“HE TRUN UP BOTE HANDS!”
One summer evening not very long ago, I saw, to my intense surprise,
Mr. Richard Watson Gilder crawl cautiously through the barbed-wire
fence which was long ago stretched, with his sanction, across the city
at Cooper Union. Once within the tabooed district, the distinguished
poet and _Century_ editor cast an apprehensive glance about him and
then marched swiftly and resolutely down the Bowery. Late that night
I caught another glimpse of him standing in the middle of one of the
side-streets that lead to the East River, and gazing thoughtfully at
the tops of the tall tenement-houses on either side of him.
I could not help wondering what strange errand had brought him to that
crowded quarter of the town, for not many months before one of his own
trusted subordinates had blandly informed me that there was nothing
in New York to write about, excepting, of course, such phases of its
social life as had been portrayed, more or less truthfully and vividly,
in the pages of Mr. Gilder’s own magazine.
I was still marveling at the spectacle of the poet in search of facts
when I came across one of my east-side acquaintances, who had seen and
recognized the _Century_ editor, and from him I learned that he was
pursuing his studies of what is known in the magazine offices as “low
life,” not that he might write about it or be capable of judging the
manuscript of those who did write about it, but by virtue of his office
on the Tenement-house Commission.
“He’s just been down Ludlow Street, an’ troo one o’ dem houses where de
Jew sweaters is,” added my friend.
“And what did he say to it all?” I inquired.
“He trun up bote hands!” said the east-sider, earnestly.
I walked home that night weighed down with the import of what I had
learned, and filled with solemn speculations regarding the effect which
Mr. Gilder’s visit would have on American letters. I could picture to
myself the hands that would be “trun up” in the _Century_ office when
the accomplished members of the editorial corps learned that their
revered chief had actually ventured into the heart of a district which
teems with an infinite variety of human life and lies but a scant mile
to the south of the desk from which Mr. Johnson rules the literary
world of this continent.
And I thought, also, of the excitement that would run through the
ranks of the writers should Mr. Johnson, of course after solemn and
secret communion with Mr. Gilder, announce officially that at twelve
o’clock, noon, on the first day of the month, the firing of a gun,
followed by the destruction of the barbed-wire fence, would throw
open the long-forbidden low-life territory to poets, romancers, and
dialectists of every degree. What a rush of literary boomers there
would be to this new Oklahoma should this old barrier be torn down! I
could not help smiling as I pictured to myself the strangely gifted
American story-writers groping their way through picturesque and
unfamiliar scenes, and listening in vain for the good old “bad man’s”
dialect that has done duty in fiction ever since Thackeray visited this
country, but which was swept away long since by the great flood-tide of
German and Jewish immigration which has wrought so many changes in the
life of the town. How many ink-stained hands would be “trun up” before
the first day of exploration was done! How many celebrated delineators
of New York life and character would lose themselves in their search,
after dark, for “local color,” and be gathered in like lost children
to be cared for by Matron Webb until rescued by their friends the next
morning!
Still brooding over the enormous possibilities of the future, I
stopped to rest and refresh myself in a modest and respectable little
German beer-saloon, situated on the tabooed side of the barbed-wire
fence--on the very border-land between low life and legitimate literary
territory. It is an ordinary enough little place, with a bar and tables
in front, and, in a space curtained off at the rear, a good-sized room
often used for meetings and various forms of merrymaking. I never drop
in for a glass of beer without thinking of a supper given in that back
room a few years ago at which I was a guest; and on this particular
night remembrance of that feast had a new significance, for it was
blended with thoughts of Mr. Gilder’s journeyings. It was an actor who
gave the supper--one of the most brilliant and talented of the many
foreign entertainers who have visited our shores--and nearly every one
of his guests had won some sort of artistic distinction. It is not the
sort of a place that suggests luxurious feasting, but the supper which
the worthy German and his wife set before us was, to me, a revelation
of the resources of their national cookery. The occasion lingers in my
memory, however, chiefly by reason of the charm and tact and brilliancy
of the woman who sat in the place of honor--a woman whose name rang
through Europe more than a quarter of a century ago as that of the
heroine of one of the most sensational duels of modern times. Mr.
