedstead on which Washington slept is
still preserved with other treasured relics in the attic of the
house.
Charles Burr Todd in In Olde New York
The Grafton Historical Series
The Grafton Press, New York, Publishers
The Clermont on the Hudson ^^^ <:> ^s:>
T 1[ THEN Fulton took up the problem of steam navigation
'^ ' he was living in France, where our American minister
at the time was Robert R. Livingston. The two men met
and became mutually interested in planning a steamboat.
A vessel was built and launched on the Seine; but it was
too frail for the weight of the engine, which broke through
tlie bottom one stormy night and sank in the river. How-
ever, Fulton and his partner were not discouraged, and
the latter agreed to provide funds for a larger boat to be
227
The Wayfarer in New York
tried on the Hudson. This was constructed, after plans
furnished by Fulton, at a shipyard on the East River, and
was about one hundred and thirty feet long, with un-
covered paddle-wheels at the side. She was named the
Clermont after Livingston's country seat on the banks of
the Hudson at Tivoli.
The boat left New York for Albany on August 17, 1807;
and a writer of that time in speaking of its departure says :
"Nothing could exceed the surprise and admiration of
all who witnessed the experiment. Before the Clermont
had made the progress of a quarter of a mile, the greatest
unbeliever must have been converted. The man, who,
while he looked on the expensive machine, thanked his
stars that he had more wisdom than to waste his money
on such idle schemes, changed the expression of his
features as the boat moved from the wharf and gained her
speed. The jeers of the ignorant, who had neither sense
nor feeling enough to suppress their contemptuous ridicule
and rude jokes, were silenced by a vulgar astonishment
which deprived them of the power of utterance, till the
triumph of genius extorted from the incredulous multitude
which crowded the shores, shouts of congratulation and
applause." . . .
One of the Hudson Valley farmers, after observing
the strange apparition, hurried home and as-
sured his wife that he "had seen the devil
going up the river in a sawmill."
Clifton Johnson in
The Picturesque Hudson
228
IX
THE BRONX AND BEYOND
POE'S COTTAGE
HERE stands the little antiquated house,
A few old-fashioned flowers at the door;
The dead Past leaves it, quiet as a mouse,
Though just beyond a giant city roar.
Walter Malone
IX
THE BRONX AND BEYOND
Where the People of New York Live -"^ 'Qy
'Xl rHERE do the people of New York live? Where,
* '' you will ask, but in New York? Quite wrong.
New York, squeezed in between the Hudson and the East
River, is far too narrow for a tithe of those who do busi-
ness there to find habitations in the city. Moreover,
at the point where land might begin to be far enough
removed from the heart of the city for people of not quite
unlimited means to live, there comes Central Park, taking
up about a quarter of the available space, and leaving only
a little strip on either side. So the man who works in
New York must either retreat even further north, and
descend each day down the tongue of Manhattan Island
to his work, or else he must get over one of the rivers into
Long Island or New Jersey.
If he chooses the first evil, he can either go north of
the Harlem River and live in a house, or remain below it
and live in a flat. The River is reached at Hundred and
Fifty-fifth Street; all New York south of this is on Man-
hattan Island. Though this is called an island it is really
a peninsula ; that is to say, the Harlem River is a com-
paratively practicable stream. It is possible to run bridges
over it, whereas the connection across the Hudson with
New Jersey must at present be made entirely by ferries,
231
The Wayfarer in New York
and that with Long Island very largely so. North of
Manhattan Island the suburbs stretch away almost end-
lessly. The eastern part of them is called the Annexed
Districts. This is served by an extension of the Elevated
Railroad and by the New York Central. The West
side connects with the Elevated Railroad, which ends at
Hundred and Fifty-fifth Street, by the New York and
Northern Railroad. And beyond the continuous line of
houses from Battery Point, the southernmost limit of the
city, to the northern suburbs, stretches town on town,
village on village, almost endlessly, each sending in its
daily contingent to the huge dollar-hunt of New York.
Suppose you want to live nearer your work — say within
half an hour or so — then you must live in a flat. Land
is too scarce to allow a whole house south of the Harlem
to any man far short of his million. Flats are of every
kind and of every price. There are flats to which the work-
ingman and junior clerk can aspire without presumption
and flats which the millionaire need not despise. The
cheapest run to about nineteen or twenty dollars a month.
This means nearly 50 pounds a year, which seems a back-
breaking rent for the most prosperous mechanic to pay.
For this he will get four rooms, a kitchen with gas-range
and hot water laid on from the basement, a bedroom, a
dining room, and a parlor. The rooms are very small,
they generally look out at a dark courtyard, and often
there is only one front door and a common hall — say,
rather, a narrow passage — between two of them. Your
neighbor may be an Italian costermonger or a Polish-
Jewish vender of old clothes. In any case he is almost sure
to be noisy, while the court will be filled with clothes dry-
ing and the smell of every savory kind of cooking in the
232
The Bronx and Beyond
world. In summer, court and staircase, front steps and
streets, will swarm with squalling children. Yet, take it
all round, there are advantages which no mechanic in
England is likely to find. The sanitary, heating, and
lighting arrangements are better, the stairs and halls are
carpeted, the whole place is decorated, not magnificently
but at least with an attempt at grace and comfort. The
Englishman will often be more comfortable, but he will
hardly find a dwelling with such an air of social self-respect
— at any rate, while it is new and unoccupied. You will
answer that the English mechanic would never dream of
paying 50 pounds a year in rent. Probably not. But then
the New York mechanic can afford it out of his wages,
and the Englishman cannot. To the under-clerk such flats
as these ofTer themselves as a cheap and handy abode.
In New York there is none of the foolish convention that
compels the clerk with a pound a week to live in a more
expensive house than the workingman with two. This
is no doubt a blessing, but it has its reverse side. If the
carpet and the gilt decorations stimulate social self-respect
in the workingman, the cabbage-water and the brats on
the doorstep tend to destroy it in the clerk.
Moving upwards, you can get for eighty dollars a-month,
or nearly 200 pounds a-year, very much the same sort of
flat in the same sort of quarter as you could get for half
the money in London. By a curious exception to the usual
excellence of American house-fittings, some of these are
being built without either lift or electric light, though
all have hot water laid on from below. From the eighty-
dollar flat you can advance with your income — or without
it if you like — to almost any price. I have seen an apart-
ment at 480 pounds a year, and one at 520 pounds. In
233
The Wayfarer in New York
London you would expect a palace for the money; in New
York you can get certainly a most commodious and charm-
ing flat, but still an unmistakable flat. The 480-pounder
was as conveniently arranged and fitted and as elegantly
decorated as any flat could well be. Yet, all said and done,
it contained only eight rooms, and those neither very large
nor very lofty.
