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AROUND THE WORLD
IN NEW YORK




f
I


w k - k-  )




AROUND THE WORLD
IN NEW YORK
BY


KONRAD


BERCOVICI


Illustrated by
NORMAN BORCHARDT


THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORK & LONDON




Copyright, 1924, by
THE CENTURY Co.
Printed in U. S. A.






TO MY NAOMI
AGAIN-AND AGAIN,
WITH WHOM THIS BOOK HAS
FIRST BEEN PLANNED












AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT


I want to express my thanks and gratitude
to my friend and secretary, Mr. Edmond
Brown, who has been of enormous assistance
to me in the gathering of the material for this
book.
KONRAD BERCOVICI.
New York, March I, I924.








1.\b -7.a
\ 5.\ 3.1S
CONTENTS
CHAPTER                             PAGE
I  NEW YORKC..........           3
II THE SYRIAN QUARTERS......25
III GREECE.......                  46
IV  ON THE EAST SIDE...........  67
V  CHINA........           04
VI  LITTLE ITALY...........  124
VII THE AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE.. 57
VIII  THE GIPSY QUARTERS........  182
IX  AFRICA...........   211
X IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES.        249
XI  SPAIN.............275
XII FRANCE.........296
XIII  GERMANY..........  319
XIV HUNGARY.........               346
XV CZECHOSLOVAKIA....... 367
XVI  SCATTERED NATIONS.......    393::::::ta:9




I




AROUND THE WORLD
IN NEW YORK








AROUND THE WORLD
IN NEW YORK
CHAPTER I
NEW YORK
sN    ~ EW YORK! A fold that has multiplied one hundred and twenty times the original size in a hundred years. A fold that has increased itself not
from within, of its own kind, but from without, from people
of all nations, coming from all directions, black men from
Africa, yellow men from Asia, Slavs from Russia, Celts,
Teutons, Gauls, Romans, Iberians; people from the yellow
sand deserts of Syria, people from the green and snow-clad
mountains of Switzerland, Lowland people, Highland
people, the worst and the best of every race, of every nation.
The strongest and the weakest, the most virtuous and the
most vicious. Running away from the home of their
crimes, others running to where they could practise the
virtues, serve God in their own fashion, interpret the
"word" according to their own lights. Hating one another,
loving one another, agreeing and disagreeing in a hundred
different languages, a hundred different dialects, a hundred
different religions. Crowding one another, and fusing
against their wills slowly with one another, without ever
3




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
becoming a compact whole. The weakest, like base metals,
melting first, while the strong, like gold, only becoming
tarnished from the heat that had melted the others.
New York! A huge big sieve, into which all was thrown
to be sieved, until each falls according to its own size and its
own weight, gravitating toward where it belongs, then
again resifted and resorted to where one may again fit better with the others.
New York! A city requiring sixty thousand bushels of
wheat to feed it one day. Several thousand head of cattle
are hardly sufficient to feed it one meal. New York! Which
requires forty thousand people to amuse its population in
theaters where are seated over a million people nightly.
The city toward which lead a thousand roads, by water and
by rail, above ground and underground, by numerous crisscrossing roads. The whole city one of steady wayfarers
who spend their days in toil, and throbbing from one place
to another. New York, not a city, but a world. With suburbs as distant as Chicago and San Francisco depending
on it; feeding, decrying, denouncing, yet depending on it,
nevertheless. New York, an oasis, a well in the desert,
toward which stretch all the heads of all the continents, like
thirsty camels in a desert for water; subjected, crushed
by an all-potent, invisible power; by a vortex which rules
and attracts by its own terrific and terrifying motions in
all directions. New York, swirling with undercurrents that
rise to be surface currents, and vortices encompassing a
hundred other vortices, crunching, crying, crushing, yelling, overpowering all that is within its reach; and its reach
is as wide and as far as its fame has spread.
4




