Vignettes of Manhattan; Outlines in Local Color

VIGNETTES OF MANHATTAN OUTLINES IN LOCAL COLOR
Books by Brander Matthews These Many Years, Recollections of a New Yorker ———
BIOGRAPHIES Shakspere as a Playwright Molière, His Life and His Works ———
ESSAYS AND CRITICISMS The Principles of Playmaking French Dramatists of the 19th Century Pen and Ink, Essays on subjects of more or less Importance Aspects of Fiction, and other Essays The Historical Novel, and other Essays Parts of Speech, Essays on English The Development of the Drama Inquiries and Opinions The American of the Future, and other Essays Gateways to Literature, and other Essays On Acting A Book About the Theater Essays on English ——— Vignettes of Manhattan; Outlines in Local Color

BY BRANDER MATTHEWS WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY W. C. BROWNELL ILLUSTRATED BY W. T. SMEDLEY NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1921 COPYRIGHT 1894, 1897, BY BRANDER MATTHEWS —— COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS THE SCRIBNER PRESS
TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT
My dear Theodore,—You know—for we have talked it over often enough—that I do not hold you to be a typical New-Yorker, since you come of Dutch stock, and first saw the light here on Manhattan Island, whereas the typical New-Yorker is born of New England parents, perhaps somewhere west of the Alleghanies. You know, also, that often the typical New-Yorker is not proud of the city of his choice, and not so loyal to it as we could wish. He has no abiding concern for this maligned and misunderstood town of ours; he does not thrill with pride at the sight of its powerful and irregular profile as he comes back to it across the broad river; nor is his heart lifted up with joy at the sound of its increasing roar, so suggestive and so stimulating. But we have a firm affection for New York, you and I, and a few besides; we like it for what it is; and we love it for what we hope to see it.
It is because of this common regard for our strange and many-sided city that I am giving myself the pleasure of proffering to you this little volume of vignettes. They are not stories really, I am afraid—not sketches even, nor studies; they are, I think, just what I have called them—vignettes. And then there are a dozen of them, one for every month in the year, an urban calendar of times and seasons. Such as they are, I beg that you will accept them in token of my friendship and esteem; and that you will believe me, always,