G. W. Steevens in The Land of the Dollar
Spuyten Duyvel and King's Bridge ^^:> ^^
nPHE Spuyten Duyvel is a little stream, but it would
-*- take us a long while to traverse it were we to lin-
ger, as we might, at all its points of attraction: the prettily
wooded points here, the rocky shores there, and the
vistas of valley-stretch, ending in villa or castle-crowned
heights, revealed at every unexpected turn. The origin
of the eccentric name of this capricious little river, meaning
*'in spite of the devil," is authentically determined by the
veracious Diedrick Knickerbocker in his story of the
''Doleful Disaster of Antony the Trumpeter" — wherein
we read that the said Antony, of the family of Van Corlear,
arriving one stormy night at the banks of the creek, urgently
bound on an errand of his master, Peter Stuyvesant, under-
took to swim across it, and swore roundly to do so, even
*'en spyt den duivel!" An eye-witness of the rash act is
said to have testified to having seen the irritable personage
thus daringly invoked seize poor Antony by the leg, and
drag him under the angry floods; which testimony the
supposed victim never reappeared to contradict. On the
contrary, certain superstitious folk, it is asserted, profess
yet occasionally to see his ghost haunting the fatal spot,
and to hear his sonorous and soul-stirring trumpet mingling
234
The Bronx and Beyond
in the rush and roar of tempest winds. At the mouth of
the Spuyten Duyvel, where it is crossed by the railway upon
the banks of the Hudson, we pass the old revolutionary
site of Cockhill Fort, which stood upon the bluff on the
city side, and that of Fort Independence, once its vis-k-vis,
on the opposite point. Another equally pleasant and much
older reminiscence of the mouth of the Spuyten Duyvel is
that of the attack made here by the Indians upon Hendrick
Hudson while he was passing the spot, in his voyage of
discover}', in 1609. Many of the first settlers of Manhattan
were desirous, it is said, to plant their city of New Amster-
dam upon the banks of the Spuyten Duyvel instead of
upon the other end of the island. Could they now revisit
the scene, they would see their preference virtually realized,
after all, in the expansion of the metropolis from the one
point to the other.
King's Bridge is a venerable and historic little structure,
spanning the narrow and shallow meeting of the waters
of the Harlem and the Spuyten Duyvel. A century ago
it was the only link between the Island of Manhattan and
the mainland. The troops of both armies crossed and
recrossed it at the time of the Revolution, when it was the
theater of many stirring and memorable events. Anxious
sentinels then guarded its approaches; armed hosts were
encamped around it; and frowning fortresses looked down
upon it from all the surrounding heights. Villas and
chateaux have taken the places of the forts ; fertile meadows
and gardens occupy the camp-grounds; the sentry-boxes
are replaced with oyster and beer shanties and dashing
equipages traverse it on their way from fashiondom to
the rural haunts of the vicinage.
T. Addison Rich.-^rds in Harper^ s Magazine
23s
The Wayfarer in New York
A Day at Laguerre's <^ ^;^ <^ -Qy
TT is the most delightful of French inns, in the quaintest
■*■ of French settlements. As you rush by in one of the in-
numerable trains that pass it daily, you may catch glimpses
of tall trees trailing their branches in the still stream,
— hardly a dozen yards wide, — of flocks of white ducks
paddling together, and of queer punts drawn up on the
shelving shore or tied to soggy, patched-up landing stairs.
If the sun shines, you can see, now and then, between
the trees, a figure kneeHng at the water's edge, bending
over a pile of clothes, washing — her head bound with
a red handkerchief.
If you are quick, the miniature river will open just before
you round the curve, disclosing in the distance groups of
willows, and a rickety foot-bridge perched up on poles to
keep it dry. All this you see in a flash.
But you must stop at the old-fashioned station, within
ten minutes of the Harlem River, cross the road, skirt an old
garden bound with a fence and bursting with flowers, and
so pass on through a bare field to the water's edge, before
you catch sight of the cosy little houses lining the banks,
with garden fences cutting into the water, the arbors covered
with tangled vines and the boats crossing back and forth.
I have a love for the out-of-the-way places of the earth
when they bristle all over with the quaint and the old and
the odd, and are mouldy with the picturesque. But here
is an in-the-way place, all sunshine and shimmer, with
never a fringe of mould upon it, and yet you lose your heart
at a glance. It is as charming in its boat life as an old
Holland canal; it is as delightful in its shore life as the
Seine ; and it is as picturesque and entrancing in its sylvan
beauty as the most exquisite of English streams.
236
The Bronx and Beyond
The thousands of workaday souls who pass this spot
daily in their whirl out and in the great city may catch all
these glimpses of shade and sunlight over the edges of their
journals, and any one of them Hving near the city's centre,
with a stout pair of legs in his knickerbockers and the breath
of the morning in his heart, can reach it afoot any day before
breakfast; and yet not one in a hundred knows that this
ideal nook exists.
Even this small percentage would be apt to tell of the
delights of Devonshire and of the charm of the upper
Thames, with its tall rushes and low-thatched houses and
quaint bridges, as if the picturesque ended there; forget-
ting that here right at home there wanders many a stream
with its breast all silver that the trees courtesy to as it sings
through meadows waist-high in lush grass, — as exquisite
a picture as can be found this beautiful land over.
So, this being an old tramping-ground of mine, I have
left the station with its noise and dust behind me this
lovely morning in June, have stopped long enough to twist
a bunch of sweet peas through the garden fence, and am
standing on the bank waiting for some sign of life at Madam
Laguerre's. I discover that there is no boat on my side
of the stream. But that is of no moment. On the other
side, within a biscuit's toss, so narrow is it, there are two
boats ; and on the landing-wharf, which is only a few planks
wide, supporting a tumble-down flight of steps leading to
a vine-covered terrace above, rest the oars. . . .
As there is only the great bridge above, which helps the
country road across the little stream, and the little foot-
bridge below, and as there is no path or road, — all the
houses fronting the water, — the Bronx here is really the
only highway, and so everybody must needs keep a boat.
237
The Wayfarer in New York
This is why the stream is crowded in the warm afternoons
with all sorts of water crafts loaded with whole famihes,
even to the babies, taking the air, or crossing from bank
to bank in their daily pursuits.
