[image]Jackey Doodles. Barney Flynn. Jumbo. "Chuck" Connors. A typical group at Barney Flynn's side door.Right here let me say, that, without wishing to discredit any writer of dialect stories, I have yet to find the story which presents the idiom of the Bowery as it is spoken. I have taken the trouble to compare different stories—each one guaranteed to be a true and realistic study of the underworld—written by different writers and the discrepancies in the dialect are flagrant.One, throughout his entire tale, puts "youse" in the mouth of his most important character. The other only uses "ye." One spells the question: "Do you?"; the other phrases it: "D'you?"Perhaps this also applies to other stories written in New England or Southern dialect, but whether it does or not, it seems to be a case of "you pays your money and you takes your choice."I have yet to see the "low life" story which is not studded with "cul" and "covey." Take my advice and do not use this form of address on the Bowery. They would not understand it and, therefore, would feel insulted.Also, the men of the East Side are not so lacking in gallantry as to call their lady loves "bundles" and other similar names.Then, in the matter of emphatic language the writers are far from hitting the target. The favorite phrase is "Wot'ell," which is a hundred leagues removed from the distinct utterance with which this dainty bit of conversation is used by a Bowery boy in a moment of rhetorical flight.So I might cite hundreds of instances.The same carelessness of detail is manifested in other things, when writing about us. They are not all important errors or serious mistakes, but are grave enough to prove the unreliability of those "true East Side studies."A writer, who for a considerable time, has been accepted as an authority on conditions in the underworld, is the most profligate in calling beings and things of the sphere he describes by their wrong name. He persists in claiming that thieves are called "guns" by police and fellows. Every man, who has lived all his life on the Bowery, as I have, knows that "gun" means an important personage. A millionaire is a "gun," so is a prominent lawyer, or a politician, or a famous crook; in short, anybody who is foremost in his profession or calling, be he statesmen or thief, is a "gun."The Bowery is not hard to reach and, if so inclined, you can easily test my assertion. Take a page from one of the many East Side stories extant and read it to a typical Bowery boy and he will ask you to interpret it for him.The East Side dialect does not abound in slang. Whatever of it there is in it has been absorbed from the Tenderloin and other sources. To coin a funny slang phrase one must have time to invent and try it. They have no time for this on the East Side, where even time for schooling cannot always be spared. And that accounts for ungrammatical expressions and whimsically twisted sentences, but not for the idiotic gibberish and forced coinages of words slipped onto the tongues of my people.The courtiers of the King of the Bowery, being a good-natured set of fellows, did not wish to curb the fervency of the literary "gents," and did their best to supply the ever-increasing demand for types.The inner sanctum of the royal palace was divided from the outer room by the usual glass and wood partition. As Barney Flynn, the King of the Bowery, was a genial and jovial monarch, the more secluded chamber did not resemble a throne-room so much as a rendezvous of kindred spirits. It was a specimen of another strata of nether world Bohemia.Tables and chairs were about the place in picturesque disorder. On the walls were three gigantic oil paintings, "done" by a wandering Bowery artist for his board and lodging, including frequent libations. In one corner was the voluntary orchestra, consisting of Kelly, the "rake," the fiddler, and Mickey Doolan, the flute-player. Their day's work over—they were both "roustabouts" along the river front—the two court musicians would take their accustomed seats, and, without paying much attention to those present, would fiddle and flute themselves back again to their own green shores of old Erin.They are pathetic figures, these men of the Bowery, who live their evenly shiftless lives in dreams of days passed, but not forgotten.Being directly in the path to and from Chinatown, Barney Flynn's saloon was, at odd times, visited by the sociological pilgrims to this centre of celestial colonization. One night, a writer happened to stumble into the place. Whether his impressions were perceived in normal or abnormal condition is not known. The "gang" was engaged in a little celebration of its own, were observed by the writer, and, forthwith, Barney Flynn's and the royal staff became a mine for authors of low-life stories.With the acumen acquired in my dive training, I saw very soon that those coming to study us were most willing to pay for grotesquely striking types. The "real thing" had very little interest for them. What were we to do? To get the money we had to be types, therefore, whenever the word was passed that a searcher for realism—with funds—had arrived, we put on our masks, lingual and otherwise, to help along the glorious cause of literature.No good purpose would be accomplished were I to mention the names of authors, who portrayed us so correctly. They are now celebrities with more paying aims. Their stories of us are still remembered, but only because of their "beautiful and pure sentiment," and not because of their "true realism." The latter differs with every writer and has bewildered the casual reader.I am strongly tempted to call by name one, whose glory as demonstrator was dimmed in an unexpected manner. The writer in question had come here from Philadelphia, preceded by a reputation for his sympathy with those in the slums. Several of his "low down" stories had been hailed as the models for all the other writers of that tribe.With his usual aggressiveness, not devoid of a touch of almost medieval dash and chivalry, this young man threw himself into the study of New York slums with wonted ardor, and, naturally, mastered the subject almost immediately. Being socially well-connected, or, rather, being well-taken up by society, he had no trouble in interesting his friends in his hobby. He was not niggardly in the spending of his money and quite popular on that account with my friends in Barney Flynn's. As a matter of fact, this promising young writer—a promise since then fulfilled—was a favorite of the highest and lowest; verily, an enviable position.With note-book in hand, this young man sat among us for hours, jotting down phrases and slang expressions, manufactured most laboriously and carefully for the occasion. The interest of his friends increased, and one night we were honored by a visit of a large party of ladies and gentlemen, piloted by the aforesaid author.Before the precious cargo had been unloaded from the cabs and hansoms, word had been taken to the back-room. As actors respond to the call of the stage-manager, so did we prepare ourselves to play our parts with our well-known finesse and correctness of detail. By that I mean, that we knew what was expected of us and that we emphasized our "characteristics" as we had seen them burlesqued on the stage.The promising young writer was in his glory. With irrepressible glee, he introduced us, one by one, to his admirers, watching the effects of our "quaint" salutations. The chorus of enthusiastic approval was unanimous. We were "absolutely charming," "perfectly thrilling," and "too droll for anything." Encouraged by this warm reception of our feeble efforts, we surpassed ourselves and assault, battery, murder was committed on the English language in most wilful frenzy. Taking it all in all, it was a gem of slum mosaic, and is still remembered by most of the offenders.Having given our performance and exhausted our programme, we were told by our friends how "very glad, charmed and delighted" they had been at meeting us.The doors had barely closed behind the last of the promising young author's friends, before all the performers rushed up to the bar to spend the money given to them for their instructive entertainment. The comments on the visitors were many and very much to the point, but were not uttered in the manufactured dialect. There was much laughter and many imitations of our late audience, and none of us had noticed that the promising young author, accompanied by a few of the party, had returned to look for a pair of gloves forgotten by one of the ladies. Part of our conversation was overheard and the laugh was at the writer's expense.Of course, we instantly endeavored to rectify our mistake and fell back to addressing each other as "cull" and "covey," but, somehow, the effect was not convincing.One of his friends turned to the promising young author on leaving:"Old man, you certainly deserve another medal for this, but this time, it should be a leather one."I did not know then to what the above remark referred.BOWERY POLITICS.CHAPTER X.BOWERY POLITICS.The death-knell of divedom had been sounded by the legislature. Albeit, it had been sounded before, without stopping the dives from resurrecting themselves. But vice had become so rampant, so nauseating that the righteous of the city braced their backbones a trifle stiffer than usual and insisted on having a committee of investigation appointed.All the daily papers heralded the coming of the inquisitors in big head lines, and the inhabitants of divedom began to quake in their shoes like fallen angels on the eve of judgment day.Shortly before the beginning of the upheaval, I had overcome one of my many spells of lassitude and gentlemanly idleness and had accepted the position of bouncer in the "Slide," the most notorious dive which ever disgraced a community.When a body is covered with a cancerous growth, the most dangerous ulcer is the first to receive the surgeon's attention. For that reason, the "Slide" was the first to be put under the prying probe. The investigation was thorough. The investigators and prosecuting officials, stimulated by fear of public censure and thoughts of political advancement, were merciless, and, as a consequence, the "Slide" was closed forever and the nominal proprietor sent to jail.Without waiting for further developments, the other dive-keepers retired from business and a general cleansing process struck all quarters of the city.The immediate effect of this was that a shifting of quarters of the vicious began. The harlots, bereft of their known places of business, hid themselves in the obscurity of virtuous surroundings, and the male element of the lowest dives congregated on the Bowery, ever the dumping-ground of human scum and offal. In a short time, the Bowery was full of a muttering crowd of able-bodied men, each one cheating the world out of an honest day's labor, all proclaiming loudly at the injustice which deprived them of their "living." Even the recollection is loathsome.In company with a number of fellows who, like me, were "thrown out of work" by this "uncalled-for interference," we established headquarters in a ginmill owned by a legislator. As a matter of course, the "back-room," seemingly a legislative annex, was very much in evidence, and by no means subdued in its proceedings. If anything, the business behind the "partition" had increased in volume since the other dives, operated by less influential citizens, had been obliged to close. So we have here another of the many paradoxes of our political conditions. While his fellow-legislators were scouring the city with really commendable zeal to rend the evil-doer limb from limb, this being of their kin could be seen daily in front of his hall, sunning himself in the radiance of his increased prosperity and influence, and looking with self-satisfied smile across Chatham Square at the closed windows of minor dives.Yes, as the Romans clothed the men of wisdom and love of country in the flowing robes of dignity and called them patriots, statesmen and senators, so do we take—take by the will of the people—the men fat of jowl and fat of paunch from beneath us and place them above us in the seats of the mighty and give them power over us. And if you would growl at my saying "from beneath us to above us," and would wrathfully confront me with the slogan of political and other equality, I would not wish to stand in your way of being their equal, but would have trifling respect for your integrity. As I tell the stars by seeing them and find but small difference in their lustre, so do I tell the rascals by their rascality, and there is small difference in the degrees of rascality.Senators! Rome and Albany! Would the difference of time, of centuries, were the only one between them!In all governments by and for the people, the making of the nation lies with the common people; that great mass, which you would call "rabble" were it not for the continental sound of the word and the danger of being quoted. An ever-watchful press keeps its eye on you, and would readily pillorize you as an offender against the most sacred of our possessions and privileges; our sacred freedom; our sacred equality; our sacred franchise, and, by no means lastly, our sacred screaming eagle, screaming ofttimes from veriest agony. The buncombe of press and loud-mouthed gabbers has decreed it to be treason to see the truth and to speak it, and you must, to be above suspicion of being a traitor to the land you love, on the Fourth of July let off in sissing streams of