She had been brought up near the corner of the Bowery and Hester Street, in the very centre 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, worldly-wise Hebrews of my acquaintance we remarked 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 boot-black of a down-town police court, who appeared in the unwonted splendor of a suit which he had hired especially for the occasion, and 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.
Several of the gentlemen present had “done time” in previous years, and others—John Y. McKane for example—have since then been “sent away.” I saw one guest wink pleasantly at a police captain who was standing near him and then slyly “lift” the watch from a friend’s pocket, merely to show that he had not lost his skill. A moment later he awakened a little innocent mirth by asking his unsuspecting friend what time it was.
I dare say that a great many of my readers imagine that at a festivity of this description “down on the east side” the men appear for the most part clad in the red shirts which were in vogue at the time of Thackeray’s visit to America, and which now exist only in the minds of those writers who are famous for the accuracy of their local color. As for the women, I have no doubt these same readers picture them in garments similar to those worn by the “tough girl” in Mr. Harrigan’s drama, nor would they be surprised to learn that there was a fight every twenty minutes.
For their special benefit I will explain that nearly every one of the men wore evening dress of the conventional pattern, and that the display of diamonds and costly gowns—many of which were tasteful as well—was a noteworthy one. There was an abundance of wine and strong drink for everybody, and a very thirsty company it was, too, but not a sign of trouble did I see the whole evening through. The truth of the matter is that to the majority of the men and women present a fight was a serious affair, and one not to be entered into lightly and unadvisedly.
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 thousands 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 district 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 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-writer to come to if he really wanted to learn anything about the town.”
I am perfectly sure that if Mr. Gilder had turned up at that wedding his hands would not have been the only ones “trun up” in honor of the visit. And I firmly believe that the visit of the Century editor to what is said to be the most densely populated square mile in the world will prove pregnant of great results, and may perhaps mark a distinct epoch in the history of letters.
On looking back over what I have written, it seems to me that I have devoted too much of my space to that portion of the city which lies below the barbed-wire fence; but I hope my transgression will be pardoned in view of the great significance of Mr. Gilder’s recent explorations and also of the fact that the region itself is so rich in literary material of the sort that a Victor Hugo or a Dickens would have seized upon with avidity. There are young men working in newspaper offices now who will one of these days draw true and vivid pictures of modern New York as it appears in the eyes and the brains of those who know it thoroughly, and very interesting fiction it will be, too. The late Mr. Mines (Felix Oldboy) and Mr. Thomas A. Janvier have written successfully and entertainingly of the town that our fathers and grandparents knew, but the book on New York of to-day has yet to be written, and I know of no one better qualified for the task than my young friend the reporter, whom I have personally addressed in preceding chapters.
It seems to me something like high treason to even hint of the possibility of a break in the present literary dynasty—an event which would be deplored by none more bitterly than by my loyal self. Mr. Johnson’s powers are still unimpaired, and his grasp on his pruning-hook is as firm as it was on the day that he suggested the reduction of the twelve flasks to two or three. I desire nothing more than that in history’s page my name shall brightly glow beside his as his Boswell. Mr. Bok has already shown such remarkable capacity for benign and progressive rule that we may look forward with a reasonable degree of confidence to his peaceful and undisputed accession to the throne, and a new impetus to the sale of his photographs, which are dirt-cheap at a quarter of a dollar.