There is a quality which one never sees in nature until
she has been rough-handled by man and has outlived the
usage. It is the picturesque. In the deep recesses of the
primeval forest, along the mountain slope, and away up
the tumbling brook, nature may be majestic, beautiful
and even sublime; but she is never picturesque. This
quality comes only after the axe and the saw have let the
sunlight into the dense tangle and have scattered the falHng
timber, or the round of the water-wheel has divided the
rush of the brook. It is so here. Some hundred years
ago, along this quiet, silvery stream were encamped the
troops of the struggling colonies, and, later, the great estates
of the survivors stretched on each side for miles. The
willows that now fringe these banks were saplings then;
and they and the great butternuts were only spared be-
cause their arching limbs shaded the cattle knee -deep along
the shelving banks.
Then came the long interval that succeeds that deadly
conversion of the once sweet farming lands, redolent with
clover, into that barren waste — suburban property.
The conflict that had lasted since the days when the pioneer's
axe first rang through the stillness of the forest was nearly
over; nature saw her chance, took courage, and began that
regeneration which is exclusively her own. The weeds
ran riot; tall grasses shot up into the sunlight, concealing
the once well-trimmed banks; and great tangles of under-
brush and alders made lusty efforts to hide the traces of a
man's unceasing cruelty. Lastly came this Uttle group
238
The Bronx and Beyond
of poor people from the Seine and the Marne and lent a
helping hand, bringing with them something of their old
life at home, — their lx)ats, rude landings, patched-up
water-stairs, fences, arlx)rs, and vine-covered cottages, —
unconsciously completing the picture and adding the one
thing needful — a human touch. So nature, having out-
lived the wrongs of a hundred years, has here with busy
fingers so woven a web of weed, moss, trailing vine, and
low-branching tree that there is seen a newer and more
entrancing quality in her beauty, which, for want of a better
term, we call the picturesque. . . .
For half a mile down-stream there is barely a current.
Then comes a break of a dozen yards just below the perched-
up bridge, and the stream divides, one part rushing like
a mill-race, and the other spreading itself softly around the
roots of leaning willows, oozing through beds of water-
plants, and creeping under masses of wild grapes and under-
brush. Below this is a broad pasture fringed with another
and larger growth of willows. Here the weeds are breast-
high, and in early autumn they burst into purple asters,
and white immortelles, and goldenrod, and flaming sumac.
If a painter had a lifetime to spare, and loved this sort
of material, — the willows, hillsides, and winding stream,
— he would grow old and weary before he could paint it all,
and yet no two of his compositions need be alike. I have
tied my boat under these same willows for ten years back,
and I have not yet exhausted one corner of this neglected
pasture.
F. HoPKiNSON Smith in A Day at Laguerre's, and Other
Days
Copyright, i8q2, by F. Hopkinson Smith
Published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company
239
The Wayfarer in New York
The New York Zoological Park ^^> ^^^ ^^
[This park is now practically complete, housing over 5500
animals, fully a thousand more than any similar institution,
in buildings and grounds equally surpassing.]
'T^HESE ideal grounds consist of five great ridges of
-*■ granite running north and south, four of w^hich are
broken squarely across to form the basin of Lake Agassiz
and Cope Lake. Through the easternmost valley the
Bronx River finds its way to the Sound, broadening out,
as it passes through our park, into Bronx Lake.
Through the next valley westward runs the old Boston
Post Road, now a finely improved park drive, always
open to carriages. Next comes Rocking Stone Hill, with
its bald crown of pink granite, against one side of which
the Bear Dens have been lodged. Directly north of this
conspicuous landmark, in the deep, cool shade of Beaver
Valley, lies the Beaver Pond, as wild and secluded a spot
as ever the shyest beaver of Wyoming could reasonably
demand. This is the heart of the forest; and below it is
a beautiful grove of beeches, birches, hickories, oaks, and
maples, where the rich, moist earth is thickly set with
spring-beauties, violets, and other forest flowers.
Next westward beyond the Bear Dens is a broad ridge,
open and sunny towards the south (for the rodents), but
everywhere north of the Reptile House it is beautifully
overgrown with huge oaks, tulips, and hickories. Beyond
Beaver Valley it rises into a high, flat-topped knoll, on
which the children's playground is situated. West of the
Reptile House and beyond the Aquatic Mammals' Pond,
the fourth ridge stretches a long, sheltering arm of rocks and
trees quite to the southern boundary of the park ; and along
the eastern side of this natural barrier against cold west winds
240
The Bronx and Beyond
will shortly nestle the aviaries for eagles and vultures, pheas-
ants and up-Iand game-birds. Farther north this ridge
broadens into a plateau, on which, in 1901, will rise the Lion
House and the Monkey House, and a little later the large Bird
House and the Elephant House. This plateau has been
named Baird Court, in honor of Professor Spencer F.
Baird, former secretary of the Smithsonian Institution.
At its foot lies Lake Agassiz (to be devoted to a large mixed
collection of water-fowl), beyond which, overlooking all,
rises the smooth slope of Audubon Hill, crowned with
granite rocks in a setting of dark -green cedars.
William T. Hornaday
Century Magazine, November, 1900
The Bowery Boy as Nurse in Westchester ^^ -v^
" A "X TELL, I was out on de lawn tellin de gardner how t'
* * cut de grass, and dat he said was a big bluff,
cause I never seen no grass only what grows in City Hall
Park till last year. We was jollyin like dat when I hears
little Miss Fannie set up a yell what dey must have heard
on de yachts out on de sound. I went over t' de ver-
andy where de kid was lyin on a pillow in de hammock,
and she had turned over on her face and couldn't come
right. De nurse was off havin a small chat wid de butler
which I'll take a fall outter some old day, so I tinks 'what
t' 'ell,' I tinks, cause de Duchess had told me never t'
take de kid up for fear of breakin it.
"Say, do you know what I done? I says t' de kid, says
I, 'Little Miss Fannie,' I says, 'you is down, but not out,
and is entitled t' de benefit of de rule.' See ? So I counted
off ten seconds, but de kid couldn't get up, and so den I
picks her up, and she looks at me like she was sayin, ' Well,
R 241
The Wayfarer in New York
Chames, you has some sense,' but she was so mad at de
nurse she kept right on spoilin her disposition; bawlin
like her grip had got stranded in de cable and she couldn't
let go.
''Say, I was more crazy, cause I was tinkin about what
de Duchess had warned me, and I didn't know but dat I'd
fetched something loose in de kid's kit, and it might go off
its feed, and den Miss Fannie would have a fit ; and only
dat de gardner was lookin at me and sayin, 'I guess,
Chames, you learned t' be a nurse where you learned to
cut grass ' ; only for dat I'd trun little Miss Fannie in de
hammock and chased after de nurse.
