THE WICKEDEST MAN IN NEW YORK
In the July number of Packard's Monthly, an able and sprightly magazine, published in this city, there appeared an article by Mr. Oliver Dyer, entitled "The Wickedest Man in New York." It was a lengthy and interesting account of a dance-house, carried on at No. 304 Water street—one of the vilest sections of the city—by one John Allen, and of the proprietor himself. As many of our readers may not have seen this article, we give portions of it, referring them to the magazine for the rest.
The Wickedest Man in New York goes by the name of John Allen. He lives at No. 304 Water street. He keeps a dance-house there. He is about forty-five years old. He is reputed to be worth one hundred thousand dollars, more or less, and is known to be worth over seventy thousand dollars. He has three brothers, who are clergymen—two of them being Presbyterians, and the other a Baptist—and is reported to have once been a minister of the Gospel himself. He is known formerly to have been a school teacher, and is a man of education and fine natural powers; was originally a good man; and is yet a 'good fellow' in many respects. Were it not for his good qualities he never could have attained unto the bad eminence of being the Wickedest Man in New York.
The best bad is always the worst.
Take him for all in all, our Wickedest Man is a phenomenon. He reads the Bible to his dance-house girls, and his favorite papers are the New York Observer and the Independent. He takes them regularly, and reads them. We have repeatedly seen them lying on the counter of his bar-room, amid decanters and glasses, along with the daily Herald and the Sun. We have also seen a dozen copies of the Little Wanderer's Friend at a time scattered about his place, for he takes an interest in mission work, and 'goes in' generally for progress for other people.
This Wickedest Man is the only entity appertaining to the shady side of New York life which we have been unable to fathom, analyze, and account for. But he is too much for us. Why a human being of his education, natural tastes, force of character, and wealth, should continue to live in a Water street dance-house, and bring up his children in a soul-destroying atmosphere of sin and degradation, is more than we can comprehend.
For the Wickedest Man loves his children. His little five-year-old boy is the apple of his eye, the core of his heart, and the chief object of his worship. He never misses an opportunity to sound the child's praises, and to show off his accomplishments. And all things considered, the little fellow is truly a wonder. He is crammed full of information on all manner of topics, and is ever ready to respond to his doting father's attempts to make his smartness visible to the naked eye.
We have never visited the Wickedest Man's dance-house without having our attention called afresh to his little son's abilities, except once, and then he took us round to the school which the child attends, to let us see that he ranks with the best, and is a favorite with his teacher. That was on the 28th day of May last, at about a quarter to twelve in the day time, when we went to No. 304 Water street, to tell Mr. Allen that the fated time had come for serving him up in a magazine article.
For be it known to the reader, we have had our pen couched at John Allen for nearly two years. In the year 1865, the Sabbath after President Lincoln was assassinated, we began an exploration and sub- soiling of New York city, as to its crime, poverty, want, woe, wretchedness, and degradation, which we have pursued ever since, as other engagements would permit. Of course, it was not long before we found out John Allen. We at once recognized his genius for wickedness, and made him an especial study. But, as we have said, he baffles us. We have told him so, and have frequently asked him to help us out of our dilemma, but he always comes short of the complete thing.
We think we know why this Wickedest Man persists in living in his Water street den—that we have, in fact, penetrated his secret; but as we are not absolutely certain as to the matter, we will not set our suspicion down in print, lest we should do him injustice.
We have said that our Wickedest Man is a phenomenon. We meant this in its application to the deepest springs of his character; but it is also, and perhaps equally, applicable to the external manifestations of those deepest springs.
Has the reader any notion of a Water street dance-house? Concretely stated, it is a breathing hole of hell—trap-door of the bottomless pit. You step from the street into a bar-room, wherein lousy loafers lurk, and which is, in some cases, on a level with the sidewalk, and in others far below it; and there you are in the general midst of things, if it happens to be a dance-house of the very lowest class. But usually there is a 'saloon' in the rear of the bar-room.
Passing out of the bar-room by a door opening in a partition across its rear, you enter the dancing-saloon, which varies in size from a room fifteen feet square to a room twenty-five to fifty feet in extent. Along the wall of this room a bench extends, usually on three sides. In the farther end of the room is an orchestra, proportioned in numbers and skill to the prosperity of the establishment. The number of musicians is sometimes as high as six, but the average is not more than three. In one of the rear corners of the saloon there is a small bar, where the girls can drink with their victims without exposing their fascinations to the unthriftful gaze of a non-paying and censorious outside public.
Sitting upon the benches, or grouped upon the floor, or whirling in the dance, are the girls, varying in number from four to twenty, but averaging about ten.
These girls are not often comely to the fastidious eye. But to a sailor, just from a long cruise where nothing lovelier than his weather-beaten shipmates has for years been seen, they are not without attractions. So, too, do certain landsmen, of a degraded type, pay homage to their strenuous charms. But a decent man, in the full possession and equipoise of his faculties, can only regard them with sorrow unspeakable, and pity too deep for tears.
The only girl we ever saw in a dance-house, in whom we could detect the slightest vestige of comeliness or refinement, had been there but a few hours, and was reputed to be the daughter of a former Lieutenant- Governor of a New England State.