pyrotechnics your patriotism, which, after its one gala day, is forgotten for the rest of the year in the strenuous pursuit of getting all you can out of "what's in it."The common people of the fields and meadows plow, sow and reap their harvest. They pluck the weeds from out among the useful growth and stamp them under foot. The common people of our cities live "downtown"—that vague and indefinite region—in tenement and barracks. (Notice how "down" and "common" always run together).They have no knowledge of agriculture, and, with their seldom sight of plant or flower, even the stink-weed, for it is leafed and green, finds a welcome and place among them through their ignorance. Yes, more, it is cared for and nurtured until, as all ill-weeds, it grows to tremendous proportions, overshadowing and dwarfing those who have spared its life instead of plucking it out by the roots and pressing the heel upon it.Who plants the weeds? Who is their sower? They care not.Does not the same blessed sunshine and dew of heaven fall upon them as on the corn and roses? And do they not get more of it than the flower and the fruit-bearing plant? For they are greedy and strive for that which is not theirs according to merit.Not most, but all the men, who played their part in our history so well as to be immortalized forever were self-made from the field and farm. Remember that there they destroy the weeds!Not most, but all the men, who have made it a risk to a fair name and reputation to become actively engaged in the affairs of one's own country and state were self-made from the slums and gutters, with their only chance of immortalization via Rogues' Gallery. We of the city do not destroy the weeds!They of the gutter, who have been forced upon and above the multitude, if not caught or not too notoriously prominent, keep the data of their success and formulative period secret. If, however, they run foul of the calcium, which often strikes, unexpectedly, dark places, they become arrogantly defiant in their ill-gotten might. Even against the scorn of the decent and to the awe of their own kind, they swing themselves onto the pedestal of the self-made man and strike their pose. All that is intended as a parallel to several rail-splitting and canal-boating men in our little history, who, as a "patriot" remarked, deserve a whole lot of credit "even if they was farmers."Then, when forced into the public focus from their disturbed obscurity, is theirs the cry of repentance? Do they sob and cry: "Peccavi! Yes, I have sinned! I have wronged you and my country! Have mercy and forgive!"If it were that it would be the cry of a tortured soul, rotten and distorted, yet still a soul and worthy of the chance of atonement. No; what reaches us from the usurped pedestal is the self-satisfied grunt of the swine: "Look and behold! You know or can surmise what I have been! Look now and wonder at what I am and how I got there!"Surely this affront is resented and the daring knave pulled from his lofty perch to be punished for his insults and ill deeds? Some are foolish and un-American enough to suggest such a course of proceeding. But what really does happen is a taking up of that refrain of self-adulation by the admiring throng. There in almost worshipping attitude, we find that the chicaning game of politics makes mates of all sorts and conditions of men, and pickpocket and tax-paying citizen, cut-throat and that very peculiar animal, the intelligent workingman, all kneel in equal humility before the rum-soaked idol of their own creation.A subject for deep guesswork is where the workingman keeps his well advertised intelligence. To claim to be one thing and then prove yourself the opposite, which, in this case means a fool, is a rather absurd proceeding. Presumably a good part of that intelligence is occupied in defending their rights, which nobody assails. Howling and haranguing do not require much intelligence, and of both the "intelligent" workingman does more than enough and to no purpose. When the time of his usefulness approaches—although it should be the time for him to assert himself—he stops his howling and listens to the strongly flavored persuasion of the wily politician—the weed he permitted to grow and to prosper—and becomes the gently led sheep, to awaken after election and find himself the twin brother of the donkey. They will not recognize that far better, by virtue of his sincerity, would be the sincere demagogue as leader than the dishonest politician of the gutter breed.No man can choose his birthplace. Mansion and tenement have each furnished their quota of honest and dishonest men. If he of the gutter gets above it and gets there by means which are those of a man and an American, he will not lack the respect and esteem of those whose ranks he has fought to join. That is what proves this the land of opportunities and therein lies true equality.There is another way to get out of the gutter, and that was the way employed by statesmen of the stamp of the Hon. Michael Callahan, of the State Legislature.Mike Callahan's place in horticulture was most decidedly among the rankest weeds. "Lucky" Callahan, as he was sometimes called, had escaped the inconvenient calcium of public opinion, and, on that account, little was known about his origin, except by his intimates. Perhaps bootblack, perhaps newsboy, he had early learned to make himself subservient to his superiors, genial to his equals and condescending to his inferiors. Of course, these social lines were drawn by him according to his viewpoint.Mike's striving for political recognition was aggressive from the start, and, having no other aim or ambition, he threw himself into the game of intrigue and wire-pulling with all his energetic intensity. Never questioning, always obeying, he became the ideal plastic mass to be molded by the enterprising chiefs of the organization. His promotion from ward heeler to captain, and from captain to the leadership of the district was his logical reward.Yet, even in spite of his usefulness, his ascendancy to the leadership was not accomplished in a day. He did not mind this much, his bulldog tenacity keeping him alive to his ultimate purpose. His manhood and individuality, whatever they might have been, had long been sacrificed.To strengthen his own power in the district it was necessary to weaken the influence of the incumbent leader, and, to effect this, knowing nothing of diplomacy, Callahan resorted to plain treachery. The fact that the leader to be deposed had been his benefactor and stanch friend was of small moment. Certainly Mike was sorry, but what could he do? Take a back seat and beat himself out of his chances? "Not much," said he, and invented the useful and often quoted phrase, "Friendship in poker and politics don't go."Mike's assumption of the leadership was worked by decisive methods. There was no vagueness about him. The great leaders in the history of nations were endowed with attributes and traits of the highest and noblest order. Mike's most pronounced attribute in his functions as leader was directness. It was this that enabled some of the brilliant young men of the party press to apostrophize him as "rugged, bluff, stalwart, frank and straightforward."The district contained a population in which the intelligent workingman was not greatly represented. The few of them who lived in the many lodging houses had very little belief left in the dignity of labor and toiled only enough to "square" themselves with their landlords and liquor dealers. Still, they were of use. They could talk beautifully about the rights of labor, and were encouraged—before election day—to spout grandiosely about the tyrannical oppression of the American workingman by the opposing faction.The great majority of the voters in the district belonged to the class of grafters, and for that reason if no other, the Hon. Michael Callahan of the State Legislature was their born leader.Callahan was at his best shortly before election. Then no man or woman—unfortunately the ladies of the district would indulge too strongly—had to linger in the throes of the law. It was the sacred duty of the leader to call daily at the police court to save his constituents and their "lady friends" from their impending fate.On the eve of election no time had to be wasted in speculating on how much the free and independent voter could expect to receive for the exercise of his sacred franchise. According to the amount sent down from the headquarters of the organization, Mike's ultimatum would settle the market price of votes. One or one and a half, or two dollars were the rates paid, although the last named rate was only given to liquidate the voter's claim at the most critical periods. In this way the voter could figure with certainty, and with very little interruption resume his dissertation on the betterment of municipal and national politics.The most important events in our history were conceived amidst surroundings of severest simplicity. No marble hall, no lofty council chamber, just the Common with its green sward and sturdy oak was the favorite meeting place of our forefathers. In the shadow of the mighty tree they spoke of liberty, of the rights of man and of the welfare of our country, and we reap to-day the benefit of their integrity, in spite of the machinations of politicians, whose very thoughts are a pollution of patriotism.A careful and thoughtful student of American history, the Honorable Mike tried to live up to tradition as much as possible. Customs have changed, civilization has progressed, real estate has risen in price, and the political leader of to-day has felt himself obliged to substitute the gin-mill and the dive for the Common of old. Besides, "there is not much in Commons," excepting when the city fathers, in the goodness of their charitable hearts, decide to create another breathing place and playground for the poor children of the East Side, and, thereby can get a "chance at" the property owners of the site.When one is a leader, one must do as leaders do. Mike could not swerve from the accustomed practice, and, nolens volens, found himself the proprietor of a dive. But, forced into this, he had at least the satisfaction of opening this adjunct to his legislative office on the Common, or Square, as it is now called. True, there was no sturdy oak and no green sward, but there were elevated railway pillars and their shadows were quite sufficient for the practice of side issues in politics. The oak bears only acorns. The pillars and their shadows bore better fruit of silvery and golden sheen, and their sturdiness was often welcome to the backs of the many weary pilgrims who had traveled far to imbibe the pure draught of American patriotism as dispensed by the Hon. Michael Callahan of the State Legislature.With the characteristic modesty of great men, Mike refrained from making the exterior of his place too showy. This superficial attraction to his resort was absolutely needless, as his more lasting fame—some detractors called it "disgraceful notoriety"—was firmly established. Did he not have several fist-fights with "officious" police officers to his credit, and, did he not openly dare and defy all known authorities to "monkey" with him. He feared no man but one, and that one only, because he was a more successful thug than himself and the Great Leader and Chieftain.Dives of a certain kind make no effort to attract transient trade by bright, or, at least, neat and clean exteriors. Their business is not supplied by the honest man, who is looking for an honest place to have an honest drink. They depend on that flotsam and jetsam that can find a dive blindfolded. Callahan's place was more suggestive than attractive in its front and the interior was fairly dazzling in its austere plainness. Sawdust and traces of former expectorations were the most evident features in the bar-room, which only ran the length of the bar. At the end of it a partition jealously claimed the rest of the space for the back-room. There, and not in front, was the real business transacted. The front, a pretense of respectability; the back, without any pretense whatsoever.I cannot tell you what furnished the real attraction of the back-room. A minimum clearance of space in the centre of the room was reserved for dancing and surrounded by tables and chairs which were nightly occupied by young men and women, many of whom had been born and brought up in the immediate neighborhood, under the very eyes of the legislating dive-keeper. But that fact made no difference to this vile thing, empowered by our sanction to make laws which were to safeguard homes, property and life.