"So I says t' de gardner, says I: 'Where I came from
folks learns all sorts of tings,' I says, 'even t' not talkin too
much,' says I, and I gives de kid a toss in me two arms,
like dey was a cradle, and I starts singin to it. Say, you
never heard me chant, did you? Well, dere ain't many
in it wid me on or off de Bowry when it comes t' singin.
Why, de very minute I pipes up, little Miss Fannie shuts her
face and looks at me, sprised like, at first, and den she starts
t' laughin as hard as his Whiskers when he tells a story
after his second bot. Dis is de song I sung, and it goes wid
any old Irish tune:
"Wan marnin early Oi arose
And Oi put on me workin close,
And phare in th' wurruld d'ye think Oi goes?
Up ! up ! up ! up ! t' Wan Hoondred and Ninety-sixth street.
** Dthe sphccdway thrack dthey're buildin dthere,
But all us terriers live afar
From Cherry Hill, wid divil a car —
Up ! up ! up ! up ! t' Wan Hoondred and Ninety-sixth street.
"It's dthere yez work wid pick and drill;
And tdhere wid work yez get yer fill;
242
The Bronx and Beyond
And dthere wid work yer toim yez fill —
Up! up! up! up! t' Wan Hoondrcd and Ninety-sixth street.
"Shure, whin our daily work is o'er,
Bedad, our bones is tired and sore,
And we'll be glad to tranif) no more
Up! up! up! up! t' Wan Hoondred and Ninety-sixth street.
"Say, I made a hit dat time if I never did before in me life.
Little Miss Fannie wouldn't let me stop till I'd sung dat song
near a million times; me walkin up and down de verandy
wid her all de time till I was so hot I had a tirst on me like
a man what had been runnin a lawnmower in de sun all day.
I was just tinkin dat me arms would drop off in anodder
minute if de kid didn't go t' sleep, when she shut her eyes,
and dat minute Miss Fannie and de Duchess drove into de
gate. ... So dat night Miss Fannie told all de folks
at dinner what a lulu I was, and his Whiskers, he says,
'Chames,' says he, 'you has done yourself so proud dat
I tink you is due on a day off, and to-morrow you can go
t' de city and look at a bull pup I has my eye on, ' he says."
E. W^ TowxsEND in Chimmie Fadden and Little
Miss Fannie
D'
Their Wedding Journey — 1834 ^^> ^^ '^:>
|EAR MOTHER,
When the Coach rolled off
From dear old Battery Place
I hid my face within my hands —
That is, I hid my face.
Tom says (he's leaning over me I)
'Twas on his shoulder, too;
But, oh, I pray you will believe
I wept to part from You.
243
The Wayfarer in New York
And when we rattled up Broadway
I wept to leave the Scene
Familiar to my happy Youth
(I did love Bowling Green).
I wept at Slidell's Chandlery
To see the smoke arise —
('Twas only at the City Hall
Tom bade me wipe my Eyes.)
4: # 4: 4c 4: 4! 9i>
We have not gone to Uncle John's,
Though Yonkers is so near —
We never shall see Cousin Van
At Tarrytown, I fear.
Our Peekskill friends, the Fishkill folk,
And all the waiting rest —
Tom bids me tell you they may wait —
(He says they may be blest).
I know 'tis ill to linger here
Hid in this woodland Inn
When all along Queen Anne's broad road
Await our Friends and Kin;
But, dear Mama (when I was small
You let me call you so),
'Tis such Felicity and Joy
With Him, Here ! Do you know ?
YOUR ISABEL.
P. S. — Tom sends
His love. Please write, "I know."
H. C. BUNNER
Copyright, i8g6,
by Charles Scrihner^s Sons
244
OVER THE WATER
Singularly enough there is in New York a superficial like-
ness to Constantinople. Even the height and location of the
ground with the contours cut by the rivers are not dissimilar.
A glance at the map will show the Hudson corresponding to
the Marmora, the East River to the Golden Horn, the Upper
Bay to the Bosporus. Other resemblances derive naturally
from these. Manhattan becomes recognizable as Stamboul,
the Battery as Seraglio Point, Brooklyn as the heights of Pera,
Staten Island as Scutari. Even the Brooklyn Bridge can be
tortured into a resemblance to the Galata Bridge, and the
Williamsburgh Bridge is an exaggerated suggestion of the
upper bridge on the Golden Horn.
J. C. V. D.
X
OVER THE WATER
The Bridges and Blackwell's Island '^^ -^^
' I ^HE earliest one, the Brooklyn Bridge, was opened for
-'- traffic in 1883, and since then upwards of fifty million
people a year have continuously passed over it in cars
alone. It is one of the most famous of the suspension
bridges, with stone towers 272 feet in height, a central
span of 1595 feet, and a lift above the water of 135 feet.
Its total length is 5959 feet, something over a mile. It has
promenades for foot passengers, two roadways for vehicles,
and two railway tracks for electric cars.
Enormous as this bridge was when first built, and spectac-
ular as it still appears, it is outdone in size by the Williams-
burgh Bridge, sometimes called "Bridge No. 2." This is
another suspension affair, but of quite a diflFerent appear-
ance from the first bridge. It has steel towers 325 feet in
height, a central span of 1600 feet, and a total length of
7200 feet. Since its opening it has carried immense crowds.
When the cars for it are in running order they will trans-
port 200,000 people a day and in emergencies 125,000
people an hour. In its 118 feet of width it has four sur-
face railway tracks, two elevated tracks, two carriage ways,
two promenades, and two bicycle paths.
Yet this bridge is once more surpassed in size by the
Queensboro or Blackwell's Island Bridge. It is a canti-
lever of peculiar design and is regarded as an e.xperiment
247
The Wayfarer in New York
by some and as an unsafe structure by others. It has four
trolley tracks, two elevated railway tracks, besides foot-
paths and carriage ways, and its capacity is 125,000
passengers an hour. It crosses the East River between
Fifty-ninth Street and Long Island City in three spans,
resting on Blackwell's Island after the first one, and making
a short span across the island itself. There are six rather
fine masonry piers, two on the island and two on each river
bank. The total reach of the bridge is 7636 feet. The
distinction of being the largest cantilever in the world
(the Forth Bridge has a longer single span) is perhaps
needed to sustain an interest, for it certainly is not beautiful.
It seems cumbrous and unnecessarily heavy.