The first time we entered John Alien's dance-house we found it in full blast. The hour was eleven in the evening. There were thirteen girls in the saloon, three musicians in the orchestra, and seven customers submitting to the blandishments of an equal number of the ballet- dressed syrens who pervaded the room. Our party consisted of the policeman who accompanied us, three clergymen on the look out for the "elephant," Mr. Albert C. Arnold, of the Howard Mission, and the writer.
The Wickedest Man was in his glory. Things were moving briskly. He gave us all a hearty welcome, ordered the orchestra to do their best, and told the girls to 'break our hearts.' A vigorous dance followed, after which the proprietor called out:
'Hartford, go up stairs and get my baby.' Hartford turned out to be one of the girls, who immediately disappeared and soon returned, bearing in her arms an undressed sleepy child, wrapped in a shawl. This was the juvenile prodigy. His father took him in his arms, with a glow of pride and affection.
'Now, gentlemen, you are writers, philosophers, and preachers; but I'll show that my baby knows as much as any of you. He's hell on reading, writing, praying and fighting.'
And without more ado, he stood the sleepy little fellow upon the floor and began to catechize him in ancient history, both sacred and profane, and then in modern history, geography, the political history of the United States, etc., etc., with a result which astounded all. Suddenly he exclaimed:
'Chester, give me a song.'
And Chester, for that is the child's name, gave us a song.
'Now, Chester, give us a break-down.' The orchestra played a 'break- down,' and Chester danced it with precision and vigor, his mother looking on with delight.
"'Now, Chester, give us a prayer."
And the child recited, first the Lord's Prayer, and then others in succession mixed with which were so much ribaldry and profanity on the father's part as cut us to the heart. And here it was that we got a glimpse of the pre-eminent wickedness of the man-wickedness to him unknown, and all the worse because of his unconsciousness of it; wickedness which is leading him to train up that idolized boy in a way and in an atmosphere which will yet make him an object of loathing, even to his own heart.
For that dance-house child there seems to be no spiritual hope. The sacred and the profane are so intermingled in his childish understanding, that he will never be able to tell which is sacred and which is profane; and his nature being dogged and combative, he will grow up into the highest possible type of wickedness, if he grows up at all. Of the thousand of painful cases wherewith we have met in this city, that of little Chester Allen gives us about the keenest pang.
After the infant phenomenon had been sent back to bed, his father asked our party if we wouldn't 'mix in' and have a dance with the girls.
'It'll do you good,' said he, 'to trip it a little on the light fantastic. Besides, I like to do the fair thing by distinguished visitors. I'm fond of literary people, and especially of clergymen. I've three brothers myself who adorn the sacred calling; and grit and grace run through our family, like the Tigris and the Jordan through the Holy Land. Go in, gentlemen; the girls shan't hurt you. I'll watch over you like a hen over her chickens, and you shall leave my premises as virtuous as—you came in! Ha, ha! Come, what shall it be?'
On being assured that we would not 'trip it on the light fantastic,' he asked us if we (that is, our party) would not favor the girls with a song, whereupon Mr. Arnold suggested that we should all sing together, and asked the girls what they would like best. Several of them immediately responded in favor of 'There is Rest for the Weary.'
'Do you know that? one of the clergymen asked.
'Yes;' answered at least half-a-dozen of the girls.
'Where did you learn it?' asked another of the clergymen.
"'At Sabbath-school," was the reply.
We all looked at one another. Here was a revelation. These girls had been brought up to attend Sabbath-school! Perhaps they were the daughters of Christian parents! But we had not time to pursue this painful speculation, for the girls began to sing—
'In the Christian's home in Glory
There is a land of rest;
And my Saviour's gone before me,
To fulfil my soul's request.
'CHORUS: There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you,
On the other side of Jordan,
In the sweet fields of Eden,
Where the Tree of Life is blooming,
There is rest for you.'
And oh, with what fervor and pathos they sang—especially the chorus— which, at the end of each verse they sang three times over; some of them, at last, weeping as they sang. What girlish memories, those sweet, simple strains evoked! Memories, perhaps, of once happy homes, and affectionate Sabbath-school teachers, and beloved companions, so sweetly contrasting with their dance-house condition. And so, those soul-weary creatures lingered fondly upon, and repeated over and over again, the lines:
'On the other side of Jordan,
In the sweet fields of Eden,
Where the Tree of Life is blooming,
There is rest for you.'
Since that occasion we have repeatedly visited the abode of the Wickedest Man in New York, for the purpose of 'studying him up,' and of trying to hit upon some means of inducing him to abandon his course of life, and of saving his boy. For in truth we not only feel an interest in, but also rather like him, wicked as he is. And so does nearly everybody whom we have taken to see him; and we have taken scores—most of them clergymen.
But all our efforts to get any vital hold upon him have been in vain. He is always cordial; always ready to let the girls 'have a spiritual sing;' will even permit a little exhortation to them in his dancing saloon; and is free with his Observer and Independent. But he keeps on his way with unyielding pertinacity.