[image]Mike Callahan's Saloon in Chatham Square. The entrance to Chinatown on the right.And there, safe in the protecting radius of our friend and statesman, we found a resting-place; for our enforced retirement from dive activity, and there, in all my uncleanness, there came to me the sweet messenger of a newer, better life, and took me from it by the all-powerful persuasion of an unquenchable love.Before telling you how this miracle transformed me in a way, which will tax my power of description to the utmost, I must relate to you the one and only attempt we, myself and two cronies, made to get away from a life which was the only one we knew.A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.CHAPTER XI.A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.It was in May. The side-walk in front of Mike Callahan's dive was wide, and we, the gang of discharged dive employees, were in the habit of lounging on the empty beer barrels along the curb or sticking ourselves up against the swinging doors of the place. People, whom we knew from having met them in the "better" days, when we were still working, often passed by and were eagerly hailed by us in the hope that they might buy a drink for our thirsty throats.Corner loafers are despised by all people who lead useful lives, and justly so. Still, there is something very moving in thinking about the dreary existence of these fellows. With brains as empty as their pockets, they assemble with praiseworthy regularity at their open-air clubs, and waste their days in pessimistic conjectures. The loafer is a born pessimist and cynic. No matter what subject or event you may mention to him, he will sneer at it and promptly proceed to pick it to pieces. His criticisms are as acidly sarcastic as his excuses are ingenious. Ask him his opinion about the work done by some skilled mechanic, and he will find a multitude of faults and then expound how the job ought to have been done. Surprised at his technical knowledge you ask in a mild way why he does not put his evident ability to practical use, and are forthwith shocked by suggesting such a thing to a man, who has such a wealth of haughty and convincing reasons for remaining a loafer.Loafers are forever hovering in the ante-room of crime. If his Satanic Majesty bethinks himself of his own and calls them, they willingly and without compunction, do any crooked commission provided it does not require too much physical courage. After due time, crime seems easy, they have not yet been caught, and from their familiarity with evil-doing, and not because of any lately awakened courage, they commit deeds which are called "desperate" by every conscientious reporter.Jack Dempsey, Frank Casey and myself formed a sort of inner circle in the larger gang. We often philosophized together, exchanged ideas and commented on things in general. At one of our confabs, Frank Casey seemed to be entirely out of humor."What's the matter with you, Frank?" I asked."What do you think there is? There's nothing the matter with me, excepting that I'm dead sick o' this game." We could see he was deeply moved by some unsuspected emotion and were deeply interested in its development."I tell you what I'd like to do," he resumed. "I'd like to cut this all out and go to work some place. There's nothing in this kind o' life and it's the same every day. See, it's years and years since I done what you may call an honest day's work.""Ah, you're only kidding!""Kidding?" he echoed, indignantly. "Say, Kil, and you, too, Dempsey, I was never more serious in me life. What are we getting out o' this? It's hanging round here all day, looking for graft and the few pennies to go to bed with or to buy a beef-stew; and when a fellow does make a piece o' money, does it do him any good? Not on your life! If you flash it, you got to blow it in for booze, and if you don't they think you're no good, and the whole gang gets sore on you. A fellow that's working and making his dollar and a half or two dollars a day, is better off than the whole bunch of us taken together.""For the love of heaven, you ain't thinking about going to work?""That's just what I'm doing, and the sooner I can start in the better," attested Casey with emphasis.A warm discussion followed. It is hard to tell if it was the novelty of the proposition or Casey's evident sincerity, but Dempsey and I began to consider it very seriously."Say Casey," I asked, "supposing the three of us really wanted to go to work, where could we get it? They don't take men like us in shops or factories, where there are a whole lot of trained help looking for work every day. So, even if we wanted work, we couldn't get it.""Is that so? You're talking as if New York City is the whole thing. What's the matter with the country? That's where we ought to go, because we'll never amount to anything here. In the first place, even if we was to get jobs here, the three of us would be going on a drunk on the first pay day and stay on it until we're broke. But in the country you ain't got no chance to spend your money, and it's healthy and it's better anyway."The surety of Casey amused me."Will you tell me where you have ever been in the country to know so much about it, and where you got your information from?""That don't make no difference," insisted Casey stubbornly, "I know there's lots o' fellows going over to Philadelphia or Jersey or some place over there every year about this time, and they come back like new and with money from picking strawberries and whatever else there's growing out there."We put our heads together, discussed the matter, came to the conclusion that, surely, we would not be in worse circumstances in the country than we were in the city, and resolved to try our luck at strawberry picking.To financier our expedition was our first duty. We skirmished round and raised about six dollars as our joint capital. Casey went on a secret errand to make inquiries of some well-known "hobo" authority where to go, and how to get there, and then undertook to personally conduct the tour into the unknown land.Baggage did not encumber us. I had thought of taking my good old pal, my Bill, along with us, but did not wish to expose him to the dangers, which, no doubt, were lurking for us.At the ferry, Casey flew his flag and read us the last orders. To save our small capital, we were to walk or "jump" freight trains. Also, for reasons of economy and sagacity, we were not to indulge in one solitary drop of anything intoxicating.The first hitch occurred in Hoboken. To get a freight train was impossible. Dempsey and I never knew why we were unable to make connections, as Casey's plausibility drove the question from our minds and made us follow him blindly.We walked from Hoboken to Newark. It was a scorching afternoon, the sand was hot and heavy under foot, and our mouths became parched at an uncomfortable rate. A few wells and pumps were passed by us, but Casey would not permit us to slake our thirst, as "Newark is only a step or so further on, and it's dangerous to monkey with them country people. They got dogs and are kind of suspicious of fellows like us, who come from New York."Ah, really and truly, it would have been the most confiding and unsophisticating nature that would not have been suspicious of us, no matter where we hailed from. Three tough specimens of humanity, indeed, we were!No stop was made until we reached the railroad station at Newark. Quite a crowd was assembled to wait for either an incoming or outgoing train, but we, without paying the slightest attention to the many mistrustful glances given in our direction, raced for the ice-water tank, prepared to gorge ourselves with the cooling drink.Casey was the last to have his turn at the chained tin cup. He started off splendidly, but paused after, his first gulp and smacked his lips in a most critical manner."Taste anything funny in that water?"We replied in the negative."There's something wrong with it, just the same," Casey persisted. "And do you know, the worst thing a man can do this time o' the year is to drink bad water.""But we got to drink something. We ain't going to drink any beer, and I hate to spend money for soda and ginger-ale and stuff like that," remarked Dempsey."That's true enough," admitted Casey, "but, I'll tell you what we'll do. The same fellow who gave me points on how to get to the strawberries, also, told me that the biggest glass of beer in the country was sold right here in Newark. Now, we ain't going to get full or anything like that, but, being as the water ain't fit to drink, I guess we might have one, just one o' those biggest schooners, which I never seen and which, besides quenching our thirst, are surely worth looking at, the same as any curiosities."Without the aid of a Baedeker, we found our way to Newark's most interesting spot. We entered the hospitable tavern at about seven o'clock, and, at ten o'clock, were still tarrying there admiring the size and beauty of the biggest beers in the world.Regardless of the size of the drink, the beer alone,—never a product of malt and hops—a vile concoction of injurious chemicals, is sufficient to put the indulger far above the most worrying troubles. Late that night, the quiet streets of Newark were profaned by three unsteady musketeers, who, with song and laughter, were making their way to the "meadows."Only one more resolution made and broken. It was not the first and was not the last.Out in the "meadows," the train-yard, where the freight trains were made up, we succeeded, after many mishaps, including Casey's tumble from a moving train into a ditch, in catching a train at about midnight. We had only traveled about a mile, when a trainman, stepping from car to car with lighted lantern, saw us huddled between the bumpers."Where are you fellows going?""Philadelphia," came the answer in sleepy, drowsy tones."You're on a wrong train. This train goes to the 'branch.'"At the time we did not know that this was only a common ruse to make "hoboes" leave the train and accepted it at its face value."Where did he say we were going?" asked Casey."To the 'branch,' wherever that may be," I answered."I guess we better get off, then. This train ain't going to Philadelphia," suggested Dempsey."What we'll get off for? This train goes somewhere, don't it? And it don't make much difference where it goes to, as long as it goes somewhere into the country and away from New York," said Casey, with the evident intention of ending further argument.The heavy, damp night air and the drink partaken by us lulled us into deep slumber, forgetful of our precarious attitude. We had journeyed for hours without waking and were not aroused until the coldness in our limbs became actually painful. Without speaking a word and merely staring at each other we jolted on and on into the unknown, and the dawning morning.Suddenly a brilliant spectacle caught our eyes. Coming out from wooded land, the train sped along a level stretch and we fed our looks on the Fata Morgana of a large city. The size, brilliancy of illumination and distance from New York left no doubt in our minds that we were not far from Philadelphia, and had we known how to pray, we would surely have done so. I have never regretted the experience, still have no wild desire to repeat it. There are more easily obtainable joys in life than the riding on the bumpers of a freight train on a chilly May morning.It was not long before we were slinking along Market street in Philadelphia. After fortifying ourselves against the bad consequences of our benumbing voyage by sampling some "speak-easy" whiskey, we visited "Dirty Mag's" famous all-night restaurant on Sixth street and feasted on steak-pie and coffee, with crullers included. The bill amounted to ten cents.We were so tired out by our traveling that it was out of the question to continue our journey. Down on Calomel street we found a resting-place for our weary and frozen bones at fifteen cents per couch. It was almost noon before we woke from our sleep and held a conference. At its termination we hied ourselves to the nearby grocery store and spent almost the entire remainder of our depleted treasury in buying provisions for our trip into the wilds of Pennsylvania. After that, with a last parting drink, we turned our backs on Philadelphia and set boldly out to win our fortunes.Just as the suburbs had been reached by us we were reminded by our stomachs that we had forgotten to breakfast. An inviting tree stood nearby, a brook, as clear as crystal, was rippling past our feet, and the place seemed to be made for a picnic ground. The enjoyment of the meal was marred by the thought that now we would have no lunch or dinner."What's the use of worrying about that now? Besides, we won't have to carry so much," was Casey's way of consoling us.We rose and began our tramp in earnest. For hours we walked, giving little attention to the things about us and only holding desultory conversation. Not one of us knew the route to the "strawberry country," and we were often obliged to ask people whom we met for directions. We had little luck in this. Most of the people addressed by us would quickly button their coats and hurry on without heeding us. Others would barely stop and throw us such a small scrap of information that, instead of enlightening us, they only bewildered us the more. At last, Casey got tired of this way of securing information and burst upon us with his latest and brightest inspiration."It's no use of asking any o' these men. Most o' them are hayseeds and been to New York and have been buncoed. They can see in a minute that we're from New York and ain't going to take no chances with us. It's different with women. They're always nice and gentle and, especially, when they get spoken to the way I know how to talk to them. Leave this to me. Don't ask any more men. Wait till we meet some women, and then I'll ask them, and then you'll be surprised in the difference."Casey, who had given voice to this speech with properly inflated chest, proved himself to be a true prophet. We found there was a difference in the way in which men and women received our approach.Before long, we saw two women with baskets coming our way."Now, you fellows want to keep a little behind, and watch me how I do this," was Casey's final instruction.Giving his clothes a quick brushing with his hands and setting his hat jauntily over his ear, Casey went toward his fate with a