In sheer weight, however, as in carrying capacity, this
Queensboro cantilever is exceeded by "Bridge No. 3,"
or the Manhattan Bridge, now nearly completed. It is
between the Brooklyn and the Williamsburgh bridges, and
like them is suspended on enormous ropes of steel. Each
rope consists of 9472 wires, tV of an inch in diameter,
woven into thirty-seven strands, with an outside diameter
of 2ii inches. These cables are swung from steel towers
standing upon granite and concrete foundations that go
down to bed-rock 100 feet below the mean surface of the
water. The towers are 345 feet in height, the steel in each
of them weighs some 6250 tons, and each carries a load of
32,000 tons. The anchorage on either shore to which the
ends of the cables are made fast is another mass of granite
and concrete, weighing something like 232,000 tons. It
is calculated to resist a pull of, say, 30,000 tons. From
the main cables, carried by smaller suspender cables, is
the superstructure, which in weight of nickel-steel, includ-
ing the towers, amounts to 42,000 tons. In the main span
248
Over the Water
over the river there is 10,000 tons, and in each shore span
5000 tons.
These figures suggest a bridge of not only great weight,
but of huge size. It is planned to be the strongest and
possibly the longest bridge in the world. And this not
because New York wants to have the "biggest" structure
in all creation, paying ten or more millions for that pre-
tentious distinction, but because it needs a bridge that will
carry from 300,000 to 500,000 people a day, and carry
most of them during the "rush" hours. It is built to stand
great strain and to accommodate any crowd, however large.
To that end there are to be four tracks for elevated and
subway cars, accommodating trains of eight and ten cars
each, four more tracks for trolleys and surface cars on a
second floor, besides a roadway thirty-five feet wide and
two twelve-foot sidewalks for pedestrians. The main
span of the bridge is not so long as those of the Brooklyn
and Williamsburgh bridges, being 1470 feet to their 1600;
but the approach from the Manhattan side is 1940 feet
and from the Brooklyn side 4230 feet. This makes a
total length of 9090 feet, nearly two miles. That figure,
taken in connection with its width of 120 feet (35 feet
wider than the Brooklyn Bridge), gives perhaps some idea
of this stupendous structure of steel swung across the East
River as easily and as lightly as a spider's web across a
doorway.
For, notwithstanding its weight and mass, this bridge
does not look heavy. Apparently it has no rigidity about
it. It looks as though it might ride out a storm by bending
before it or swaying with it. Its grace and its feeling of
elasticity come from its fine bending lines. The city
planned for the beauty of the structure as well as for its
249
The Wayfarer in New York
usefulness. Mr. Hastings, the architect, has personally
had its decoration on his hands and conscience for a long
time. No doubt this has meant much in matters of detail.
The main beauty of the bridge, however, lies in its lines —
the graceful droop of its cables over its upright towers.
The Brooklyn Bridge also has this grace of line and
delicate tracery against the sky. The towers are well-
proportioned masses of masonry, but when built they
were denounced by many for their pike-staff plainness.
They were thought "ugly" because not ornamented with
mouldings, or divided up by string courses of protruding
stone. In fact, the whole bridge was considered some-
thing of a monstrosity, and spoken of at that time very
much as our skyscrapers are scoffed at to-day. But,
fortunately, the bridge has existed long enough to win over
many of those who thought it monstrous; and the newer
generation has come to regard it as one of the city's most
beautiful features. It has grown gray in service, having
been used twenty-five years; and is now spoken of as
**the old Bridge." Perhaps some of its attractiveness
has come with age, and then, perhaps again, it was just
as beautiful the day it was completed, and we have merely
grown up to it.
The islands where the city institutions are located are
in summer the coolest and the greenest spots in the city,
and at any season they are beautiful in their settings.
All of which puts the notion into one's head that the city
has given up to its crippled and aged, its thugs and thieves,
its paupers and prisoners, the most livable and lovable
portions of the town, keeping for itself only some flat and
rather hot districts on the upper avenues. This looks
like a great deal of self-denial in favor of the outcast; but,
250
Over the Water
unfortunately, the motive will not hear critical analysis.
It is to be feared that the New Yorkers put the prisoners
and the paupers on the islands because no one else wanted
those spots. They were waste places that could be spared
very readily; and besides, over there "the slovenly un-
handsome corse" could not come betwixt the wind and
the nobility. People do not want their public institutions
too close to them.
As for islands near a city, they have never been popular
resorts, except for picnic parties. Humanity of the hermit
variety occasionally exists upon them; but the true city-
dweller is a person of gregarious tastes and loves to flock
along a dusty street rather than a water front. Moreover,
the islands are inaccessible, hard to come and go from, and,
also, they are "dreadfully lonely." But they are good
healthful places for the indigent and the aged, and admirable
spots in which to bring sinners to repentance. Hence their
appropriateness for prisons and hospitals. Let the blind
and the halt have them. So long as the free citizen can
smell gasolene and see asphalt on Fifth Avenue, he will
not miss the sea breezes and green grass of the islands.
J. C. Van Dyke in The New New York
Crossing Brooklyn Ferry ^^ ""v^ '^^ ^'Ci*'
T^LOOD-TIDE below me ! I see you face to face !
-*■ Clouds of the west-sun there half an hour high —
I see you also face to face.
Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes,
how curious you are to me !
251
The Wayfarer in New York
On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross,
returning home, are more curious to me than you
suppose.
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence
are more to me, and more in my meditations, than
you might suppose.
»Jj m^ »^ WL« mj^ »^ ^t*
^* ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^
I too many and many a time cross' d the river of old,
Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the
air floating with motionless wings, oscillating their
bodies.
Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies
and left the rest in strong shadow.
Saw the slow -wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward
the south,
Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the
shape of my head in the sunlit water,
Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-
westward,
Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
Look'd toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving.
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me.
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships
at anchor.
The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars,
■t
n
The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the
slender serpentine pennants,
252
Over the Water
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their
pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous
whirl of the wheels.
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups,
the frolicsome crests and glistening.
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray
walls of the granite storehouses by the docks,
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely
flank'd on each side by the barges, the hay-boat, the
belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chim-
neys burning high and glaringly into the night.
Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and
yellow light over the tops of houses, and down into
the clefts of streets.
Flow on, river ! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the
ebb-tide !
Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg'd waves !
Gorgeous clouds of the sunset ! drench with your splendor
me, or the men and women generations after me !
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passen-
gers!
Stand up, tall masts of Manahatta! stand up, beautiful
hills of Brooklyn!
Throb, baffled and curious brain ! throw out questions and
answers !
Suspend here and every^vhere, eternal float of solution !
Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or
public assembly!
253
The Wayfarer in New York
Sound out, voices of young men ! loudly and musically
call me by my nighest name !
