Depravity of Life in Billy McGlory's—A Three Hours' Visit to the Place—Degraded Men and Lost Women Who are Nightly in This Criminal Whirlpool.
The following from the Cincinnati Enquirer tells its own story:
"Slumming in New York always begins with a trip to Billy McGlory's. It is a Hester street dive. What The. Allen was thought to be in the days when he was paraded as 'the wickedest man in New York,' and what Harry Hill was thought to be in the days when the good old deacons from the West used to frequent his dance hall, Billy McGlory is in New York to-day. The. Allen and Harry Hill are both alive, but Billy McGlory bears off the palm of wickedness amid the wickedest of Gotham. If you want to see his place, two things are necessary, a prize-fighter for a protector and a late start. I had both when I went there the other night. My companions were half a dozen Western men, stopping at an up-town hotel, and our guide was a little 'tough' who has fought half a dozen prize fights and would fight at the drop of the hat. We had pooled issues and one man had all the money in the party. Our wallets and watches and jewelry were left behind. It was nearly midnight when we started, and half an hour later when the carriage drove us up in front of a dingy-looking double doorway, from which the light was streaming. The walls around were black; no light anywhere except that which came out of the open door. The entrance was a long hall, with nothing visible at the further end from the outside. It might have served for a picture of Milton's description of the 'Cavernous Entrance to Hell.'
"There was a policeman outside, and down the street a score of shadowy forms flitted in and out of the shadows—prostitutes lying in wait for victims, our guide told us. McGlory's place is a huge dance hall, which is approached by devious ways through a bar-room. There is a balcony fitted up with tables and seats. There are tables and seats under the balcony. There are little boxes partitioned off in the balcony for the best customers—that is the sight-seers—and we got one of them. A piano is being vigorously thumped by a black-haired genius, who is accompanied by a violinist and a cornet player. 'Don't shoot the pianist; he is doing his best,' the motto a Western theater man hung up in his place, would be a good thing here. Yet the pianist of one of these dance halls is by no means to be despised. It was from a position like this that Counselor Disbecker rose within a few years to a legal standing that enabled him to get $70,000 out of Jake Sharpe for lawyer's fees. Transpositions are rapid in New York, and Billy McGlory, who was on the Island a few months ago for selling liquor without license, may be an excise commissioner himself before he dies.
"These side thoughts have crowded in while we are looking around. There are five hundred men in the immense hall. There are a hundred females—it would be mockery to call them women. The first we hear from them is when half a dozen invade our box, plump themselves in our laps, and begin to beg that we put quarters in their stockings for luck. There are some shapely limbs generously and immodestly shown in connection with this invitation. One young woman startles the crowd by announcing that she will dance the cancan for half a dollar. The music starts up just then, and she determines to do the cancan and risk the collection afterward. She seizes her skirts between her limbs with one hand, kicks away a chair or two, and is soon throwing her feet in the air in a way that endangers every hat in the box. The men about the hall are all craning their necks to get a sight of what is going on in the box, as they hear the cries of 'Hoop-la' from the girls there. There is a waltz going on down on the floor. I look over the female faces. There is one little girl, who looks as innocent as a babe. She has a pretty face, and I remark to a companion that she seems out of place among the other poor wretches—for there is not an honest woman in the hall. Before we leave the place it has been demonstrated that the little girl with the innocent face is one of the most depraved of all the habitues of the place.
"The dance is over, and a song is being sung by a man on crutches with only one leg. 'He is an honest fellow, is the Major,' says one of the girls. 'Poor fellow, he has a wife and six children. He sticks to them like a good fellow and works hard to get a living. He sells pencils in the day-time and works here at night.' A generous shower of coin goes on to the floor when the Major finishes. I begin to notice the atmosphere of tobacco smoke. It is frightfully oppressive. The 'champagne' that it has been necessary to order so as to retain the box has not been drank very freely. The girls have been welcome to it the visitors having discovered that it is bottled cider, with a treatment of whisky to give it a biting tang and taste. It costs three dollars a bottle. It would cost a man more to drink it. There was a young business man of Cincinnati here three or four weeks ago who filled himself up on it at a cost of $300. He had been foolish enough to go to McGlory's alone. He was found on the Bowery at five o'clock the next morning without any hat or overcoat. His pocket-book, watch and jewelry were gone. His only recollection was that he had taken three or four drinks of McGlory's 'champagne.' He went to the hotel where he was a guest and was wise enough to take the advice of the clerk. By paying $100 and no questions asked he got back his watch and jewelry. He also got his pocket-book and papers, but not the $200 that was in the book when he started out on his spree. In the intervals of the dance his story has been told me as a sample of the nightly occurrence.
