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The good old days are gone, we have been frequently and authoritatively
assured; and yet, sitting in an agreeable public on William Street where
the bright eye of our friend Harold Phillips discerned _venison pasty_
on the menu, and listening to a seafaring man describe a recent "blow"
off Hatteras during which he stood four hours up to his waist in the
bilges, and watching our five jocund companions dismiss no less than
twenty-one beakers of cider, we felt no envy whatever for the ancients
of the Mermaid Tavern. After venison pasty, and feeling somewhat in the
mood of Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, we set off with our friend Endymion
for a stroll through the wilderness. The first adventure of note that we
encountered was the curb market on Broad Street, where we stood
entranced at the merry antics of the brokers. This, however, is a
spectacle that no layman can long contemplate and still deem himself
sane. That sea of flickering fingers, the hubbub of hoarse cries, and
the enigmatic gestures of youths framed in the open windows gave an
impression of something fierce and perilous happening. Endymion, still
deeming himself in Sherwood Forest, insisted that this was the abode of
the Sheriff of Nottingham. "Stout deeds are toward!" he cried. "These
villain wights have a damsel imprisoned in yonder keep!" With difficulty
we restrained him from pressing to the rescue of the lady (for indeed we
could see her, comely enough, appearing now and then at one of the
windows; and anon disappearing, abashed at the wild throng). But
gradually we realized that no such dire matter was being transacted, for
the knights, despite occasional spasms of hot gesticulating fury, were
mild and meant her no ill. One, after a sudden flux of business
concerning (it seemed) 85 shares of Arizona Copper, fell suddenly
placid, and was eating chocolate ice cream from a small paper plate.
Young gallants, wearing hats trimmed with variegated brightly coloured
stuffs (the favours of their ladies, we doubted not), were conferring
together, but without passion or rancour.
We have a compact with our friend Endymion that as soon as either of us
spends money for anything not strictly necessary he must straightway
return to the office. After leaving the curb market, we found ourselves
in a basement bookshop on Broadway, and here Endymion fell afoul of a
copy of Thomas Hardy's "Wessex Poems," illustrated by the author.
Piteously he tried to persuade us that it was a matter of professional
advancement to him to have this book; moreover, he said, he had just won
five dollars at faro (or some such hazard) so that he was not really
spending money at all; but we countered all his sophisms with slogging
rhetoric. He bought the book, and so had to return to the office in
disgrace.
We fared further, having a mind to revisit the old Eastern Hotel, down
by the South Ferry, of whose cool and dusky bar-room we had pleasant
memories in times gone by; but we found to our distress that this also,
like many more of our familiar landmarks, is a prey to the
house-wrecker, and is on its way to become an office building. On our
way back up Broadway it occurred to us to revisit what we have long
considered one of the most impressive temples in our acquaintance, the
lobby of the Telephone and Telegraph Building, on Dey Street. Here,
passing by the enticing little terrace with brocaded chairs and soft
lights where two gracious ladies sit to interview aspiring telephone
debutantes, one stands in a dim golden glow, among great fluted pillars
and bowls of softly burning radiance swung (like censers) by long
chains. Occasionally there is an airy flutter, a bell clangs, bronze
doors slide apart, and an elevator appears, in charge of a chastely
uniformed priestess. Lights flash up over this dark little cave which
stands invitingly open: UP, they say, LOCAL 1-13. The door-sill of the
cave shines with a row of golden beads (small lights, to guide the
foot)--it is irresistible. There is an upward impulse about the whole
place: the light blossoms upward from the hanging translucent shells:
people step gently in, the doors close, they are not seen again. It is
the temple of the great American religion, _Going Up_. The shining gold
stars in the ceiling draw the eye aloft. The temptation is too great. We
step into the little bronze crypt, say "Thirteen" at a venture, and are
borne softly and fluently up. Then, of course, we have to come down
again, past the wagons of spring onions on Fulton Street, and back to
the office.