Live, old life ! play the part that looks back on the actor
or actress!
Play the old role, the role that is great or small according
as one makes it!
Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in un-
known ways be looking upon you;
Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly,
yet haste with the hasting current;
Fly on, sea-birds ! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles
high in the air;
Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold
it till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you !
Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or
any one's head, in the sunHt water!
Come on, ships from the lower bay ! pass up or down.
white-sail'd schooners, sloops, lighters !
Walt Whitman
Flushing "^^ 'Cy <:i>' •'sriy -^^^ 'Qy
THE Bowne place in Flushing, a very old type of
Long Island farm-house, was turned into a mu-
seum by the Bowne family itself — an excellent idea; —
the Quaker meeting-house in Flushing, though not so
old by twenty-five years as it is painted in the sign which
says, "Built in 1695," will probably be preserved as a
museum too.
Another relic in that locality well worth keeping is the
Duryea place, a striking old stone farm-house with a wide
window on the second floor, now shut in with a wooden
cover supported by a long brace pole reaching to the ground.
254
Over the Water
Out of this window, it is said, a cannon used to f)oint.
This was while the house was headquarters for Hessian
ofl'icers during the long monotonous months when "the
main army of the British lay at Flushing from Whitestone
to Jamaica''; and upon Flushing Heights there stood one
of the tar barrel lx?acons that reached from New York
to Norwich Hill near Oyster Bay. The British officers
used to kill time by playing at Fives against the blank wall
of the Quaker meeting-house, or by riding over to Hemp-
stead Plains to the fox hunts — where the Meadowbrook
Hunt Club rides to the hounds to-day. The common
soldiers meanwhile stayed in Flushing and amused them-
selves according to the same historian by rolling cannon
balls about a course of nine holes. That was probably
the nearest approach to the great game at that time in
America and may well have been played on the site of
the present Flushing Golf Club.
Jesse L. Williams in New York Sketches
Copyright, igo2, by Charles Scrihner^s Sons
The City of Homes ^^::> ^=^ -Oy '^^ '':::^
TN the general outline Brooklyn is a great fan. The big
■*- bridge is the handle; and starting at the other side she
spreads in every direction. If she were built long and
narrow like Manhattan she would reach out half the
length of Long Island, but rounded as she is every part of
the borough is within an hour's ride of the Manhattan end
of the bridge, and it costs only five cents to get there. No
part of its immense suburbs has a monopoly of growth.
It is general. It is not so very long ago that Flatbush
seemed a long way from New York. The man who went
to Flatbush to live moved out into the country. To-day
255
The Wayfarer in New York
the property of a single family over there — the John
Lefferts estate — has already been changed from farmland
into a populous city in itself. It has been built up with
residences such as hne the Hudson above New York.
Quaint old houses, dating from the days of the Dutch, in
which great oak beams are made fast with inch-thick oak
pins in the scarcity of hand-made nails, are being pulled
down to give room to Queen Anne cottages or whatever
is the current architectural Brummagem.
Start in the trolley car from the bridge and go out toward
New Utrecht and where Fort Hamilton holds the entrance
to the Narrows and the story is the same. Build, build,
build, not the summer towns which have been there for nearly
a hundred years, but populous towns of all-the-year-round
homes, moving from the over-peopled tenements of Man-
hattan to the freedom of yards for the children and fresh
air for all — and the drained tenements are filled again
from Latin Europe and the land of the Slav.
Let any one who doubts go trace the fronds of Brooklyn
Fan — or he need go no farther than Brooklyn's business
district. He will see the streets and the stores crowded
with women. If he counts he will find nearly fifty women
to one man. It is the Borough of Homes, and the women
own it. Anonymous
Coney Island "vr^ ^^^ ''^^ ''^^ ''^^
THERE is not now, and never has been in the world
or its history, a pleasure resort approaching Coney
Island in the elaborateness or ingenuity of its devices to
wheedle away dimes and despondency.
The name of Coney Island has been for years a byword
of plebeiance at its worst. Side-shows in wooden shacks,
256
Over the Water
peanuts and popcorn, rag-throated barkers, hot babies
spilling out of tired arms, petty swindles, puerile diversions,
a wooden elephant, a Ferris wheel, an observatitjn tower,
hot sands, stjualling children, bathers indecently fat or
inhumanly lean shrieking in a crowded and dirty ocean,
sweaty citizens, pick-pockets picking empty pockets,
lung-testers, noisome bicyclists, merry-go-rounds, weight-
pounding machines, punching machines, "one-baby-down-
one-cigar!" — ring throwing at ugly canes, ball throwing
at coons, "guess-your-weight!" — tintype tents, dusty
clam chowder served by toughs in maculate aprons, rel-
iques of old picnics, a captive balloon, squalling babies
covered with prickly heat, drooling sots and boozy women
with their hair in strings, a board walk fetid with sweaty
citizens, museums with snake-charmers who could charm
nothing else, pretzels, fly-haunted pyramids of mucilagi-
nous pies, shrieking babies with pins sticking in them,
spanked by weary mothers and sworn at by jaded fathers,
lemonade where overfed flies commit suicide, only to be dis-
interred by unmanicured thumbs, nigrescent bananas, heel-
marked orange peelings, fractured chicken bones, shooting
galleries snapping and banging and smelly powder, saloons
odious with old beer slops and inebriates, umbrellas on
the sand where gap-toothed bicyclists grin at fat beauties of
enormous hip, little girls and boys with bony legs all hives
and scratches paddling in the surf-lather with dripping
drawers and fife-like shrieks, gaily bedight nymphs proud
of their shapes and dawdling about in wet bathing suits
that keep no secrets, poor little mewling babies that really
need to go home, dance halls where flat-headed youths
and women with plackets agape spiel slowly in a death-
clutch, German bands whose music sounds like horses
s 257
The Wayfarer in New York
with the heaves, the steeplechase, where men and women
straddle the same hobby horse and slide yelling down the
ringing grooves of small change, rancid sandwiches, sticky
candies made of adulterated sweets and dye, more clam
chowder, banging bumping cars on creaking trestles filled
with yowling couples, tangle-faced babies howling toward
apoplexy, dusty shoes, obsolete linen, draggled skirts, sweat,
fatigue, felicity, — that is the Coney Island of long memory.
There were just two things about it that were worth
while : first was the sense of delight it gave you to get back
to New York; second, the shoot-the-chutes, where one
felt the rapture of a seagull swooping to the waves — the
long, swift glide down the wet incline, and the glorious
splash into the flying spray ! — who would not rather
be a gondolier on one of those flat boats than Admiral
Makaroff, or the last flying machinist who spattered to the
ground?
