Let us return to my imaginary young friend from Park Row, to whom I have referred in a previous chapter, and let us picture him at a small social gathering2 in the drawing-room of some clever and charming woman of fashion, of the kind that assiduously cultivate the society of men of art and letters because they like to hear the gossip of literature, the stage, and the studio “at first hand,” if I may use the term.
Our young friend is modest and well-bred, and, moreover, carries with him a[Pg 119] certain breezy and intimate knowledge of the men and events of the day which fairly entitles him to a place of his own in what ought to be the most enjoyable of all circles of society. He is delighted with the young women whom he meets here in what his hostess fondly hopes will become a salon3—how many New York women have had a similar ambition!—and yet he cannot understand why they pay so much attention to certain gentlemen who are present also, and whom he knows to be of very small account so far as the arts and letters are concerned.
Young Daubleigh is there, the centre of a breathless group, to whom he is bewailing the utter lack of all true art sense on the part of Americans, and the hideousness4 of New York, which, he declares, offers absolutely nothing to a true artist. Daubleigh never goes into society without a pocketful of art phrases, such as “au premier5 coup,” “he has found his true[Pg 120] métier,” “the divine art of Velasquez,” and others of the same sort. Of course he is a great social favorite, and of course he has very high ideals of his art, and is apt to refer slightingly to artists who know how to draw as “mere illustrators”—a form of speech which does not somehow endear him to those who know that he ought to be at Cooper union learning the rudiments6 of his calling.
Another guest, and a favorite one too, is the strangely gifted romancer who poses as a literary man because he has sold two sonnets7 and a short story to one of the magazines, and of whom it is related in an awestruck whisper that he once went through Mulberry Bend, disguised with green side-whiskers and under the protection of a Central Office detective—all this in search of what he calls “local color.”
Our young friend from Park Row spent two hours in Mulberry Bend the night[Pg 121] before in search of a “story” for his paper, and has the hardihood to say so to the charming young girl beside him, adding that he felt as safe as if he had been at an organ recital8. The next moment he realizes that he has made a mistake in trying to destroy any of the glamour9 that shines from the green whiskers and the detective. The conversation now turns upon the availability of New York as a field for the writer of fiction, and is ably sustained by a young gentleman who is known to be “literary,” although no one can say definitely what he has written. However, he is literary enough to have a place in this salon, and to take a leading part in the discussions which go on there. He is very decided10 in his views regarding literature, as distinguished11 from what he calls “mere newspaper scribbling,” and does not scruple12 to express his contempt for anything that is not printed either in a magazine or “between covers,” as he[Pg 122] puts it in his careless, professional fashion. Like many a one of the gentler sex, he has been dazzled in early life by the glare from the supercalendered paper. It is now nearly two years since he first began to be a literary man, and he regards the progress that he has made during that period as extremely gratifying, for he has put himself on an excellent footing in three or four of the most delightful13 literary and artistic14 salons15 in the city, and confidently expects to have a story published in one of the leading monthlies by midsummer. And that story will be published, as I happen to know, as soon as he has made certain alterations16 suggested by the editor—taken out the strong scene between the banker’s daughter and the poor but impulsive17 suitor, and modified various sentences which in their present form might wound the susceptibilities of a large contingent18 of subscribers.
This promising19 young writer has been[Pg 123] such a constant visitor to magazine offices since he first embarked20 on a literary career, and has associated so much with the junior members of the editorial staffs (or staves?), that his opinions are a reflex of theirs, and he is now thoroughly21 in accord with those with whom he is anxious to do business.
Therefore when he remarks, in that superior manner which insures for him the instant credulity of the women in the company, that it is not worth an author’s while to study the social structure of New York, he is right from his own point of view, and it ill becomes our young friend from Park Row to despise him for it. And when he goes on to say that our beloved city has no individuality of its own, and is permeated22 through and through with the awful flavor of commerce, while its society is nothing but a plutocracy23, I would advise my young friend of the city department to draw him out and make[Pg 124] careful notes of what he says about life and literature.
This young man of letters is merely echoing the opinions of those at whose feet he has sat, humbly24 and reverently25 acknowledging their literary supremacy26, and fondly hoping that they will purchase his manuscript. He knows that Johnson does not like low life, just as Jack27 Moran knew that Bonner would not tolerate second marriages or fast horses; and so far as his own literary ambitions are concerned, a thorough knowledge of New York would prove about as useful to him as a familiarity with the customs and beliefs of the Mormons or the names of the Derby winners would have been to the old-time Ledger28 poets.
But the young reporter, who hears him with feelings of either amusement or contempt or indignation, as the case may be, has already seen enough of New York—it may be that he is able to compare it[Pg 125] with foreign capitals—to know that there is an abundance of material within its limits which native writers of fiction have not only left untouched, but of whose very existence most of them are absolutely unaware29. But it would be useless for him to say so in this company, for he who has just spoken so decisively is a “literary man,” whose work will one day be printed on the finest quality of paper and perhaps adorned30 with beautiful pictures. And besides, do not all the nice people live north of Washington Square?
