Not a hundred miles away from Guinea Hill, at the Hazleton Young Men’s Christian Association, I want to show you what enlightened justice can do for the “Roundhead.” I came down from the Hill disheartened and sad, and, stepping into the office of that rather remarkable Young Men’s Christian Association building, I saw a man, with dust-cloth and broom, walking about with the peculiarly graceful stride of the mountaineer. “That’s Gabriel—not the archangel; but an angel, anyway,” Mr. Hill, the secretary, told me. “Go from garret to cellar and you will find no dust or disorder. The small boy, that bane of the Young Men’s Christian Association, fears him and loves him in turn. I don’t see how we could get along without Gabriel.”
“Kiss my cheek, Gabriel, and wish me well.” And Gabriel kissed my cheek and wished me well, just as he used to in his Montenegrin home, when kinsman met kinsman upon the war-path as they fought their ancient enemy, the Turk. Now, no weapons bulged from Gabriel’s belt, his clothing was faultlessly American, his once furious mustachios had fallen beneath an American barber’s shears, and his battle-field was this splendidly equipped building. Officially, he was the janitor; but he was also the self-appointed and beneficent dictator, feared by all evil-doers and breakers of rules, and beloved by all who could appreciate a faultlessly kept building.
“You must see his room,” the genial secretary said, with a twinkle in his eyes, and we followed Gabriel to the topmost story. He opened the door of his room with pardonable pride, for Prince Nicolas, the ruler of his country, whose bedroom I have seen and in whose throne-room I have had audience, cannot boast of an apartment so neat and clean or so gorgeously decorated. Besides the comfortable furniture, unrivalled in Gabriel’s home-land, the walls were hung with pictures which reflected prevailing American tastes. Celluloid toilet articles lay upon the bureau, while many books and newspapers betrayed how this janitor spent his spare time.
Gabriel’s face was radiant from pride, and so was mine; while added to my pride was a pleasurable feeling to which I could give no other expression than to ask for another fraternal kiss, which he gave me with a resounding smack. When we returned to the lobby, I looked over the group of men gathered there to meet me, and my wits were tested to place each man according to his nationality. I looked into the face of one young man, a veritable giant, and before he opened his lips I said, “You are a Dalmatian.” “Yes, yes,” he replied, “from Ragusa.”
Again I looked into his deep eyes and finely chiselled features. Yes, it was the type one sees beneath the half-ruined porticoes of ancient palaces, where young men play the tambouritza and young maidens listen behind latticed windows; where old men dream dreams of the Ragusan Republic and its vanished glory, when it vied with Venice in maritime power, although it never gained her ascendency. Now it is dying a slow and a forgotten death, beneath shading palm trees, while its warrior sons, the bluest blood of Dalmatia, are sent to dig coal in Pennsylvania, and its guslar minstrels make music for the merry-makers at Coney Island.
What a fine specimen this is which Ragusa has sent us! Ask the secretary about him and he will tell you that he is intelligent, cleanly, temperate, and frugal; yet in Pennsylvania he is just a “Hunky.” Other members of the Young Men’s Christian Association are loth to see him on the gymnasium floor with them, and to most Americans he is only an undesirable immigrant from Southern Europe—something to be dreaded.
“I am an Italian,” very proudly says the next man who grasps my hand, and, looking into his face, I ask doubtfully, “From Italy?” for his face shows Slavic lines. “From Triest,” he adds.
Ah! now I understand. That is where Italian, Slav, and German meet—and fight, as is the custom of all good Austrians; for each race claims superiority over the others, and in most of them flows the blood of all three races.
“You must come to see my kindergarten and my church.” I promise; for he is quite an important factor in the redemption of Little Italy. The next man is a Slovene from the neighbourhood of Agram, the next a Slovak, then a Pole, and “last but not least,” a Bohemian. All these are gathered here beneath the sheltering wing of this archangel Gabriel, janitor of the Young Men’s Christian Association and self-appointed, beneficent dictator and preserver of the peace. He preserves the peace by carrying out, bodily, offending or offensive visitors—a task for which he is well fitted. One of his ancestors plunged into the thick of Turkish foes, dragged a magnificent Pasha from his horse and carried him across the intervening space in the face of a rain of bullets, one of which struck him. He fell with his burden; but, quickly recovering his footing, held the Pasha safe by the throat with one hand, pulled a pistol with the other, and in a moment argued the distinguished prisoner into taking him upon his shoulders. Carried thus by the Turkish officer, he came riding into camp and presented his trophy to his commander, saying, “This is a fine horse I have brought to you, my captain;” and then fell swooning to the ground.
The building over which his descendant, Gabriel, watches, is as safe as a fortress. There are only two things which this brave fears. One is the steam boiler which provides the building with heat. Steam is an unknown force in his native land, which even the fiery horse has not yet invaded; so, no matter how often Gabriel is instructed, no matter how often he is reassured, when the steam bubbles and hisses he flees for safety; and to this day, valves, screws, wheels, and radiators are terrifying mysteries to him.