But these were the two exceptions that proved Coney
Island to be a nightmare of side-shows in wooden shacks,
peanuts and popcorn, rag-throated barkers, hot babies
spilling out of tired arms — da capo al fine.
To-day, though ! The paltry Aladdin has rubbed his
lamp. Palaces have leapt aloft with gleaming minarets,
lagoons are spread beneath arches of delight, the spoils of
the world's revels are spilled along the beach, rendering
dull and petty the stately pleasure dome that Kubla Khan
decreed in Xanadu.
One night in the winter there was a fire — a suspicious
fire — for how could a fire be both accidental and benev-
olent? But, anyway, in one crimson night the blood-red
waves saw the plague spot cremated, all the evils and ugli-
ness cleansed as on a pyre. The next morning the sun with
258
Over the Water
smiling eye beheld acres of embers, charred timbers, ashes.
Coney /«///
Then armies of carpenters and masons, engineers,
electricians and decorators invaded Gomorrah. And this
year's May found the old Coney Island metamorphosed,
base metals transmuted into gold — or at least into gilt.
Here is alchemy ! here the palpable stone of philosophy !
Henceforward London's Earl's Court is a churl's back-
yard, the f^tes of Versailles are nursery games, the Mardi
Gras of New Orleans, the Veiled Prophet of St. Louis,
the carnivals of Venice are sawdust and wax; as for the
rare and amazing Durbar of India — that is an everyday
afifair here.
Still, on the outskirts the old side-shows persist hke
parasites, and those who enjoy nothing until it is ancient
history need not bewail the old Coney Island. It is simply
shoved to one side. In its old abode there is super-regal
splendor. Last year's Luna Park finds this year a rival,
Dreamland, and the two exhausted the achievements of
past and the ingenuities of present device as completely as
their passionate press agents have squeezed dry the dic-
tionary of flattering epithet. There is no adjective left
that does not smell of advertisement. So nouns and nu-
merals must coldly foreshow what now exists to inflate
the mind and deflate the purse.
Luna Park has waxed to the harvest fulness. It claims
to be greater than the St. Louis Fair, illuminated beyond
any spot on earth; it has reproduced the Court of Honor
of the Buffalo Pan-American Exposition.
It covers forty acres, twenty-four of them under shelter.
Its broad sheet of water is not only swept by gondolas
and punts, but it is over-topped by a three-ring circus sus-
259
The Wayfarer in New York
pended over the waves. Here, in full view of thousands,
in tiers of boxes and promenades, the spotted horses, the
clowns, the acrobats, jugglers, hoop artists, intellectual
elephants, Arabian pyramidists, tumblers, contortionists,
disport under the crackling lashes of the ringmaster, with
his long-tailed coat and his "Hoop-la!" From skyish
towers wires hang, and hereon trapezists and men and women
of remarkable equilibrium do the impossible a hundred
and thirty feet above the waters that serve for a net. This
circus employs the most famous athletes, yet is free to all
who enter the grounds.
A Japanese tea garden, built by imported Japanese
architects and wood-carvers and florists, is rival to Yeddo.
In the flower gardens thousands of tinted electric bulbs
are hidden, to turn the night into noon. Babylonian
gardens hang over all.
Two high towers with suspended baskets will whirl the
most phlegmatic giddy with centrifugal thrills. In the
Helter-Skelter you may sit down on a polished and wind-
ing slide and renew the delights of banister days. The
famous trip to the Moon, with its convincing illusions, is still
here, and you may go also, or think you go, twenty thou-
sand leagues under the sea. Infant incubators, a scenic
railway, a midnight express, a German village, an old mill,
the sea on land, a monster dance hall, a laughing show,
a shoot-the-chutes, are mere details. . . .
The rival paradise, Dreamland, is said to have cost over
$3,000,000. It has taken over the old Iron Pier and built
above it the largest ball room ever made, 20,000 square
feet ; beneath is the restaurant and a promenade, and be-
neath all the cool rush of the surf. The company runs four
large steamers, as well as Santos-Dumont's Airship No. 9.
260
Over the Water
In Dreamland you find a street called "the Bowery with
the lid off," the spectacular Fall of Pompeii, a haunted
house, a reproduction of the Doge's Palace, a complete
midget village inhabited by three hundred Lilliputians, a
miniature railway, a double siioot-the-chutcs, a coasting
trip through Switzerland, a leapfrog railway, a camp and
battle scene, a baby incubator plant, Bostock's Animal
Show, the highest of observation towers, a funny-room from
Paris called "C'est-a-rire," and, finally, the Chilkoot Pass,
a great bagatelle board, where the sliders win a prize if they
can steer themselves into certain crevasses in the glaciers.
Besides there is a great fire-fighting scene, not to mention
a theater where the best-known vaudevillians hold sway,
and innumerable music.
But Luna Park and Dreamland are not the only spectacles
of Pantagruelian proportions. There are others that have
cost a hundred thousand dollars or more, such as the
Johnstown Flood, in vivid reproduction, and the trip to
the North Pole by way of a completely equipped submarine
with an amazingly ingenious illusion of the sea floor and
the Arctic realm. There is also a huge theater where a
mimic New York is bombarded and destroyed by hostile
fleets after a furious battle with the crumbling forts.
Rupert Hughes in The Real New York
Copyright, IQ04
Staten Island ^^^b^ <:> ^;:^ -«;^ ^^^
TF the stranger would see New York in one of its
-■■ most charming aspects, or if the citizen would refresh
his wearied soul with an hour's cheering communion with
Nature in her heartiest and most inspiriting mood, let
him hie to the happy retreats of Staten Island. Great
261
The Wayfarer in New York
is the pleasure and small the cost of the journey, for —
as may happily be said of each of the attractive points in
the vicinage of the town — a poor little sixpence will buy
it at any hour.
One of the busiest places on the island is the thriving
village of Tompkinsville opposite the Quarantine Ground,
at the Narrows. Back of this village the ground rises boldly
to an elevation of some three hundred feet, overlooking
land and sea for miles around, and commanding, among
other wonderful scenes, the view of the bay and city pre-
sented in our frontispiece. Down in the foreground, at
the left of the picture, is a glimpse of a portion of the town
and of the site of the hospitals, which were offered as a
holocaust to the popular indignation at the time of the
memorable Quarantine rebellion, in the summer of 1857.
Staten Island, or Staaten Eylandt as the ancient Dutch
settlers wrote the name, was known to the Indians under
the euphonious appellation of Squehonga Manackmong.