grace all his own.Dempsey and I could not hear the first passage of words, but it was hardly necessary, as the effects of it were immediately visible.One woman proceeded to pummel Casey with her umbrella, while the other was trying to fit her market-basket on his head. When they saw Dempsey and me come running to the rescue, they left Casey and took it on a run across the fields, but they took good care to shout back to us that they would have the sheriff or constable after us."For heaven's sake, what did you say to those women?" I asked Casey, after I had pulled the basket from his head."What did I say to them? They ain't civilized, and it don't make no difference what a fellow says to them kind o' people. I spoke to them like a regular dude. This is what I said: 'Ain't this a fine morning, girls. We're strangers here and didn't like this country very much until it was our good fortune to see you, who are sweeter than any sugar, and now we'd like to stay here if you will tell us the road to where the strawberries grow and where there are as many girls as beautiful as yourselves!' And the minute I said that they soaked me."We consoled Casey and resumed our tramp.It was now late in the afternoon and I determined that we should know something about our whereabouts. I stopped the very next man we met in such a way that he could not get away from us.After assuring him that we had no intention of robbing him, I insisted on getting correct information.Can you imagine our feelings when he told us that we had spent our time and energy in describing circles around Philadelphia, without getting away from it?Dempsey and Casey made no attempt to hide their chagrin. The blow was too crushing. I, also, felt fearfully discouraged, but did not want to give in."There is no use in going back. We're here now, and must go on. If we go back to Philadelphia, we might as well go back to New York. We're in the country now, and we might as well stay here. I don't care what you fellows do, I'm going to go ahead."The last sentence was a fearful bluff. Had Dempsey and Casey decided to return to New York, I would have joined them on the spot. Fortunately, they adopted my way of looking at it, and we once more pursued our sorry pilgrimage.Now, we were sure of penetrating right into the heart of the country and evidences of it were not lacking. Suburban villas grew fewer and fewer and we had to walk for a considerable distance before we passed another farmhouse. With our inborn stubbornness we kept plodding on, until our legs almost refused to obey.It was the hour in which evening unwittingly yields supremacy to night. We felt it, as was proven by Casey in answer to Dempsey's question in regard to the time."Well, when it looks like this they always begin to light up in Callahan's, and that's about seven o'clock."Again we were silent and tramped and tramped. Dempsey was the next to speak."Say, fellows, I ain't seen any strawberries yet. And even if we were to see any now, we couldn't go to work at them this evening, it being so late now, and I think the best thing we can do is to sit down some place and take a rest."Only a few more steps and we saw a spot, which by you, would have been called a dell. We called it nothing, just saw the soft grass and, with one accord, sank down on it.The tone of evening now rang unmistakably clear. Evening and its partner, the gloaming, were at the last and best moment of their supremacy. Too short, by far, are evenings in the country, those short brief hours of nature's neutral state, before retiring to its well-earned rest. But that I only feel now, and did not then.Remember! this was my first night in God's country. Like thousands of others who live and die in the southeast corner of Manhattan—along the Bowery—I had never had a sight of nature. I could not have told a daisy from a rose; or a crow from a robin. All that I write here are the impressions that linger in my mind of this, my first night with nature.It was one grand moment in our lives, yet we did not feel it. Hold, I am wrong! We did feel it, perhaps subconsciously, but feel it we did. Our kind is not given to much talking while doing anything of import. Then our energies are in our task, no matter how dirty that may be. As soon as we rest, we change, and the silent drudge becomes a veritable magpie. We three were resting as, like three daisies in the wilderness, we sat in our dell, but there was something all about and around us that stopped our flow of talk from loosening itself.We sat and stared, and the most insignificant changes in the tranquil scene before us left their unrecognized, yet deep impressions on us. And looking back through all the years passed since then, I see it all still before me, though I cannot attempt to picture it to you.From where we sat it looked before us like the setting for a glorious play. On both sides, small sketches of woodland interjected just far enough to serve as the wings on the stage. Back of it, there was a grand, majestic last drop, a range of hills, running unbrokenly from where to where we could see. The cast, the actors of the play were supplied by all the many living things about us and, above it all, like the last curtain, hung the forerunners of the coming night.It was no tumultuous melodrama, no rollicking farce, it was a pastoral play so successful, so wisely composed and staged that from its first night it has been enacted every night through all the ages. No wonder that with so many rehearsals the scene, as we saw it, was played with perfection.Out from a loophole in the sky, a bird came flying toward us with unfaltering swing. Night after night it had flown the same course, night after night it had the same rôle, that of bringing their share to the young striplings in the nest above our heads. Along the road came a creaking, lumbering farm-wagon. The farmer looked at us with suspicion, still, gave us a "good evening, boys." I do not know if we returned his greeting or not.It was quiet, so quiet, that the many little noises, made by unseen beings, pealed like tornadoes of sound. The snatch of laughter, coming from the tree-encircled farm-house behind us, was as the laughter of a multitude; the chirrup of that homeward bound bird was as a lofty, airy chorus; the croaking of the frog was as a grunting wail from many, many, who never get above the very ground. While we had sat staring holes into the air before us, evening had flown, and night, a gallant victor, had unrolled the standard of the stars. I know I cannot tell you my impressions, but even had I the gift and genius of a hundred of our greatest writers, I could not convey to you what a picture that night, my first night in God's country, left with me. It seemed to me that all and everything, before becoming wrapped in slumber, gave one praise-offering to Above. The corn of the field and the poor lowly flower by the roadside and even the tiny blade of grass, they all were straightened by one last, upward tremor before relaxing to their drooping doze. The birds of the air and the beasts of the ground, all sounded their evening song. With some it was a thrill of sweetest divine melody, with others it was but a grunt, but it all seemed like a thanksgiving for having lived and worked a day made by the Creator of all.And from beneath all this, the silent attitude of prayer and the intoned evening hymn of creatures rose onward, upward, like an anthem to the sky, where brilliant orbs and shining, milky veils were interwoven in a web of glory, and peeping over the tops of hours into the birthing cradle of another day. It is a witching hour, this hour, when stars and nature in unison sing their evening song.Where nature is grandest, man most likes to profane it.The sublime, sweet spell held us enthralled. Not a word had been spoken by us. How long we had sat there we did not know. How much longer we would have sat there is a matter of unprofitable conjecture. As if turned loose from the regions of the arch-fiend, with howling screech, with snorting, rumbling, rattling, a train, looking like a string of toy-cars in the distance, clattered along the range of hills, the last drop of our scene. Spitting fire before it, leaving white streamers behind it, the iron disrespecter of nature's sanctity rushed into the very heart of the hills and took the haze of idealism with it.The spell was broken, and we were not long in getting back to terra firma."Say," remarked Casey very pensively, "ain't it very quiet here?""Well, I should say so," hastened Dempsey to corroborate him. "It's so quiet you couldn't sleep here if you wanted to. This ain't no place for us. Let's go."We started ahead and tumbled along the country road. All directions, as to our route, were, for the present, forgotten. We only had one purpose now, to get away from the haunting quiet. With every step our nerves became more unstrung. A rabbit scooted across the road and made us grasp each other's arms. The faint rustle of the leaves sent shivers down our backs.Out in the open, we felt the hazy, vapory night air enshroud us, which showed every object in ghost-like mold. A dog barked far away, then it howled, and I can swear to it, we trembled.It was not physical fear. It was the weirdness of the unaccustomed that played havoc with our reasoning powers. Some may doubt all this and mention as proof the "hoboing" tramps, who spend their most pleasing and profitable period of vagrancy in their country. I am not prepared to discuss this at all, but am quite sure that every tramp, at the beginning of his career as such, was similarly impressed on his first night in the country, provided he had not found shelter in a barn or haystack or had not been born and lived in the country before.We, we were city bred to the bone, and noise was essential to us as ozone is to the country lad. He cannot sleep with noise,—we could not sleep without it.Our musings—we had not spoken for a long time—were interrupted by Dempsey, who had fallen over a rail, which he had not noticed in the shadowy Darkness. Yes, it was a full-fledged railroad track and, for some obscure reason, it seemed to possess a great deal of fascination for us. We were apparently not able to get away from it. We stood and looked at it as if we had never seen a railroad track before.This lasted until the ever-ready Casey interpreted our feelings."I wonder if this is the Pennsylvania railroad?"That started a chorus of "wonders.""I wonder which end of this runs into New York;" "I wonder how far we are from New York;" "I wonder if we could get to New York from here;" "I wonder how long it takes to get to New York from here;" "I wonder if there is a station near here."How it happened, whether any one proposed it, or how we got there I do not know, but I do know that, quite unexpectedly, we found ourselves at a little wayside station, with a lot of milk cans on its platform. There is no mistaking the fact that we were entirely unbalanced mentally, and it was a good thing for the crew of the freight train, which rolled in to unload and load milk cans, that they were an easy-going crowd of men. We made no pretense of hiding ourselves, but climbed boldly on to the cars and would have committed murder had they attempted to put us off. The spectre of the stillness had taken possession of our brains, and we wanted to flee from it as from a plague.Again the long, cold journey, and, then, at last, a great white sheen of shining lustre in the heavens told us that we were home once more to the city of our birth, of which we were so proud.But could she be proud of us?The rest of the night, or rather the beginning of the day, was spent in chairs in Callahan's back-room, which seemed like paradise to us after our "fierce" experience in the country. After a nap, I went to look for my Bill, who greeted me as if I had left him alone as long as I did on our previous separation, and then again settled down to grace Callahan's dive with my presence.In a day our country trip was forgotten, and I felt quite resigned at taking up my career where I had dropped it. There was little hope of things in divedom brightening up for some time to come and I was perfectly willing to resume playing the gentleman of leisure, who makes his fluctuating living at the expense of his fellow men.But the days in the old life were numbered. Only a short space of time more, and I was to be taken from the cesspool by one whom God must have sent solely for this end. Why this was and why I was chosen, neither you or I can answer, but it is enough for me to know that, even were every miracle of old found to be a fraud or sacrilege, the existence of one great, mighty, living God would be proven to me beyond the slimmest shadow of doubt by the miracle he performed on me by His sweetest prophet.Lord my master, here I thank Thee, not only for having permitted me to live the life of purity and cleanliness, but also for having had me come from out and through the life of the most miserable and sinful. Mysterious are Your ways and Your purposes are not for us to know, but I have suffered, learned and prayed, and I know You will not let it be without avail. And if naught else I can do, give that for her sake, I shall always live in the way she wanted me to live and that was in Your way, God.
[image]Jackey Doodles. Barney Flynn. Jumbo. "Chuck" Connors. A typical group at Barney Flynn's side door.
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Jackey Doodles. Barney Flynn. Jumbo. "Chuck" Connors. A typical group at Barney Flynn's side door.