Ah! those nice people and that supercalendered paper—what an influence they exert in our literary Vanity Fair!
Perhaps one of the young literary men will go on to say, in proof of his theory about the literary poverty of New York, that the magazines have already published a great many articles and stories about the Bowery and the east side, and have in fact quite covered the field without[Pg 126] enriching the literature of the day to any very noticeable degree. All of which is perfectly31 true, but the results might have been different had the work been intrusted in each case to a writer who was familiar with the subject instead of to one whose only qualification was that he had mastered the art of writing matter suitable for magazines—or, in other words, “literature.” An exception to this rule, and a notable one too, was made in the case of Jacob A. Riis, who wrote some articles for Scribner’s Magazine a few years ago on the poor of New York, and who is known as the author of How the Other Half Lives and The Children of the Poor. Mr. Riis knows his subject thoroughly—he has been a police reporter for years—and his contributions are valuable because of the accuracy of the information which they contain, which is more than can be said of the work of some of the wiseacres and gifted story-writers who[Pg 127] seem to stand so well in the estimation of the magazine managers.
But, fortunately enough, the truth is mighty32, and must, in the long run, prevail, in literature as in other forms of art: and the enduring novel of New York will be written, not by the man who, knowing his audience of editors rather than his subject, is content with a thin coating of that literary varnish33 known as “local color,” but by this very young man from Park Row or Herald34 Square, to whom I take the liberty of addressing a few words of encouragement and advice. When this young man sits down to write that novel, it will be because he is so full of his subject, so thoroughly in sympathy with his characters—no matter whether he takes them from an opium35-joint in Mott Street or a ball at Delmonico’s—and so familiar with the various influences which have shaped their destinies, that he will set about his task with the firm conviction[Pg 128] that he has a story to tell to the world.
In that novel the “local color” will be found in the blood and bones: it will not be smeared36 over the outside surface with a flannel37 rag. And men and women will read the story and talk about it and think about it, just as they are reading and talking and thinking about “Trilby” now.
Did you ever hear any one talk about Mr. Du Maurier’s “local color”? I never did.
But it was for the best of reasons that the barbed-wire fence was stretched across the city just below Cooper union, although it shut out from view a quarter of the town in which may be found a greater and more interesting variety of human life and customs than in any other region that I know of. Of course this literary quarantine was not effected for the benefit of men and women of clean, intelligent,[Pg 129] cultivated minds, but to avoid giving offense38 to the half-educated and quarter-bred folks whose dislike for what they consider “low” and “vulgar” is only equaled by their admiration39 of all that is “genteel” and their impassioned interest in the doings of “carriage company.”
I have sometimes accompanied parties of sight-seers through what was to them an entirely40 unknown territory, south of the barbed-wire fence, and I have noticed in almost every instance that it was only the men and women of a high social and intellectual grade who showed any true interest in, or appreciation41 of, what they saw there. There have been others in these little expeditions who looked to me as if they stood in perpetual fear of running across some of their own relations, and one of these once gravely assured me that Hester Street was not at all “nice.”
Chinatown is to me a singularly attractive spot, because of its vivid colors,[Pg 130] its theatre, joss-house, restaurants, and opium-joints—those mysterious dens42 in which the Occident43 and Orient are brought into the closest companionship, while the fumes44 of the burning “dope” cloy45 the senses, and outcasts from every clime—the Chinese highbinder jostling against the Broadway confidence man—smoke and drink side by side, talking the while with a looseness of tongue that would be impossible under any influence other than that of opium. Mr. William Norr, a New York reporter, has told us a great many interesting and curious things about the human types—Caucasian as well as Mongolian—to be found in this quarter, and his book, Stories from Chinatown, possesses the rare merit of being absolutely true in color, fact, and detail.
But there is something in this alien settlement that seems to me to possess a greater interest, a deeper significance, than the garish46 lights of the colored lanterns[Pg 131] or the pungent47 smoke of the poppy-seed, and that is the new hybrid48 race that is growing to maturity49 in its streets and tenements50. There are scores of these little half-breeds to be seen there, and one of them has just come prominently before the American public in the person of Mr. George Appo, the son of a Chinese murderer and an Irishwoman, and himself a pickpocket51, green-goods operator, as well as one of the most entertaining and instructive of all the witnesses examined before the Lexow Committee.
The Chinese and Italians rub elbows in this corner of the town, and a single step will bring us into Mulberry Bend, bright with red handkerchiefs and teeming52 with the olive-skinned children of Italy. Nowhere in the whole city is there a stronger clan53 feeling than here—a feeling that manifests itself not only in the craft and ferocity of the vendetta54, but also in a spirit which impels55 these poverty-stricken[Pg 132] exiles to stand by one another in the hour of trouble. There is no better-paying property to be had than one of these Mulberry Street tenements, for it is seldom, indeed, that the Italian poor will permit one of their number to be turned into the street for want of a month’s rent.