On one occasion a party of us suggested that he should let us hold a prayer-meeting in his saloon. After a little reflection, he replied:
'Well, no, gentlemen, I can't go that. You know that every man must have regard to his profession and the opinion of his neighbors. What with my Observer and Independent, and you fellows coming here and singing camp-meeting hymns, I am already looked upon in the neighborhood as being rather loose and unsound; and if, a-top of all that, I should let you hold a prayer-meeting here, I should lose what little character I've left.'
But our friend Arnold, of the Howard Mission, was determined to achieve the prayer-meeting. And during the fourth week in May last, when there were many of his clerical friends in the city, Mr. Arnold thought he'd bring a heavy spiritual cannonade to bear on Allen, and see what would come of it. So, on Monday night, May 25th, after a carefully conducted preliminary season of prayer, an assaulting party was formed, including six clergymen from different parts of the country, to march upon the citadel of the enemy. When we arrived, it was half past twelve; the window-shutters were closed, and we feared we were too late. But a light shone through the window over the door, and on application we were admitted, and received a hearty welcome. Allen was just then undergoing a shampooing process; for the purpose, as he frankly stated, of enabling him to go to bed sober. He added:
'You see, gentlemen, it won't do for a business man to go to bed drunk, nor for a literary man either. So now, you just take my advice, and whenever you find yourself drunk about bedtime, you just take a good shampoo, and you'll find the investment will pay a big dividend in the morning. But walk into the saloon, gentlemen; walk in. The girls are in there taking a rest and a smoke, after the arduous duties of the evening. Walk in.'
We walked in, and found the girls smoking pipes, and sitting and lounging about the room. In a few minutes Allen came in and proposed to have the girls dance for us, but we declined.
'Well then, Arnold, let's have a song,' he exclaimed.
Mr. Arnold, as usual, asked the girls what they would like to hear, and they at once asked for their favorite—'There is Rest for the Weary.'
'Here, mother, give me my fiddle,' said Allen to his wife, 'and bring out the books,' meaning the Little Wanderer's Friend, of which he keeps a supply.
The books were got out by one of the girls, the fiddle was handed him by his wife, and Allen led off on the treble, all hands joining in. There were eleven girls in the room, and they sang in the chorus with unusual fervor, even for them. As soon as this song was finished, a couple of the girls, simultaneously, asked for 'There's a Light in the Window for Thee, Brother,' which was sung with emphasis and feeling.
At the conclusion of the last-mentioned song, Mr. Arnold believed that the appointed hour had come, and, tapping Allen on the shoulder, he said:
'Well, John, old boy, give us your hand: I feel just like praying here with you!'
Allen took the extended hand and gruffly said, 'What, pray? Do you mean pray? No, sir, never!'
'Well, John, responded Mr. Arnold, 'I am going to pray here, anyhow. If I don't pray loud I'll pray soft. You shan't lose the prayer, at any rate.'
'Well, Arnold, mind, now, if you pray I won't hear you; mind that. I don't know any thing about it. I won't hear you.'
And backing slowly out of the room, and repeating, 'I won't hear you,' over and over again, Allen went through the door leading to the bar, and closed it after him.
Mr. Arnold then invited the girls to join in prayer with him, which they did, some of them kneeling on the floor, as did the visitors, and others bowing their heads upon their hands, while Allen peered through the window of the partition door upon the singular scene.
Mr. Arnold's heart was almost too full for utterance, but his fervor soon unloosed his tongue, and he poured out a simple, direct, and heartfelt prayer, which told powerfully upon the hearers. Many of the girls arose, sobbing, to their feet, and several of them crowded around Mr. Arnold, and begged him, in the name of God, to take them from that place. They would work their hands off, if honest work could be got for them; they would submit to any hardship if they could only be restored to opportunities for virtue and a Christian life.
Poor Arnold! He was the picture of despair. It came upon him, all at once, that there is no help for such, this side the grave. He had at last conquered his opportunity, and prayed with these children of sin and shame, and now that they were calling upon him to answer his own prayer—to give them a chance to eat the bread of life—he had to put them off with the stone of evasion.
Take them from that place! Where could he take them? In all this Christian land there is not a Christian home that would open its doors to a repentant female sinner, except to turn her out of the house.
On calling upon Mr. Arnold the next day, we found him in the room at the Mission, with his head bowed upon the table, as though in prayer. Looking up at us with blazing eyes, exclaimed:
'Sir, what is to be done about this?'
'About what?' we asked.
'These poor girls,' he replied. 'I have been thinking and praying, and praying and thinking over it all night, but I can see no light. Sir, (pressing his head between his hands,) I shall go mad.'
There are about forty dance-houses in Mr. Allen's neighborhood; that is to say, within a half mile square, of which No. 304 Water street is the centre. The average number of girls in each of these houses, the season through, is ten, making four hundred in them all. So that, to feed this half mile square of infamy requires eighty fresh girls per annum. To feed the entire city, requires an average of two thousand one hundred and ninety-four a year, which is a trifle over six a day, Sunday included! Six fresh girls a day from the Sabbath-schools and virtuous homes of the land, to feed the licentious maw of this metropolis of the western world.