NEW YORK


Like a phenix, it has risen a hundred times from its
ashes. Like Lazarus it has risen from the dead, after pestilence has succeeded pestilence; a hundred times ruled by
mobs, and ruled and overruled by greater mobs that
crushed the preceding ones. London and Paris and Rome
were world cities when New York was a village; world
cities when New York had fifty thousand inhabitants, when
New York was a village in the wilderness of a new continent, surrounded by covetous enemies with tomahawks and
blunderbusses, and within ear-shot of the cry of the wolf
and the lugubrious plaint of the coyote at night. The Old
World had experienced all the arts, all the sciences, when
New York was still burning witches, Catholic priests were
tortured on the wheel in the open squares and executed by
lighting the fire under the auto da fe, negroes suspected
of insurrectionrvhen Peter Stuyvesant ruled that the Jews
were an encumbrance of the earth and were therefore not
to be permitted to live within the city, lest greater evil befall it. The nineteenth century knocked at the gates of time
when the celebrated Doctors' Mob, upon a report that a
number of dead bodies had been dug up by the medical
students from the Potter's Field and the Negro Burial
Grounds, stormed the New York Hospital and destroyed
and burnt all that was within, until jail was the only safe
place for the doctors of the city. Neither Clinton, Hamilton, nor Tay could argue the angry crowd away from the
jails. They wanted to storm them to capture the doctors.
To disperse them the militia had to fire on them. That
same crowd later attacked fiercely the house of Sir John,
the British minister, mistaking the name on the sign to
5




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


mean "Surgeon," and never for many months afterward
asking the advice of physicians, even when the pestilence
had broken out. o
New York, with its hundreds of theaters, the first of
which was mobbed and destroyed by the people because of
an unpleasant remark about the insurrectionists made by
one of the actors; and the second one again destroyed because of a mob opposing Macready, the English actor, and
favoring Foster, their own. And to-day New York, the city
of thousands of physicians, of thousands of theaters; of
hundreds of Catholic churches and Hebrew synagogues.
One could still put his fingers on houses which were
built when Canal Street was a miniature sea in the heart of
the city, with food for anglers; when about its unwalled
low shores, crowded by merry picnickers in their freshly
laundered, colored Dutch garb, sheep and goats pastured
leisurely. 4The Negro Burial Ground on Washington
Square was so far away from the heart of the city that
there was no expectation that it might ever grow beyond
that. And to-day the square is hardly more than the first
vertebra of the spine of the city.
While Napoleon was bringing pyramids from Egypt the
plow was still broken on the forest stumps where Twentysecond Street now is. Beyond that was the wilderness, inhabited by wild Indians, infested by wolves. Beyond that
was the land of the Gnomes and impossible fears. There
still are among the living men who remember the Debtors'
Prison in City Hall, where the imprisoned used to hang
out their old shoes at the window to solicit alms of passersby. Ah! These New York prisons. One can study the
6




NEW YORK
development of the city through the increase of their numbers and size. There was the Bridewell Prison, built by
the English on the site where the Liberty Pole once was.
They used to come every morning to the jail and call out,
"Rebels, turn out your dead!" So sure were they that
among the many hundreds imprisoned, where there was
hardly room for one tenth that many, would be enough
dead during the night to fill the cart ready to haul them to
the trench in which they were thrown. The Bridewell
Prison, the stones of which, when the jail was torn down,
were incorporated into the building which is now the
Tombs, the grim Tombs where between its sections once
stood the public hanging-place. And there were the SugarHouses, compared to which the cells of the Inquisition of
Spain were luxurious palaces; for it was a dear buy, the
liberty from the English, which the Dutch burghers of
the city paid.
And yet the site of the Liberty Pole, around which all
aspirations of liberty and independence centered, was never
paid for, though it was bought by the city from the descendants of Jacob Spear, who owned it.
New York, built in a hundred styles in that many years.
With low windows by the Dutch and high windows by the
French, and the cottage-like porches of the English. Smacking here of Italian, there of Greek, raising buildings of
Moresque fineness, with laces of stone and elegant arches,
and constructing homes and public places as squat and
heavy as cannon cupolas on board war-ships. New York!
Where only yesterday, because of a superstition against
marble, no working-man could be found to put up the
7