It forms a considerable and important part of the Empire
State, extending some fourteen miles in length, and about
eight miles at the point of its greatest breadth. Guarding
as it does the great access to the city from the sea, it is, in
a military point of view, a place of high consequence. So
the British General, Sir William Howe, regarded it, when
he established himself there, first of all, at the period of
the American Revolution, keeping possession from 1776
to the close of the contest.
The island, lying as it does within half an hour's sail
of the metropolis, and possessing great and varied topo-
graphical advantages, has become a favorite resort for
summer residence, and many are the stately chateaux
and the cosey cottages which crown its beautiful heights or
262
Over the Water
nestle in its peaceful glens. At the most northern point
of the island, where it is separated from the New Jersey
shore by the kills, as the little strait here is called, lies New
Brighton — a winsome village of country scats, much es-
teemed by the denizens of the city when the dog-star rages.
New Brighton presents the pleasantest of faces to the water,
and looks out upon a picture equally attractive in return.
A little west of this village are the grounds of that famous
charity for superannuated sons of the sea, known as the
Sailor's Snug Harbor. This fortunate establishment
was founded in 1801, by Captain Randall, and endowed
by him with farmlands then far out of the city proper, and
valued at the time at some fifty thousand dollars; but which
are at this day in the heart of the most densely populated
and most valuable section of the metropolis, and are
measured by inches instead of acres.
T. Addison Richards in Harper's Magazine
Hoboken, 1831 ^^> ^^^r^ ^^^ ^^> ^^^
A T New York, as everywhere else, the churches
■^^ show within, during the time of service, like beds of
tulips, so gay, so bright, so beautiful, are the long rows
of French bonnets and pretty faces; rows but rarely
broken by the unribboned heads of the male population;
the proportion is about the same as I have remarked else-
where. Excepting at New York, I never saw the other
side of the picture, but there I did. On the opposite side
of the North River, about three miles higher up, is a place
called Hoboken. A gentleman who possessed a handsome
mansion and grounds there, also possessed the right of
ferry; and to render this productive, he has restricted his
pleasure-grounds to a few beautiful acres, laying out the
263
The Wayfarer in New York
remainder simply and tastefully as a public walk. It is
hardly possible to imagine one of greater attraction; a
broad belt of light underwood and flowering shrubs, studded
at intervals with lofty forest trees, runs for two miles along
a cliff which overhangs the matchless Hudson; sometimes
it feathers the rocks down to its very margin, and at others
leaves a pebbly shore, just rude enough to break the gentle
waves, and make a music which mimics softly the loud
chorus of the ocean. Through this beautiful httle wood
a broad, well-gravelled terrace is led by every point which
can exhibit the scenery to advantage ; narrower and wider
paths diverge at intervals, some into the deeper shadow of
the woods, and some shelving gradually to the pretty coves
below.
The price of entrance to this little Eden is the six cents
you pay at the ferry. We went there on a bright Sunday
afternoon, expressly to see the humors of the place.
Many thousand persons were scattered through the grounds ;
of these we ascertained, by repeatedly counting, that nine-
teen-twentieths were men. The ladies were at church. . . .
It is impossible not to feel, after passing one Sunday in
the churches and chapels of New York, and the next in the
gardens of Hoboken, that the thousands of well-dressed
men you see enjoying themselves at the latter, have made
over the thousands of well-dressed women you saw ex-
hibited at the former, into the hands of the priests, at
least for the day. The American people arrogate to them-
selves a character of superior morality and religion, but this
division of their hours of leisure does not give me a favor-
able idea of either.
Mrs. Trollope in Domestic Manners of the
Americans
264
Over the Water
Greenpoint <::> -Qy <^ -Qy '<;::b' <::>
IF any spot on the globe can Ix.' found where even Spring
has lost the sweet trick of making herself charm-
ing, a cynic in search of an opjxjrlunity for some
such morose discovery might thank his baleful stars were
chance to drift him upon Greenpoint. Whoever named
the place in past days must have done so with a double
satire; for Greenpoint is not a point, nor is it ever green.
Years ago it began by being the sluggish suburb of a
thriftier and smarter suburb, Brooklyn. By degrees the
latter broadened into a huge city, and soon its neighbor
village stretched out to it arms of straggling huts and
swampy river-line, in doleful welcome. To-day the
affiliation is complete. Man has said let it all be Brooklyn,
and it is all Brooklyn. But the sovereign dreariness of
Greenpoint, like an unpropitiated god, still remains. Its
melancholy, its ugliness, its torpor, its neglect, all preserve
an unimpaired novelty. It is very near New York, and
yet in atmosphere, suggestion, vitality, it is leagues away.
Our noble city, with its magnificent maritime approaches,
its mast-thronged docks, its lordly encircling rivers, its
majesty of traffic, its gallant avenues of edifices, its loud
assertion of life, and its line promise of riper culture, fades
into a dim memory when you have touched, after only a
brief voyage, upon this forlorn opposite shore.
No Charon rows you across, though your short trip has
too often the most funereal associations. You take passage
in a squat little steamboat at either of two eastern ferries,
and are lucky if a hearse with its satellite coaches should
fail to embark in your company; for, curiously, the one
enlivening fact associable with Greenpoint is its close
nearness to a famed Roman Catholic cemetery. . . .
265
The Wayfarer in New York
But Greenpoint, like a hardened conscience, still has her
repentant surprises. She is not quite a thing of sloth and
penury. True, the broad street that leads from steam-
boat to cemetery is lined with squalid homes, and the
mourners who are so incessantly borne along to Calvary
must see little else than beer-sellers standing slippered and
coatless beside their doorways, or thin, pinched women
haggling with the venders of sickly groceries. But else-
where one may find by-streets lined with low wooden
dwellings that hint of neatness and suggest a better grade
of living. A yellowish drab prevails as the hue of these
houses; they seem all to partake of one period, like certain
homogeneous fossils. But they do not breathe of antiquity;
they are fanciful with trellised piazzas and other modem
embellishments of carpentry; sometimes they possess minia-
ture Corinthian pillars, faded by the trickle of rain between
their tawny flutings, as if stirred with the dumb desire to
be white and classic. Scant gardens front them, edged
with a few yards of ornamental fence. High basement
windows stare at you from a foundation of brick. They
are very prosaic, chiefly from their lame effort to
be picturesque ; and when you look down toward
the river, expecting to feel refreshed by its
gleam, you are disheartened at the
way in which lumber-yards and
sloop-wharves have quite
shut any glimpse of it
from your eyes.
Edgar Fawcett in
An Ambitious Woman.
Copyright, 1883,
by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
266
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