Gilder has probably read about her in _The Tragic Comedians_, in which
George Meredith has made her the principal character, and I am sure
that if he--the _Century_ editor, not Mr. Meredith--had looked in upon
our little supper party that night, he would have “trun up bote hands,”
in the full sense of that unique and expressive term.
Recollections of this feast brought to mind another which was given
about two years ago fully half a mile to the south of the barbed-wire
fence, and which is worthy of mention here because it taught me that
some of the people bred in that region are vaguely conscious of a just
claim that they have on the attention of story-writers and rather
resent the fact that a place in our national literature has been denied
them.
The feast to which I allude was given on the occasion of a great
wedding in a quarter of the town which plays an important part in
civic and national affairs on the first Tuesday after the first Monday
in November--one in which the trade of politics ranks as one of the
learned professions--a quarter where events date from the reigns of the
different police captains.
The bride was the daughter of a famous politician, and I am sure
that in point of beauty and tasteful dress she might have passed
muster at Tuxedo. She was tall, graceful, and very young--not more
than seventeen. One could see traces of her Hebrew lineage in her
exquisitely lovely face, and I am sure she was well dressed, because
she wore nothing that in any way detracted from her rare beauty or was
offensive to the eye.
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.
And yet let us not forget that France was not always a republic
nor Germany a united empire; nor has there always been a Guelph
on the throne of Edward the Confessor. During the past year a
new literary power has arisen among us in the shape of the cheap
magazines--_McClure’s_, the _Cosmopolitan_, and _Munsey’s_--a power
which is making itself felt more strongly every day, and may in
the near future prove a serious menace to the established order of
things. The rapidity with which these cheap monthlies have established
themselves in the popular esteem is due primarily to the low price at
which they are offered, and also, in a measure, to the fact that their
conductors have not grown up in the _Ledger_ or Johnson school, and
therefore are not accomplished in the sort of editing which has reached
its highest development in the offices of the leading monthlies. But it
happens that each one of these cheap periodicals is controlled by a man
of restless, energetic temperament--what is known in common parlance as
a “hustler”--and if I am not much mistaken each one of these hustlers
is firmly imbued with the American fancy for exploring new and untried
fields. Several of the stories published in these cheap magazines are
of a sort forbidden in their more venerable contemporaries; and while I
am not prepared to say that these stories are equal in point of merit
to the ones which have been subjected to the Johnsonian process of
selection and elimination, they have attracted attention because people
found them different from those to which they had been accustomed.
Personally I have a profound faith in American hustlers. To me the
term hustling is synonymous with those which describe cable-laying,
bridge-building, and material progress of every kind, and when hustlers
go into the business of publishing magazines it is time to be on the
lookout for change of some sort. That the conductors of their older
contemporaries appreciate this fact and are getting ready to trim sail
if necessary is made evident to me by the Harpers’ publication of
“Trilby,” and Mr. Gilder’s journey to the populous kraals of the east
side.
I will say no more regarding the cheap monthlies and their possible
importance in the near future, because I do not wish to run the
risk of being put on trial for high treason; and so I will bring my
chapter to a close with a few words on a subject which I am sure lies
close to the heart of every true woman in the land--the unexampled
philanthropy shown by Mr. Bok in placing his photographs within reach
of the humblest and poorest of his admirers. The editor’s philanthropy
is exceeded only by the diffidence betrayed in his announcement of the
address of the photographer and the low price charged for the portraits.
The code of etiquette which governs the conduct of the dime-museum
lecturer ordains that no brutally frank or emphatic allusions shall
be made to the pictures of the different human “freaks” which are
offered for sale. “I believe,” says the lecturer, in a tone of complete
indifference, as he brings his glowing eulogy of the “Tattooed Queen”
to a fitting close, “that the lady has a few of her photographs which
she wishes to dispose of.” And as the lady has eight of them in each
hand, and twenty-two more arranged along the edge of the platform in
front of her, even the most skeptical audience is forced to admit that
the professor’s surmise is correct.
“I believe,” says the diffident Mr. Bok, “that there are some fair
likenesses of myself for sale on Chestnut Street, and I understand that
they cost a quarter apiece.”
My readers can depend upon it that what Mr. Bok has to say about those
photographs is absolutely true.