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
marble front of the first American museum, until one had
to be released from Sing Sing Prison on the promise that
he would perform the work. And how many marble fronts
flatten the light now, while there still live men who remember such superstition, such prejudice!
What a city of mobs it was! When they did not like the
#eaty proposed by the English, then warring with the
Frearh, Alexander Hamilton was dragged bodily through
the s.reets and the treaty burned on the commons. When
they did not like what Rivington's newspaper contained
they wrecked the printing-shop of the paper. When they
did not like something or other in the theater they destroyed
the theater. What they did not agree with was destroyed.
They who had bought liberty so dearly repressed all liberty
of the others.
New York, from the Battery to Canal Street, is history;
from Canal Street upward, it is real estate. Respect for
religion was not raising higher than land values. One can
still point out the place at Madison Street near Pearl, Pearl
Street which was the first street of the city, one could still
point out the place where was the first free school, with
Clinton as president of the school movement. There are
still girders and stones of the landing of the first ferry
between Brooklyn and New York, when Brooklyn was
Breukelen, at Peck Slip; in the days when Tompkins Place
was a salt meadow, and the celebrated singer Malibran
sang at the opera in the Park Theater.
I have met men who still remember Twenty-third Street
and thereabouts to the Hudson River as a farm place,
where they used to pasture their goats on the free
8




NEW YORK
meadows; men who remembered when Potter's Field was in
Washington Square, when Twenty-first Street was Love
Lane, and when Broadway ended at Astor Place. Who
would ever have dreamt then of the potentiality of New
York? Less than a hundred years ago financiers could not
get backing to clear up the land around Canal Street; nobody expected the city to expand that far, when at
Chambers Street and Broadway the Negro Burial Grounc
were far and away, on the exact site where the marble
Stewart Building was later erected. It was only in I820
that burials were prohibited below Canal Street, in a fantastic expectation of a greater development of the city
from some office-building visionaries.
And Wall Street, the Exchange, now the most powerful
exchange in the world, toward which all the gold of the
world gravitates, the exchange that conducts the finances
of the world, which makes and unmakes wars thousands of
miles from its cold, gray stone buildings; Wall Street,
whose tentacles reach to the remotest corners of the earth.
It originated in the Tontine Coffee-House early in the
nineteenth century, by the will of a handful of merchants
when the London and Paris bourses and the Berlin and
Rome bourses were tremendous contending powers. Who
can, after seeing New York and feeling the throb of its
pulse, think of more gigantic enterprises, more complicated
machineries, under which labor and hiss, live and die, a
million other machines? For whosoever becomes part of
the city is swirled into its wheels and becomes added power.
Who can even dare conceive of the future? When rews
of twenty-story buildings grow up in places where only
9




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


yesterday were rocks; wand-risen castles and palaces, before even the wooden shanties which formerly stood there
had had time to disappear; before the hares and groundhogs had had time to distance themselves and burrow their
habitations elsewhere; from whence they shall again be
driven away by the noise and crunching vibration of the
sharp drill boring into the rocks. It is this febrility of incessant building and growing, of continual hammering and
boring, the soaring and burrowing, the speeding and
stretching, that gives the city its feverish pulse. The ring
of trains, incoming and departing, carrying away and
bringing in in one hour more people thanihouses a large
town. Hundreds of boats, headed toward the shore, waiting their turn to be moored, with the flags of all nations
unfurled. People of all nations travel thousands of miles
for the privilege of knocking at our doors, hoping if chance
be with them, to gain admittance. Like lava flowing down
from the top of a volcano, the unending stream of running
people in the morning from the outlying districts and suburbs. Like the return of the tide, the unending flow of the
people at evening after the day's labor has been done. They
gush forth from a hundred streets at once, running, in one
compact mass that overcrowds the underground and overhead rail-running conveyances, and fills the boats that cross
the rivers, to the north and south and east of the city, into
trains winding like illumined snakes; into hundreds of
ferry-boats like giant glow-worms, snaking, twirling their
way, hooting, yelling, screeching, calling to one another,
lel they crowd one the other too closely for the safety of
the sardine-packed crowd on their decks.
IO