Right here let me say, that, without wishing to discredit any writer of dialect stories, I have yet to find the story which presents the idiom of the Bowery as it is spoken. I have taken the trouble to compare different stories—each one guaranteed to be a true and realistic study of the underworld—written by different writers and the discrepancies in the dialect are flagrant.
One, throughout his entire tale, puts "youse" in the mouth of his most important character. The other only uses "ye." One spells the question: "Do you?"; the other phrases it: "D'you?"
Perhaps this also applies to other stories written in New England or Southern dialect, but whether it does or not, it seems to be a case of "you pays your money and you takes your choice."
I have yet to see the "low life" story which is not studded with "cul" and "covey." Take my advice and do not use this form of address on the Bowery. They would not understand it and, therefore, would feel insulted.
Also, the men of the East Side are not so lacking in gallantry as to call their lady loves "bundles" and other similar names.
Then, in the matter of emphatic language the writers are far from hitting the target. The favorite phrase is "Wot'ell," which is a hundred leagues removed from the distinct utterance with which this dainty bit of conversation is used by a Bowery boy in a moment of rhetorical flight.
So I might cite hundreds of instances.
The same carelessness of detail is manifested in other things, when writing about us. They are not all important errors or serious mistakes, but are grave enough to prove the unreliability of those "true East Side studies."
A writer, who for a considerable time, has been accepted as an authority on conditions in the underworld, is the most profligate in calling beings and things of the sphere he describes by their wrong name. He persists in claiming that thieves are called "guns" by police and fellows. Every man, who has lived all his life on the Bowery, as I have, knows that "gun" means an important personage. A millionaire is a "gun," so is a prominent lawyer, or a politician, or a famous crook; in short, anybody who is foremost in his profession or calling, be he statesmen or thief, is a "gun."
The Bowery is not hard to reach and, if so inclined, you can easily test my assertion. Take a page from one of the many East Side stories extant and read it to a typical Bowery boy and he will ask you to interpret it for him.
The East Side dialect does not abound in slang. Whatever of it there is in it has been absorbed from the Tenderloin and other sources. To coin a funny slang phrase one must have time to invent and try it. They have no time for this on the East Side, where even time for schooling cannot always be spared. And that accounts for ungrammatical expressions and whimsically twisted sentences, but not for the idiotic gibberish and forced coinages of words slipped onto the tongues of my people.
The courtiers of the King of the Bowery, being a good-natured set of fellows, did not wish to curb the fervency of the literary "gents," and did their best to supply the ever-increasing demand for types.
The inner sanctum of the royal palace was divided from the outer room by the usual glass and wood partition. As Barney Flynn, the King of the Bowery, was a genial and jovial monarch, the more secluded chamber did not resemble a throne-room so much as a rendezvous of kindred spirits. It was a specimen of another strata of nether world Bohemia.
Tables and chairs were about the place in picturesque disorder. On the walls were three gigantic oil paintings, "done" by a wandering Bowery artist for his board and lodging, including frequent libations. In one corner was the voluntary orchestra, consisting of Kelly, the "rake," the fiddler, and Mickey Doolan, the flute-player. Their day's work over—they were both "roustabouts" along the river front—the two court musicians would take their accustomed seats, and, without paying much attention to those present, would fiddle and flute themselves back again to their own green shores of old Erin.
They are pathetic figures, these men of the Bowery, who live their evenly shiftless lives in dreams of days passed, but not forgotten.
Being directly in the path to and from Chinatown, Barney Flynn's saloon was, at odd times, visited by the sociological pilgrims to this centre of celestial colonization. One night, a writer happened to stumble into the place. Whether his impressions were perceived in normal or abnormal condition is not known. The "gang" was engaged in a little celebration of its own, were observed by the writer, and, forthwith, Barney Flynn's and the royal staff became a mine for authors of low-life stories.
With the acumen acquired in my dive training, I saw very soon that those coming to study us were most willing to pay for grotesquely striking types. The "real thing" had very little interest for them. What were we to do? To get the money we had to be types, therefore, whenever the word was passed that a searcher for realism—with funds—had arrived, we put on our masks, lingual and otherwise, to help along the glorious cause of literature.
No good purpose would be accomplished were I to mention the names of authors, who portrayed us so correctly. They are now celebrities with more paying aims. Their stories of us are still remembered, but only because of their "beautiful and pure sentiment," and not because of their "true realism." The latter differs with every writer and has bewildered the casual reader.
I am strongly tempted to call by name one, whose glory as demonstrator was dimmed in an unexpected manner. The writer in question had come here from Philadelphia, preceded by a reputation for his sympathy with those in the slums. Several of his "low down" stories had been hailed as the models for all the other writers of that tribe.
With his usual aggressiveness, not devoid of a touch of almost medieval dash and chivalry, this young man threw himself into the study of New York slums with wonted ardor, and, naturally, mastered the subject almost immediately. Being socially well-connected, or, rather, being well-taken up by society, he had no trouble in interesting his friends in his hobby. He was not niggardly in the spending of his money and quite popular on that account with my friends in Barney Flynn's. As a matter of fact, this promising young writer—a promise since then fulfilled—was a favorite of the highest and lowest; verily, an enviable position.
With note-book in hand, this young man sat among us for hours, jotting down phrases and slang expressions, manufactured most laboriously and carefully for the occasion. The interest of his friends increased, and one night we were honored by a visit of a large party of ladies and gentlemen, piloted by the aforesaid author.
Before the precious cargo had been unloaded from the cabs and hansoms, word had been taken to the back-room. As actors respond to the call of the stage-manager, so did we prepare ourselves to play our parts with our well-known finesse and correctness of detail. By that I mean, that we knew what was expected of us and that we emphasized our "characteristics" as we had seen them burlesqued on the stage.
The promising young writer was in his glory. With irrepressible glee, he introduced us, one by one, to his admirers, watching the effects of our "quaint" salutations. The chorus of enthusiastic approval was unanimous. We were "absolutely charming," "perfectly thrilling," and "too droll for anything." Encouraged by this warm reception of our feeble efforts, we surpassed ourselves and assault, battery, murder was committed on the English language in most wilful frenzy. Taking it all in all, it was a gem of slum mosaic, and is still remembered by most of the offenders.
Having given our performance and exhausted our programme, we were told by our friends how "very glad, charmed and delighted" they had been at meeting us.
The doors had barely closed behind the last of the promising young author's friends, before all the performers rushed up to the bar to spend the money given to them for their instructive entertainment. The comments on the visitors were many and very much to the point, but were not uttered in the manufactured dialect. There was much laughter and many imitations of our late audience, and none of us had noticed that the promising young author, accompanied by a few of the party, had returned to look for a pair of gloves forgotten by one of the ladies. Part of our conversation was overheard and the laugh was at the writer's expense.
Of course, we instantly endeavored to rectify our mistake and fell back to addressing each other as "cull" and "covey," but, somehow, the effect was not convincing.
One of his friends turned to the promising young author on leaving:
"Old man, you certainly deserve another medal for this, but this time, it should be a leather one."
I did not know then to what the above remark referred.
BOWERY POLITICS.
CHAPTER X.
BOWERY POLITICS.
The death-knell of divedom had been sounded by the legislature. Albeit, it had been sounded before, without stopping the dives from resurrecting themselves. But vice had become so rampant, so nauseating that the righteous of the city braced their backbones a trifle stiffer than usual and insisted on having a committee of investigation appointed.
All the daily papers heralded the coming of the inquisitors in big head lines, and the inhabitants of divedom began to quake in their shoes like fallen angels on the eve of judgment day.
Shortly before the beginning of the upheaval, I had overcome one of my many spells of lassitude and gentlemanly idleness and had accepted the position of bouncer in the "Slide," the most notorious dive which ever disgraced a community.
When a body is covered with a cancerous growth, the most dangerous ulcer is the first to receive the surgeon's attention. For that reason, the "Slide" was the first to be put under the prying probe. The investigation was thorough. The investigators and prosecuting officials, stimulated by fear of public censure and thoughts of political advancement, were merciless, and, as a consequence, the "Slide" was closed forever and the nominal proprietor sent to jail.
Without waiting for further developments, the other dive-keepers retired from business and a general cleansing process struck all quarters of the city.
The immediate effect of this was that a shifting of quarters of the vicious began. The harlots, bereft of their known places of business, hid themselves in the obscurity of virtuous surroundings, and the male element of the lowest dives congregated on the Bowery, ever the dumping-ground of human scum and offal. In a short time, the Bowery was full of a muttering crowd of able-bodied men, each one cheating the world out of an honest day's labor, all proclaiming loudly at the injustice which deprived them of their "living." Even the recollection is loathsome.
In company with a number of fellows who, like me, were "thrown out of work" by this "uncalled-for interference," we established headquarters in a ginmill owned by a legislator. As a matter of course, the "back-room," seemingly a legislative annex, was very much in evidence, and by no means subdued in its proceedings. If anything, the business behind the "partition" had increased in volume since the other dives, operated by less influential citizens, had been obliged to close. So we have here another of the many paradoxes of our political conditions. While his fellow-legislators were scouring the city with really commendable zeal to rend the evil-doer limb from limb, this being of their kin could be seen daily in front of his hall, sunning himself in the radiance of his increased prosperity and influence, and looking with self-satisfied smile across Chatham Square at the closed windows of minor dives.
Yes, as the Romans clothed the men of wisdom and love of country in the flowing robes of dignity and called them patriots, statesmen and senators, so do we take—take by the will of the people—the men fat of jowl and fat of paunch from beneath us and place them above us in the seats of the mighty and give them power over us. And if you would growl at my saying "from beneath us to above us," and would wrathfully confront me with the slogan of political and other equality, I would not wish to stand in your way of being their equal, but would have trifling respect for your integrity. As I tell the stars by seeing them and find but small difference in their lustre, so do I tell the rascals by their rascality, and there is small difference in the degrees of rascality.
Senators! Rome and Albany! Would the difference of time, of centuries, were the only one between them!
In all governments by and for the people, the making of the nation lies with the common people; that great mass, which you would call "rabble" were it not for the continental sound of the word and the danger of being quoted. An ever-watchful press keeps its eye on you, and would readily pillorize you as an offender against the most sacred of our possessions and privileges; our sacred freedom; our sacred equality; our sacred franchise, and, by no means lastly, our sacred screaming eagle, screaming ofttimes from veriest agony. The buncombe of press and loud-mouthed gabbers has decreed it to be treason to see the truth and to speak it, and you must, to be above suspicion of being a traitor to the land you love, on the Fourth of July let off in sissing streams of pyrotechnics your patriotism, which, after its one gala day, is forgotten for the rest of the year in the strenuous pursuit of getting all you can out of "what's in it."
