Perhaps very few people out of the great city know Bleecker Street at
all; perhaps they have passed it a dozen times or more without noticing
it, or if they have marked it at all have regarded it only as a passably
good-looking street going to decay. But he who does not know Bleecker
street does not know New York. It is of all the localities of the
metropolis one of the best worth studying.
It was once the abode of wealth and fashion, as its fine old time
mansions testify. Then Broadway north of it was the very centre of the
aristocracy of the island, and Bond street was a primitive Fifth avenue.
Going west from the Bowery, nearly to Sixth avenue, you will find rows of
stately mansions on either hand, which speak eloquently of greatness
gone, and as eloquently of hard times present. They have a strange
aspect too, and one may read their story at a glance. Twenty-five years
ago they were homes of wealth and refinement. The most sumptuous
hospitality was dispensed here, and the stately drawing rooms often
welcomed brilliant assemblages. Now a profusion of signs announce that
hospitality is to be had at a stated price, and the old mansions are put
to the viler uses of third-rate boarding houses and restaurants.
In many respects Bleecker street is more characteristic of Paris than of
New York. It reminds one strongly of the Latin Quarter, and one
instinctively turns to look for the _Closerie des Lilas_. It is the
headquarters of Bohemianism, and Mrs. Grundy now shivers with holy horror
when she thinks it was once her home. The street has not entirely lost
its reputation. No one is prepared to say it is a vile neighborhood; no
one would care to class it with Houston, Mercer, Greene, or Water
streets; but people shake their heads, look mysterious, and sigh
ominously when you ask them about it. It is a suspicious neighborhood,
to say the least, and he who frequents it must be prepared for the gossip
and surmises of his friends. No one but its denizens, whose discretion
can be absolutely trusted, knows anything with certainty about its doings
or mode of life, but every one has his own opinion. Walk down it at
almost any hour of the day or night, and you will see many things that
are new to you. Strange characters meet you at every step; even the
shops have a Bohemian aspect, for trade is nowhere so much the victim of
chance as here. You see no breach of the public peace, no indecorous act
offends you; but the people you meet have a certain air of independence,
of scorn, of conventionality, a certain carelessness which mark them as
very different from the throng you have just left on Broadway. They
puzzle you, and set you to conjecturing who they are and what they are,
and you find yourself weaving a romance about nearly every man or woman
you meet.
That long-haired, queerly dressed young man, with a parcel under his arm,
who passed you just then, is an artist, and his home is in the attic of
that tall house from which you saw him pass out. It is a cheerless
place, indeed, and hardly the home for a devotee of the Muse; but the
artist is a philosopher, and he flatters himself that if the world has
not given him a share of its good things, it has at least freed him from
its restraints, and so long as he has the necessaries of life and a lot
of jolly good fellows to smoke and drink and chat with him in that lofty
dwelling place of his, he is content to take life as he finds it.
If you look up to the second floor, you may see a pretty, but not over
fresh looking young woman, gazing down into the street. She meets your
glance with composure, and with an expression which is a half invitation
to "come up." She is used to looking at men, and to having them look at
her, and she is not averse to their admiration. Her dress is a little
flashy, and the traces of rouge are rather too strong on her face, but it
is not a bad face. You may see her to-night at the --- Theatre, where
she is the favorite. Not much of an actress, really, but very clever at
winning over the dramatic critics of the great dailies who are but men,
and not proof against feminine arts. This is her home, and an honest
home, too. To be sure it would be better had she a mother or a brother,
or husband--some recognized protector, who could save her from the
"misfortune of living alone;" but this is Bleecker street, and she may
live here according to her own fancy, "and no questions asked."
On the floor above her dwells Betty Mulligan, a pretty little butterfly
well known to the lovers of the ballet as Mademoiselle Alexandrine. No
one pretends to know her history. She pays her room rent, has hosts of
friends, but beyond this no one knows anything. Surmises there are by
the score, and people wonder how mademoiselle can live so well on her
little salary; but no charges are made. People shrug their shoulders,
and hint that ballet girls have resources unknown to the uninitiated.
The rule here is that every one must look after himself, and it requires
such an effort to do this that there is no time left to watch a
neighbor's shortcomings.
In the same house is a fine-looking woman, not young, but not old. Her
"husband" has taken lodgings here for her, but he comes to see her only
at intervals, and he is not counted in the landlady's bill. Business
keeps him away, and he comes when he can. Bleecker street never asks
madame for her marriage certificate, nor does it seek to know why her
numerous friends are all gentlemen, or why they come only when the
"husband" is away.
Honest, hard-working men come here with their families. Their earnings
are regular, but small, and they prefer the life of this street to the
misery of the tenement house. Others there are who live in the street,
and occupy whole dwellings with their families, who stay here from force
of habit. They are "slow" people, dull of comprehension, and to them the
mysteries of their neighborhood are a sealed book. Yet all are regarded
as persons whose characters are "not proven," by the dwellers outside the
street.
Money is a power in Bleecker street. It will purchase anything. Much is
spent by those who do not dwell here, but come here to hide their
secrets. Women come here to meet other men besides their husbands, and
men bring women here who are not their wives. Bleecker street asks no
questions, but it has come to suspect the men and women who are seen in
it.
Indeed, so long as its tenants do not violate the written law of the land
to an extent sufficient to warrant the interference of the police, they
may do as they please. Thus it has come to pass that the various
personages who are a law unto themselves have gradually drifted into
Bleecker street, unless they can afford better quarters, and even then
the freedom of the locality has for them a fascination hard to be
resisted. No one loses caste here for any irregularity. You may dress
as you please, live as you please, do as you please in all things, and no
comments will be made. There is no "society" here to worry your life
with its claims and laws. You are a law unto yourself. Your acts are
exclusively your own business. No complaints will be made against you.
You are absolutely your own master or mistress here. Life here is based
on principles which differ from those which prevail in other parts of the
city.
Yet, as I have said, no one dare call the street "bad." Let us say it is
"irregular," "free," "above scandal," or "superior to criticism;" but let
us not venture to term it "bad," as its neighbors Greene and Mercer are
"bad." I cannot say it would be shocked by such a charge, for Bleecker
street is never shocked at anything. It would, no doubt, laugh in our
faces, and scornfully ask for our proofs of its badness, and proofs of
this sort are hard to bring to light in this thoroughfare.