NEW YORK


And at night, New York's streets that are overcrowded
in the day are like streets of a dead city at night. Streets
deserted in the day whirl with people at night. The Long
Island coast, the Jersey coast, miles deep on both sides of
the Hudson River-fifty, sixty miles in length-are the
bedrooms of New York. A million pillars of light, blinking, like a huge, giant hive in which every cell is lit.
Shadows run to and fro, as behind a curtain, a giant lit
curtain that had suddenly been drawn like an apron over
the city. And within that hive greater life yet than in the
day. Streets that had been so densely populated until nightfall one had to wedge his way through are completely deserted when the day is over. And others where there had
been no traffic are now as overwhelmed as the first had been
in the morning. For millions of pleasure-seeking people
come in daily into the city from the remotest corner of the
continent. Like bees they swarm, each for his mouthful of
honey to carry back to where he came from; or like wasps
they have come only to sting and to carry back their own
sting and bitterness with them.
Sixteen twenty-five-the year the first white child, Sarah
Rapaelje, was born in what is now New York, the year the
first stockade was erected by the servants of the Dutch
West Indies Company, almost the year in which Peter
Minuit purchased Manhattan Island of its Indian owners
for about twenty-four dollars' worth of baubles.
Where are the beams of the house in which Sarah was
born? What is there left of Minuit's home? It was not a
city these first settlers had come to build; it was a ba '-tar
-a bazaar at the gateway of a new world; a cluster of
as.  ~II




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
houses around a stockade in the low marshes eastward from
the Battery, hugging the shore of the East River, close
to the wharf; near to the boats that brought them and were
ready to take back the hundred or so of bow-legged, blueeyed children of Netherlands polders, where they should
again erect dikes to save their homes and fields from the
ravages of the North Sea.
And now, after three hundred years, New York is still
a bazaar. The spirit of the first settlers still hovers over
Manhattan Island. But a bazaar the like of which three
hundred years of dreams could not have fancied more
fantastically.
If bridges and towers were not of steel and stone but of
moonlight and sunbeams, what magic wand would have
called to life more superb ones in such profusion in such
a short time? And as fantastically as they rise they also
disappear, to make place for other baubles of millions of
tons of iron and of stone that span rivers and kiss the skies,
better dreamed out and more daring than the ones before.
More than two million souls live on the sites of the six
"Boweries," the farms the Dutch settlers had parceled out
for themselves on the meadows along the shore of the East
River. On the "Maagde Paatje," rechristened Maiden
Lane by the English, where young maidens spread the wash
to dry on the greensward of the hill, stand huge buildings,
in which the daily trade is greater than the total wealth
of the Netherlands in those days.
Over the "Kolch," the fresh-water pond, runs Canal
S*eet and Broadway; and instead of the light boat with
lovers on the shimmering waters, electric cars pursue the
12