The common people of the fields and meadows plow, sow and reap their harvest. They pluck the weeds from out among the useful growth and stamp them under foot. The common people of our cities live "downtown"—that vague and indefinite region—in tenement and barracks. (Notice how "down" and "common" always run together).
They have no knowledge of agriculture, and, with their seldom sight of plant or flower, even the stink-weed, for it is leafed and green, finds a welcome and place among them through their ignorance. Yes, more, it is cared for and nurtured until, as all ill-weeds, it grows to tremendous proportions, overshadowing and dwarfing those who have spared its life instead of plucking it out by the roots and pressing the heel upon it.
Who plants the weeds? Who is their sower? They care not.
Does not the same blessed sunshine and dew of heaven fall upon them as on the corn and roses? And do they not get more of it than the flower and the fruit-bearing plant? For they are greedy and strive for that which is not theirs according to merit.
Not most, but all the men, who played their part in our history so well as to be immortalized forever were self-made from the field and farm. Remember that there they destroy the weeds!
Not most, but all the men, who have made it a risk to a fair name and reputation to become actively engaged in the affairs of one's own country and state were self-made from the slums and gutters, with their only chance of immortalization via Rogues' Gallery. We of the city do not destroy the weeds!
They of the gutter, who have been forced upon and above the multitude, if not caught or not too notoriously prominent, keep the data of their success and formulative period secret. If, however, they run foul of the calcium, which often strikes, unexpectedly, dark places, they become arrogantly defiant in their ill-gotten might. Even against the scorn of the decent and to the awe of their own kind, they swing themselves onto the pedestal of the self-made man and strike their pose. All that is intended as a parallel to several rail-splitting and canal-boating men in our little history, who, as a "patriot" remarked, deserve a whole lot of credit "even if they was farmers."
Then, when forced into the public focus from their disturbed obscurity, is theirs the cry of repentance? Do they sob and cry: "Peccavi! Yes, I have sinned! I have wronged you and my country! Have mercy and forgive!"
If it were that it would be the cry of a tortured soul, rotten and distorted, yet still a soul and worthy of the chance of atonement. No; what reaches us from the usurped pedestal is the self-satisfied grunt of the swine: "Look and behold! You know or can surmise what I have been! Look now and wonder at what I am and how I got there!"
Surely this affront is resented and the daring knave pulled from his lofty perch to be punished for his insults and ill deeds? Some are foolish and un-American enough to suggest such a course of proceeding. But what really does happen is a taking up of that refrain of self-adulation by the admiring throng. There in almost worshipping attitude, we find that the chicaning game of politics makes mates of all sorts and conditions of men, and pickpocket and tax-paying citizen, cut-throat and that very peculiar animal, the intelligent workingman, all kneel in equal humility before the rum-soaked idol of their own creation.
A subject for deep guesswork is where the workingman keeps his well advertised intelligence. To claim to be one thing and then prove yourself the opposite, which, in this case means a fool, is a rather absurd proceeding. Presumably a good part of that intelligence is occupied in defending their rights, which nobody assails. Howling and haranguing do not require much intelligence, and of both the "intelligent" workingman does more than enough and to no purpose. When the time of his usefulness approaches—although it should be the time for him to assert himself—he stops his howling and listens to the strongly flavored persuasion of the wily politician—the weed he permitted to grow and to prosper—and becomes the gently led sheep, to awaken after election and find himself the twin brother of the donkey. They will not recognize that far better, by virtue of his sincerity, would be the sincere demagogue as leader than the dishonest politician of the gutter breed.
No man can choose his birthplace. Mansion and tenement have each furnished their quota of honest and dishonest men. If he of the gutter gets above it and gets there by means which are those of a man and an American, he will not lack the respect and esteem of those whose ranks he has fought to join. That is what proves this the land of opportunities and therein lies true equality.
There is another way to get out of the gutter, and that was the way employed by statesmen of the stamp of the Hon. Michael Callahan, of the State Legislature.
Mike Callahan's place in horticulture was most decidedly among the rankest weeds. "Lucky" Callahan, as he was sometimes called, had escaped the inconvenient calcium of public opinion, and, on that account, little was known about his origin, except by his intimates. Perhaps bootblack, perhaps newsboy, he had early learned to make himself subservient to his superiors, genial to his equals and condescending to his inferiors. Of course, these social lines were drawn by him according to his viewpoint.
Mike's striving for political recognition was aggressive from the start, and, having no other aim or ambition, he threw himself into the game of intrigue and wire-pulling with all his energetic intensity. Never questioning, always obeying, he became the ideal plastic mass to be molded by the enterprising chiefs of the organization. His promotion from ward heeler to captain, and from captain to the leadership of the district was his logical reward.
Yet, even in spite of his usefulness, his ascendancy to the leadership was not accomplished in a day. He did not mind this much, his bulldog tenacity keeping him alive to his ultimate purpose. His manhood and individuality, whatever they might have been, had long been sacrificed.
To strengthen his own power in the district it was necessary to weaken the influence of the incumbent leader, and, to effect this, knowing nothing of diplomacy, Callahan resorted to plain treachery. The fact that the leader to be deposed had been his benefactor and stanch friend was of small moment. Certainly Mike was sorry, but what could he do? Take a back seat and beat himself out of his chances? "Not much," said he, and invented the useful and often quoted phrase, "Friendship in poker and politics don't go."
Mike's assumption of the leadership was worked by decisive methods. There was no vagueness about him. The great leaders in the history of nations were endowed with attributes and traits of the highest and noblest order. Mike's most pronounced attribute in his functions as leader was directness. It was this that enabled some of the brilliant young men of the party press to apostrophize him as "rugged, bluff, stalwart, frank and straightforward."
The district contained a population in which the intelligent workingman was not greatly represented. The few of them who lived in the many lodging houses had very little belief left in the dignity of labor and toiled only enough to "square" themselves with their landlords and liquor dealers. Still, they were of use. They could talk beautifully about the rights of labor, and were encouraged—before election day—to spout grandiosely about the tyrannical oppression of the American workingman by the opposing faction.
The great majority of the voters in the district belonged to the class of grafters, and for that reason if no other, the Hon. Michael Callahan of the State Legislature was their born leader.
Callahan was at his best shortly before election. Then no man or woman—unfortunately the ladies of the district would indulge too strongly—had to linger in the throes of the law. It was the sacred duty of the leader to call daily at the police court to save his constituents and their "lady friends" from their impending fate.
On the eve of election no time had to be wasted in speculating on how much the free and independent voter could expect to receive for the exercise of his sacred franchise. According to the amount sent down from the headquarters of the organization, Mike's ultimatum would settle the market price of votes. One or one and a half, or two dollars were the rates paid, although the last named rate was only given to liquidate the voter's claim at the most critical periods. In this way the voter could figure with certainty, and with very little interruption resume his dissertation on the betterment of municipal and national politics.
The most important events in our history were conceived amidst surroundings of severest simplicity. No marble hall, no lofty council chamber, just the Common with its green sward and sturdy oak was the favorite meeting place of our forefathers. In the shadow of the mighty tree they spoke of liberty, of the rights of man and of the welfare of our country, and we reap to-day the benefit of their integrity, in spite of the machinations of politicians, whose very thoughts are a pollution of patriotism.
A careful and thoughtful student of American history, the Honorable Mike tried to live up to tradition as much as possible. Customs have changed, civilization has progressed, real estate has risen in price, and the political leader of to-day has felt himself obliged to substitute the gin-mill and the dive for the Common of old. Besides, "there is not much in Commons," excepting when the city fathers, in the goodness of their charitable hearts, decide to create another breathing place and playground for the poor children of the East Side, and, thereby can get a "chance at" the property owners of the site.
When one is a leader, one must do as leaders do. Mike could not swerve from the accustomed practice, and, nolens volens, found himself the proprietor of a dive. But, forced into this, he had at least the satisfaction of opening this adjunct to his legislative office on the Common, or Square, as it is now called. True, there was no sturdy oak and no green sward, but there were elevated railway pillars and their shadows were quite sufficient for the practice of side issues in politics. The oak bears only acorns. The pillars and their shadows bore better fruit of silvery and golden sheen, and their sturdiness was often welcome to the backs of the many weary pilgrims who had traveled far to imbibe the pure draught of American patriotism as dispensed by the Hon. Michael Callahan of the State Legislature.
With the characteristic modesty of great men, Mike refrained from making the exterior of his place too showy. This superficial attraction to his resort was absolutely needless, as his more lasting fame—some detractors called it "disgraceful notoriety"—was firmly established. Did he not have several fist-fights with "officious" police officers to his credit, and, did he not openly dare and defy all known authorities to "monkey" with him. He feared no man but one, and that one only, because he was a more successful thug than himself and the Great Leader and Chieftain.
Dives of a certain kind make no effort to attract transient trade by bright, or, at least, neat and clean exteriors. Their business is not supplied by the honest man, who is looking for an honest place to have an honest drink. They depend on that flotsam and jetsam that can find a dive blindfolded. Callahan's place was more suggestive than attractive in its front and the interior was fairly dazzling in its austere plainness. Sawdust and traces of former expectorations were the most evident features in the bar-room, which only ran the length of the bar. At the end of it a partition jealously claimed the rest of the space for the back-room. There, and not in front, was the real business transacted. The front, a pretense of respectability; the back, without any pretense whatsoever.
I cannot tell you what furnished the real attraction of the back-room. A minimum clearance of space in the centre of the room was reserved for dancing and surrounded by tables and chairs which were nightly occupied by young men and women, many of whom had been born and brought up in the immediate neighborhood, under the very eyes of the legislating dive-keeper. But that fact made no difference to this vile thing, empowered by our sanction to make laws which were to safeguard homes, property and life.
[image]Mike Callahan's Saloon in Chatham Square. The entrance to Chinatown on the right.
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Mike Callahan's Saloon in Chatham Square. The entrance to Chinatown on the right.
And there, safe in the protecting radius of our friend and statesman, we found a resting-place; for our enforced retirement from dive activity, and there, in all my uncleanness, there came to me the sweet messenger of a newer, better life, and took me from it by the all-powerful persuasion of an unquenchable love.
Before telling you how this miracle transformed me in a way, which will tax my power of description to the utmost, I must relate to you the one and only attempt we, myself and two cronies, made to get away from a life which was the only one we knew.
A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.
CHAPTER XI.
A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.
It was in May. The side-walk in front of Mike Callahan's dive was wide, and we, the gang of discharged dive employees, were in the habit of lounging on the empty beer barrels along the curb or sticking ourselves up against the swinging doors of the place. People, whom we knew from having met them in the "better" days, when we were still working, often passed by and were eagerly hailed by us in the hope that they might buy a drink for our thirsty throats.