"What is this that has come out for a song? It has the form of a young man, but the simpering silliness of a school girl. Half idiot, it jabbers out a lot of words that can not be understood, but which are wildly applauded by the crowd on the floor, who 'pat juba' while the creature dances. The girl who has been hanging around me to get a quarter, whispers something like 'Oh, the beast!' in my ear. I hear the other girls uttering similar remarks and epithets. So I look closer at the young man on the floor—for young man it is. He has a long head and smooth face, with a deathly white pallor over it, big mouth and lips as thick as a negro, a conical shaped forehead, and eyes that glitter with excitement like a courtesan's, but from which at times all signs of intelligence have apparently fled. He has a companion whose general appearance is like his own, but whose head is large and round, with a high forehead and full moon face. Who are they? Well, they are part of Billy McGlory's outfit, and that is all I can say about them. There are four more of them in female dress, who have been serving drinks to the customers at the tables, all the while leering at the men and practicing the arts of the basest of women.
"Some of my companions have been drawn into one of the little boxes adjoining ours. They come back now to tell of what depravity was exhibited to them for a fee. 'Great heavens!' exclaims one of them. 'I feel sick. Get me out of this if you can. It is damnable.' No wonder they are sick. The sights they have seen would sicken all humanity. Editor Stead, of London, could find a bonanza every night for a week right here in New-York City at Billy McGlory's Assembly Hall. 'Hist!' says our guide. We look up and find three or four toughs around. They do not allow any adverse criticisms to be passed aloud at Billy's. If you begin to talk aloud what you think, out you go. There have been more round dances. There has been more indifferent singing and some clog dancing. It is getting late. The fumes of tobacco and of stale beer are stifling. Four-fifths of the men have not moved from the tables since we came in. Here and there one is lopped over asleep. But the waiter in female clothing comes along to wake him up and induce him to order more beer. Your glass must always be before you if you want to stay at McGlory's.
"'What are they all waiting for?' I ask. But no one will tell me. Across the balcony a girl is hugging her fellow in a maudlin and hysterical manner. Another girl is hanging with her arms around the neck of one of the creatures I described some time ago. She is pressing her lips to his as if in ecstasy. He takes it all as a matter of course, like an indifferent young husband after the honeymoon is over. His companion joins him—the moon-faced fellow—and they come around to our box and ogle us. They talk in simpering, dudish tones, and bestow the most lackadaisical glances on different members of our party. The girls shrink back as if contamination itself had come among them. 'We are pretty hard,' says one of them, 'but not so hard as they.'
"The piano gives a bang and a crash. The gray light is beginning to stream through the windows. There is a hurrying and a scurrying among the females, and there are a precious lot of young fellows, with low brows and plug-ugly looks gathering on the floor. There are twenty odd women with them, mostly young, none good-looking, all bearing marks of a life that kill. The band strikes up a fantastic air. The whole place is attention at once. The sleepy beer-bummers rouse up. The persons on the balcony hang over the railings. The figures on the floor go reeling off in a mixture of dancing and by-play as fantastic as the music. The pianist seems to get excited and to want to prove himself a Hans von Bulow of rapid execution. The fiddler weaves excitedly over his fiddle. The cornetist toots in a screech like a car-engine whistle. The movements of the dancers grow licentious and more and more rapid. They have begun the Cancan. Feet go up. Legs are exhibited in wild abandon. Hats fly off. There are occasional exhibitions of nature that would put Adam and Eve to shame. The draperies of modern costumes for a time covers the wanton forms, but as the performers grow heated wraps are thrown off. The music assumes a hideous wildness. The hangers-on about the place pat their hands and stamp and shout. The females on the floor are excited to the wildest movements. They no longer make any attempt to conceal their persons. Their action is shameful beyond relation. It is climaxed by the sudden movement of eight or ten of them. As if by concerted arrangement they denude their lower limbs and raising their skirts in their hands above their waists go whirling round and round in a lascivious mixture of bullet and cancan. It is all done in an instant, and with a bang the music stops. Several of the girls have already fallen exhausted on the floor. The lights go out in a twinkling. In the smoky cloud we have just enough daylight to grope our way out. The big policeman stands in the doorway. Billy McGlory himself is at the bar, to the left of the entrance, and we go and take a look at the man. He is a typical New York saloon-keeper—nothing more, and nothing less. A medium-sized man, neither fleshy nor spare; he has black hair and mustache, and a piercing black eye. He shakes hands around as if we were obedient subjects come to pay homage to a king. He evidently enjoys his notoriety.