The Jewish old-clothing quarter that lies close to the Five Points is near by. The “pullers-in,” as the sidewalk salesmen are termed in the vernacular57 of the trade, transact58 business with a ferocity that can be best likened to that of Siberian wolves; but over beyond Chatham Square lies the Hebrew burying-ground, an ancient patch of sacred soil which all the money in New York could not buy from the descendants of those whose ashes repose59 there.
A few short blocks north of this old landmark60 lies one of the most famous political districts in the town, one which is liable to become the pivotal point in an[Pg 133] exciting and closely contested election. There is a saloon here on one of the side-streets which it may be worth your while to visit. It is a dark, uninviting place, and its interior, with its rows of liquor barrels and boxes and its throng61 of blear-eyed, tough-looking customers, suggests anything but wealth and power. Nevertheless the taciturn little Irishman whose name is over the door has grown rich here and is the Warwick of the district so far as the minor62 city offices are concerned. And it was to this rumshop, as the whole ward63 knows, that a President of the United States came in his carriage one Sunday morning not many years ago, to make sure of the fealty64 of its proprietor65 and pour the oil of patronage66 on the troubled political waters.
And furthermore it is related of this district boss—who stands in the same relation to his constituents67 that the Roman senator of old did to his clients—that[Pg 134] once at the close of an election day of more than ordinary importance one of his lieutenants68 burst in upon him, as he sat with a few faithful henchmen in the back room of his saloon, and announced triumphantly69 that his candidate had carried a certain election district by a vote of one hundred and fifty-five to one. And at this intelligence the east-side Warwick swore a mighty oath, and, striking his clenched70 fist fiercely on the table before him, exclaimed: “What I want to know is the name of the wan56 sucker that voted agin us!”
And while you are strolling along the Bowery you may come across an oldish-looking man with a dyed or gray mustache and a suggestion of former rakishness in his seedy clothes and well-preserved silk hat—a man who seems to have outlived his calling, whatever it may have been, and to have been left high and dry with no intimate companionship save that of[Pg 135] his own thoughts. It will pay you to get acquainted with this old man, for he belongs to a race which is fast disappearing, the race of old-time American gamblers, of which Bret Harte’s John Oakhurst is the best type to be found in our national fiction. He still survives in the West and South, but here in New York his place has been taken by the new brood of race-track plungers and Hebrew book-makers; and the faro-box from which he used to deal with deft71 fingers, and the lookout72 chair from which he was wont73 in the olden times to watch the progress of the game with quick, searching eyes and impassive face, know him no more.
If you are studying the different dialects of the town, you should make careful notes of this old man’s speech and of the peculiar74 way in which he uses the present tense in describing bygone happenings. Mr. H. L. Wilson has given us, in his excellent book of stories called Zig-zag Tales,[Pg 136] the following delicious bit of dialect, which I quote because it well illustrates75 what I have said. The words are taken from the lips of the “lookout,” and are addressed in a cautious undertone to the faro-dealer:
“See his nobs there with the moniment of azures? I’m bettin’ chips to coppers76 that’s Short-card Pete. He’s had his mustache cut off, ’n’ he’s heavier ’n he was ten years ago. He tends bar in Noorleans, in ’68, fer Doc Nagle—ole Doc, you rec’lect—’n’ he works the boats a spell after that. See ’im one night play’n’ bank at Alf Hennesey’s, an’ he pulls out thirty-two solid thousan’; Slab77 McGarr was dealin’, ’nis duck here makes him turn over the box. See ’im ’nother time at San’tone, ’na little geeser works a sleeve holdout on ’im—one a these here ole-time tin businesses; you never see a purtier gun play ’n he makes—it goes, too; mebbe it was n’swif’! He’s a-pullin’[Pg 137] on that gang; get onto that chump shuffle78, will you? Ain’t that a play fer yer life? He ain’t overlookin’ any bets.”
“What are you giving us?” is the contemptuous cry of my young friend from Park Row who has done me the honor to read what I have written. “I know all that about Chinatown and the politicians as well as you do.”
So you do, my young friend, and I have no doubt you know it a great deal better than I do; but I had a double motive79 in offering you the words of suggestion which you have taken the trouble to follow. In the first place, when the young literary man of limited achievement, referred to in an earlier part of this chapter, obtains an order for an article on “The Coast of Chatham Square,” he will probably come to you to find out where Chatham Square is and at what time they light the gas there: and I am sure you will be glad to help him to the full extent[Pg 138] of your knowledge, although you may wonder why the order was given to him instead of to you. In the second place, although the whole of the east side is familiar ground to you, there are plenty of intelligent, well-informed men and women who know very little about what this city contains, and if you will read my next chapter you will learn of the impression which the tenement-house district made upon a certain distinguished gentleman who saw it recently for the first time.
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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hideousness
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premier
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rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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plutocracy
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| n.富豪统治 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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supremacy
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jack
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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occident
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| n.西方；欧美 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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cloy
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| v.（吃甜食）生腻，吃腻 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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impels
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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64
fealty
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| n.忠贞，忠节 | |
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65
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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66
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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67
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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68
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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69
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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70
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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72
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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73
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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74
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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75
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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76
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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77
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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78
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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