Corner loafers are despised by all people who lead useful lives, and justly so. Still, there is something very moving in thinking about the dreary existence of these fellows. With brains as empty as their pockets, they assemble with praiseworthy regularity at their open-air clubs, and waste their days in pessimistic conjectures. The loafer is a born pessimist and cynic. No matter what subject or event you may mention to him, he will sneer at it and promptly proceed to pick it to pieces. His criticisms are as acidly sarcastic as his excuses are ingenious. Ask him his opinion about the work done by some skilled mechanic, and he will find a multitude of faults and then expound how the job ought to have been done. Surprised at his technical knowledge you ask in a mild way why he does not put his evident ability to practical use, and are forthwith shocked by suggesting such a thing to a man, who has such a wealth of haughty and convincing reasons for remaining a loafer.
Loafers are forever hovering in the ante-room of crime. If his Satanic Majesty bethinks himself of his own and calls them, they willingly and without compunction, do any crooked commission provided it does not require too much physical courage. After due time, crime seems easy, they have not yet been caught, and from their familiarity with evil-doing, and not because of any lately awakened courage, they commit deeds which are called "desperate" by every conscientious reporter.
Jack Dempsey, Frank Casey and myself formed a sort of inner circle in the larger gang. We often philosophized together, exchanged ideas and commented on things in general. At one of our confabs, Frank Casey seemed to be entirely out of humor.
"What's the matter with you, Frank?" I asked.
"What do you think there is? There's nothing the matter with me, excepting that I'm dead sick o' this game." We could see he was deeply moved by some unsuspected emotion and were deeply interested in its development.
"I tell you what I'd like to do," he resumed. "I'd like to cut this all out and go to work some place. There's nothing in this kind o' life and it's the same every day. See, it's years and years since I done what you may call an honest day's work."
"Ah, you're only kidding!"
"Kidding?" he echoed, indignantly. "Say, Kil, and you, too, Dempsey, I was never more serious in me life. What are we getting out o' this? It's hanging round here all day, looking for graft and the few pennies to go to bed with or to buy a beef-stew; and when a fellow does make a piece o' money, does it do him any good? Not on your life! If you flash it, you got to blow it in for booze, and if you don't they think you're no good, and the whole gang gets sore on you. A fellow that's working and making his dollar and a half or two dollars a day, is better off than the whole bunch of us taken together."
"For the love of heaven, you ain't thinking about going to work?"
"That's just what I'm doing, and the sooner I can start in the better," attested Casey with emphasis.
A warm discussion followed. It is hard to tell if it was the novelty of the proposition or Casey's evident sincerity, but Dempsey and I began to consider it very seriously.
"Say Casey," I asked, "supposing the three of us really wanted to go to work, where could we get it? They don't take men like us in shops or factories, where there are a whole lot of trained help looking for work every day. So, even if we wanted work, we couldn't get it."
"Is that so? You're talking as if New York City is the whole thing. What's the matter with the country? That's where we ought to go, because we'll never amount to anything here. In the first place, even if we was to get jobs here, the three of us would be going on a drunk on the first pay day and stay on it until we're broke. But in the country you ain't got no chance to spend your money, and it's healthy and it's better anyway."
The surety of Casey amused me.
"Will you tell me where you have ever been in the country to know so much about it, and where you got your information from?"
"That don't make no difference," insisted Casey stubbornly, "I know there's lots o' fellows going over to Philadelphia or Jersey or some place over there every year about this time, and they come back like new and with money from picking strawberries and whatever else there's growing out there."
We put our heads together, discussed the matter, came to the conclusion that, surely, we would not be in worse circumstances in the country than we were in the city, and resolved to try our luck at strawberry picking.
To financier our expedition was our first duty. We skirmished round and raised about six dollars as our joint capital. Casey went on a secret errand to make inquiries of some well-known "hobo" authority where to go, and how to get there, and then undertook to personally conduct the tour into the unknown land.
Baggage did not encumber us. I had thought of taking my good old pal, my Bill, along with us, but did not wish to expose him to the dangers, which, no doubt, were lurking for us.
At the ferry, Casey flew his flag and read us the last orders. To save our small capital, we were to walk or "jump" freight trains. Also, for reasons of economy and sagacity, we were not to indulge in one solitary drop of anything intoxicating.
The first hitch occurred in Hoboken. To get a freight train was impossible. Dempsey and I never knew why we were unable to make connections, as Casey's plausibility drove the question from our minds and made us follow him blindly.
We walked from Hoboken to Newark. It was a scorching afternoon, the sand was hot and heavy under foot, and our mouths became parched at an uncomfortable rate. A few wells and pumps were passed by us, but Casey would not permit us to slake our thirst, as "Newark is only a step or so further on, and it's dangerous to monkey with them country people. They got dogs and are kind of suspicious of fellows like us, who come from New York."
Ah, really and truly, it would have been the most confiding and unsophisticating nature that would not have been suspicious of us, no matter where we hailed from. Three tough specimens of humanity, indeed, we were!
No stop was made until we reached the railroad station at Newark. Quite a crowd was assembled to wait for either an incoming or outgoing train, but we, without paying the slightest attention to the many mistrustful glances given in our direction, raced for the ice-water tank, prepared to gorge ourselves with the cooling drink.
Casey was the last to have his turn at the chained tin cup. He started off splendidly, but paused after, his first gulp and smacked his lips in a most critical manner.
"Taste anything funny in that water?"
We replied in the negative.
"There's something wrong with it, just the same," Casey persisted. "And do you know, the worst thing a man can do this time o' the year is to drink bad water."
"But we got to drink something. We ain't going to drink any beer, and I hate to spend money for soda and ginger-ale and stuff like that," remarked Dempsey.
"That's true enough," admitted Casey, "but, I'll tell you what we'll do. The same fellow who gave me points on how to get to the strawberries, also, told me that the biggest glass of beer in the country was sold right here in Newark. Now, we ain't going to get full or anything like that, but, being as the water ain't fit to drink, I guess we might have one, just one o' those biggest schooners, which I never seen and which, besides quenching our thirst, are surely worth looking at, the same as any curiosities."
Without the aid of a Baedeker, we found our way to Newark's most interesting spot. We entered the hospitable tavern at about seven o'clock, and, at ten o'clock, were still tarrying there admiring the size and beauty of the biggest beers in the world.
Regardless of the size of the drink, the beer alone,—never a product of malt and hops—a vile concoction of injurious chemicals, is sufficient to put the indulger far above the most worrying troubles. Late that night, the quiet streets of Newark were profaned by three unsteady musketeers, who, with song and laughter, were making their way to the "meadows."
Only one more resolution made and broken. It was not the first and was not the last.
Out in the "meadows," the train-yard, where the freight trains were made up, we succeeded, after many mishaps, including Casey's tumble from a moving train into a ditch, in catching a train at about midnight. We had only traveled about a mile, when a trainman, stepping from car to car with lighted lantern, saw us huddled between the bumpers.
"Where are you fellows going?"
"Philadelphia," came the answer in sleepy, drowsy tones.
"You're on a wrong train. This train goes to the 'branch.'"
At the time we did not know that this was only a common ruse to make "hoboes" leave the train and accepted it at its face value.
"Where did he say we were going?" asked Casey.
"To the 'branch,' wherever that may be," I answered.
"I guess we better get off, then. This train ain't going to Philadelphia," suggested Dempsey.
"What we'll get off for? This train goes somewhere, don't it? And it don't make much difference where it goes to, as long as it goes somewhere into the country and away from New York," said Casey, with the evident intention of ending further argument.
The heavy, damp night air and the drink partaken by us lulled us into deep slumber, forgetful of our precarious attitude. We had journeyed for hours without waking and were not aroused until the coldness in our limbs became actually painful. Without speaking a word and merely staring at each other we jolted on and on into the unknown, and the dawning morning.
Suddenly a brilliant spectacle caught our eyes. Coming out from wooded land, the train sped along a level stretch and we fed our looks on the Fata Morgana of a large city. The size, brilliancy of illumination and distance from New York left no doubt in our minds that we were not far from Philadelphia, and had we known how to pray, we would surely have done so. I have never regretted the experience, still have no wild desire to repeat it. There are more easily obtainable joys in life than the riding on the bumpers of a freight train on a chilly May morning.
It was not long before we were slinking along Market street in Philadelphia. After fortifying ourselves against the bad consequences of our benumbing voyage by sampling some "speak-easy" whiskey, we visited "Dirty Mag's" famous all-night restaurant on Sixth street and feasted on steak-pie and coffee, with crullers included. The bill amounted to ten cents.
We were so tired out by our traveling that it was out of the question to continue our journey. Down on Calomel street we found a resting-place for our weary and frozen bones at fifteen cents per couch. It was almost noon before we woke from our sleep and held a conference. At its termination we hied ourselves to the nearby grocery store and spent almost the entire remainder of our depleted treasury in buying provisions for our trip into the wilds of Pennsylvania. After that, with a last parting drink, we turned our backs on Philadelphia and set boldly out to win our fortunes.
Just as the suburbs had been reached by us we were reminded by our stomachs that we had forgotten to breakfast. An inviting tree stood nearby, a brook, as clear as crystal, was rippling past our feet, and the place seemed to be made for a picnic ground. The enjoyment of the meal was marred by the thought that now we would have no lunch or dinner.
"What's the use of worrying about that now? Besides, we won't have to carry so much," was Casey's way of consoling us.
We rose and began our tramp in earnest. For hours we walked, giving little attention to the things about us and only holding desultory conversation. Not one of us knew the route to the "strawberry country," and we were often obliged to ask people whom we met for directions. We had little luck in this. Most of the people addressed by us would quickly button their coats and hurry on without heeding us. Others would barely stop and throw us such a small scrap of information that, instead of enlightening us, they only bewildered us the more. At last, Casey got tired of this way of securing information and burst upon us with his latest and brightest inspiration.
"It's no use of asking any o' these men. Most o' them are hayseeds and been to New York and have been buncoed. They can see in a minute that we're from New York and ain't going to take no chances with us. It's different with women. They're always nice and gentle and, especially, when they get spoken to the way I know how to talk to them. Leave this to me. Don't ask any more men. Wait till we meet some women, and then I'll ask them, and then you'll be surprised in the difference."
Casey, who had given voice to this speech with properly inflated chest, proved himself to be a true prophet. We found there was a difference in the way in which men and women received our approach.
Before long, we saw two women with baskets coming our way.
"Now, you fellows want to keep a little behind, and watch me how I do this," was Casey's final instruction.
Giving his clothes a quick brushing with his hands and setting his hat jauntily over his ear, Casey went toward his fate with a grace all his own.
