“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.
[pg 140]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.
[pg 141]“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[pg 142] 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[pg 143] 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[pg 144] 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[pg 145] 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[pg 146] 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[pg 147] 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[pg 148] 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[pg 149] 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[pg 150] 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[pg 151] 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[pg 152] 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,[pg 153] 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[pg 154] 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[pg 155] 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,[pg 156] 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[pg 157] 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[pg 158] 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[pg 159] 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.