Dempsey and I could not hear the first passage of words, but it was hardly necessary, as the effects of it were immediately visible.
One woman proceeded to pummel Casey with her umbrella, while the other was trying to fit her market-basket on his head. When they saw Dempsey and me come running to the rescue, they left Casey and took it on a run across the fields, but they took good care to shout back to us that they would have the sheriff or constable after us.
"For heaven's sake, what did you say to those women?" I asked Casey, after I had pulled the basket from his head.
"What did I say to them? They ain't civilized, and it don't make no difference what a fellow says to them kind o' people. I spoke to them like a regular dude. This is what I said: 'Ain't this a fine morning, girls. We're strangers here and didn't like this country very much until it was our good fortune to see you, who are sweeter than any sugar, and now we'd like to stay here if you will tell us the road to where the strawberries grow and where there are as many girls as beautiful as yourselves!' And the minute I said that they soaked me."
We consoled Casey and resumed our tramp.
It was now late in the afternoon and I determined that we should know something about our whereabouts. I stopped the very next man we met in such a way that he could not get away from us.
After assuring him that we had no intention of robbing him, I insisted on getting correct information.
Can you imagine our feelings when he told us that we had spent our time and energy in describing circles around Philadelphia, without getting away from it?
Dempsey and Casey made no attempt to hide their chagrin. The blow was too crushing. I, also, felt fearfully discouraged, but did not want to give in.
"There is no use in going back. We're here now, and must go on. If we go back to Philadelphia, we might as well go back to New York. We're in the country now, and we might as well stay here. I don't care what you fellows do, I'm going to go ahead."
The last sentence was a fearful bluff. Had Dempsey and Casey decided to return to New York, I would have joined them on the spot. Fortunately, they adopted my way of looking at it, and we once more pursued our sorry pilgrimage.
Now, we were sure of penetrating right into the heart of the country and evidences of it were not lacking. Suburban villas grew fewer and fewer and we had to walk for a considerable distance before we passed another farmhouse. With our inborn stubbornness we kept plodding on, until our legs almost refused to obey.
It was the hour in which evening unwittingly yields supremacy to night. We felt it, as was proven by Casey in answer to Dempsey's question in regard to the time.
"Well, when it looks like this they always begin to light up in Callahan's, and that's about seven o'clock."
Again we were silent and tramped and tramped. Dempsey was the next to speak.
"Say, fellows, I ain't seen any strawberries yet. And even if we were to see any now, we couldn't go to work at them this evening, it being so late now, and I think the best thing we can do is to sit down some place and take a rest."
Only a few more steps and we saw a spot, which by you, would have been called a dell. We called it nothing, just saw the soft grass and, with one accord, sank down on it.
The tone of evening now rang unmistakably clear. Evening and its partner, the gloaming, were at the last and best moment of their supremacy. Too short, by far, are evenings in the country, those short brief hours of nature's neutral state, before retiring to its well-earned rest. But that I only feel now, and did not then.
Remember! this was my first night in God's country. Like thousands of others who live and die in the southeast corner of Manhattan—along the Bowery—I had never had a sight of nature. I could not have told a daisy from a rose; or a crow from a robin. All that I write here are the impressions that linger in my mind of this, my first night with nature.
It was one grand moment in our lives, yet we did not feel it. Hold, I am wrong! We did feel it, perhaps subconsciously, but feel it we did. Our kind is not given to much talking while doing anything of import. Then our energies are in our task, no matter how dirty that may be. As soon as we rest, we change, and the silent drudge becomes a veritable magpie. We three were resting as, like three daisies in the wilderness, we sat in our dell, but there was something all about and around us that stopped our flow of talk from loosening itself.
We sat and stared, and the most insignificant changes in the tranquil scene before us left their unrecognized, yet deep impressions on us. And looking back through all the years passed since then, I see it all still before me, though I cannot attempt to picture it to you.
From where we sat it looked before us like the setting for a glorious play. On both sides, small sketches of woodland interjected just far enough to serve as the wings on the stage. Back of it, there was a grand, majestic last drop, a range of hills, running unbrokenly from where to where we could see. The cast, the actors of the play were supplied by all the many living things about us and, above it all, like the last curtain, hung the forerunners of the coming night.
It was no tumultuous melodrama, no rollicking farce, it was a pastoral play so successful, so wisely composed and staged that from its first night it has been enacted every night through all the ages. No wonder that with so many rehearsals the scene, as we saw it, was played with perfection.
Out from a loophole in the sky, a bird came flying toward us with unfaltering swing. Night after night it had flown the same course, night after night it had the same rôle, that of bringing their share to the young striplings in the nest above our heads. Along the road came a creaking, lumbering farm-wagon. The farmer looked at us with suspicion, still, gave us a "good evening, boys." I do not know if we returned his greeting or not.
It was quiet, so quiet, that the many little noises, made by unseen beings, pealed like tornadoes of sound. The snatch of laughter, coming from the tree-encircled farm-house behind us, was as the laughter of a multitude; the chirrup of that homeward bound bird was as a lofty, airy chorus; the croaking of the frog was as a grunting wail from many, many, who never get above the very ground. While we had sat staring holes into the air before us, evening had flown, and night, a gallant victor, had unrolled the standard of the stars. I know I cannot tell you my impressions, but even had I the gift and genius of a hundred of our greatest writers, I could not convey to you what a picture that night, my first night in God's country, left with me. It seemed to me that all and everything, before becoming wrapped in slumber, gave one praise-offering to Above. The corn of the field and the poor lowly flower by the roadside and even the tiny blade of grass, they all were straightened by one last, upward tremor before relaxing to their drooping doze. The birds of the air and the beasts of the ground, all sounded their evening song. With some it was a thrill of sweetest divine melody, with others it was but a grunt, but it all seemed like a thanksgiving for having lived and worked a day made by the Creator of all.
And from beneath all this, the silent attitude of prayer and the intoned evening hymn of creatures rose onward, upward, like an anthem to the sky, where brilliant orbs and shining, milky veils were interwoven in a web of glory, and peeping over the tops of hours into the birthing cradle of another day. It is a witching hour, this hour, when stars and nature in unison sing their evening song.
Where nature is grandest, man most likes to profane it.
The sublime, sweet spell held us enthralled. Not a word had been spoken by us. How long we had sat there we did not know. How much longer we would have sat there is a matter of unprofitable conjecture. As if turned loose from the regions of the arch-fiend, with howling screech, with snorting, rumbling, rattling, a train, looking like a string of toy-cars in the distance, clattered along the range of hills, the last drop of our scene. Spitting fire before it, leaving white streamers behind it, the iron disrespecter of nature's sanctity rushed into the very heart of the hills and took the haze of idealism with it.
The spell was broken, and we were not long in getting back to terra firma.
"Say," remarked Casey very pensively, "ain't it very quiet here?"
"Well, I should say so," hastened Dempsey to corroborate him. "It's so quiet you couldn't sleep here if you wanted to. This ain't no place for us. Let's go."
We started ahead and tumbled along the country road. All directions, as to our route, were, for the present, forgotten. We only had one purpose now, to get away from the haunting quiet. With every step our nerves became more unstrung. A rabbit scooted across the road and made us grasp each other's arms. The faint rustle of the leaves sent shivers down our backs.
Out in the open, we felt the hazy, vapory night air enshroud us, which showed every object in ghost-like mold. A dog barked far away, then it howled, and I can swear to it, we trembled.
It was not physical fear. It was the weirdness of the unaccustomed that played havoc with our reasoning powers. Some may doubt all this and mention as proof the "hoboing" tramps, who spend their most pleasing and profitable period of vagrancy in their country. I am not prepared to discuss this at all, but am quite sure that every tramp, at the beginning of his career as such, was similarly impressed on his first night in the country, provided he had not found shelter in a barn or haystack or had not been born and lived in the country before.
We, we were city bred to the bone, and noise was essential to us as ozone is to the country lad. He cannot sleep with noise,—we could not sleep without it.
Our musings—we had not spoken for a long time—were interrupted by Dempsey, who had fallen over a rail, which he had not noticed in the shadowy Darkness. Yes, it was a full-fledged railroad track and, for some obscure reason, it seemed to possess a great deal of fascination for us. We were apparently not able to get away from it. We stood and looked at it as if we had never seen a railroad track before.
This lasted until the ever-ready Casey interpreted our feelings.
"I wonder if this is the Pennsylvania railroad?"
That started a chorus of "wonders."
"I wonder which end of this runs into New York;" "I wonder how far we are from New York;" "I wonder if we could get to New York from here;" "I wonder how long it takes to get to New York from here;" "I wonder if there is a station near here."
How it happened, whether any one proposed it, or how we got there I do not know, but I do know that, quite unexpectedly, we found ourselves at a little wayside station, with a lot of milk cans on its platform. There is no mistaking the fact that we were entirely unbalanced mentally, and it was a good thing for the crew of the freight train, which rolled in to unload and load milk cans, that they were an easy-going crowd of men. We made no pretense of hiding ourselves, but climbed boldly on to the cars and would have committed murder had they attempted to put us off. The spectre of the stillness had taken possession of our brains, and we wanted to flee from it as from a plague.
Again the long, cold journey, and, then, at last, a great white sheen of shining lustre in the heavens told us that we were home once more to the city of our birth, of which we were so proud.
But could she be proud of us?
The rest of the night, or rather the beginning of the day, was spent in chairs in Callahan's back-room, which seemed like paradise to us after our "fierce" experience in the country. After a nap, I went to look for my Bill, who greeted me as if I had left him alone as long as I did on our previous separation, and then again settled down to grace Callahan's dive with my presence.
In a day our country trip was forgotten, and I felt quite resigned at taking up my career where I had dropped it. There was little hope of things in divedom brightening up for some time to come and I was perfectly willing to resume playing the gentleman of leisure, who makes his fluctuating living at the expense of his fellow men.
But the days in the old life were numbered. Only a short space of time more, and I was to be taken from the cesspool by one whom God must have sent solely for this end. Why this was and why I was chosen, neither you or I can answer, but it is enough for me to know that, even were every miracle of old found to be a fraud or sacrilege, the existence of one great, mighty, living God would be proven to me beyond the slimmest shadow of doubt by the miracle he performed on me by His sweetest prophet.
Lord my master, here I thank Thee, not only for having permitted me to live the life of purity and cleanliness, but also for having had me come from out and through the life of the most miserable and sinful. Mysterious are Your ways and Your purposes are not for us to know, but I have suffered, learned and prayed, and I know You will not let it be without avail. And if naught else I can do, give that for her sake, I shall always live in the way she wanted me to live and that was in Your way, God.