NEW YORK
selfsame path on steel rails extending the whole of the
island and crossing over a bridge to another part of the
world-terra incognita then to the whites; where the
wolves lived next to the tents of the red men.
Of Captain Kidd's house, on what is now Liberty Street,
there is not a trace left. But who can pass the street, night
or daytime, without visualizing the swaggering pirate
lurking from some dark corner? Why, it was only yesterday when, because of him, Arabian gold was current
coin in New York. His home was a warehouse stored with
rare fabrics of Teheran and Samarkand, brought by pirate
ships to be sold to the wives of merchants homing around
Battery Place and Bowling Green.
Some old homes still possess Persian rugs bought from
Captain Kidd-Persian rugs and carpets, bizarre bric-abrac, silks and cashmeres from India and brocades and
robes woven for Eastern queens. For the women of those
days, still musing that they might be on the shorter passage
to India, styled such robes in an anticipating spirit.
Man's strivings, man's creative impulse, has had nowhere opportunity as in New York. Below all the different
characters and temperaments which gravitate from all
sides toward New York, another current, though seemingly
giving way, rises above everything. A city, in which mob
rule in its most violent forms has existed for decades,
evolved to be one of the cities, speaking of the largest ones,
in which mob rule is the least influential. A city in which
the beginnings of education were so adversely received,
where the early city fathers fought against anything like
a public school, arguing that the only place for a free school
13




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


was in the almshouse, the children of the poor to be continually at elbow's-length of the destitute who had fallen
into the almshouse, it has now the vastest network of free
schools in existence. A city where the first college, Columbia College, with its low beginnings in Park Place, was the
most scorned institution of learning when the Sorbonne
in Paris flourished, and the institutions of learning of
England were at their height, New York to-day spends
more for learning than either of these countries do, buying learning in unheard-of quantity. A city where the doctors had to fight mob rule, as shown previously, has to-day
the most sought-after schools of medicine in existence. A
city in which the preaching of the gospel in any other language but Low Dutch was forbidden, where the first sermon in English was preached at the end of the eighteenth
century, listens now to sermons being preached in thirty
different languages. A city where the Catholics and the
Jews were equally persecuted, those denominations are today the greatest powers in the city. Between two intolerant powers, the early intolerance of the Dutch and the
later Puritan intolerance of the Anglo-Saxons, one fighting the other, one excluding the other, a hundred others
have sprung up and by their sheer numbers compelled the
most intolerant burg into the most tolerant city. The early
Dutch hated anything that was not Dutch. The early English hated anything-that was not English. And yet in spite
of these two hatreds people of different religions and different conceptions clustered between the rivers that encompassed the city.
New York, like no other city, offers the best study of
14




NEW YORK
the nations of the world, samples of each being centered
in different sections within easy reach of one another. You
can go into the Spanish quarter and forget easily you are
in an Anglo-Saxon country. You will be in vaulted, Alhambresque Spain while you are there; listening to songs
with guitar accompaniments and feeding on food flavored
with condiments imported from Spain. More than that,
you can be in different provinces of Spain; for the people,of these different provinces, on coming here, gather and
form folds of their own, until the Spanish district forms
in itself a copy of Spain. The people of each province live
in the same proximity to one another as they do in their
own country. And not only do they live in the same neighborhood, but they lead the same lives, sing their own songs,
and speak their own tongue, which is jealously guarded
by the older ones in fear lest the younger ones might lose
it and thereby lose their identity as Spaniards of a certain
province.
You can go into the French district, and live in France
while you are there, with Parisians clustering by themselves nearer to where there is light and gaiety, and the
Normans further away on the side streets, withdrawing
within themselves as northern people are wont to do. The
Bretons, frugal and sober, keep to themselves. The southern Frenchmen from Marseilles and Orleans and Tours
gather in their own cafes and restaurants to discuss and
talk about their gardens at home across the waters, and to
sing their own songs, their own provincial love-songs. You
will hear talk of Verlaine and Mallarme and Anatole
France among the Parisians, and talk of Mistral among the
15




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
Provenqals; and you will, if you know, recognize the
Parisian woman as she steps within the door of a cafe or a
restaurant.
If you go further, into the Italian colonies, for there are
many in the city, you will see the streets of Naples, the
sidewalks littered with fruit- and vegetable-stands of all
kinds; and the gay Neapolitan call of the fishermen on Mulberry Street is the same gay call of the fishmonger of the
Neapolitan Strada. If you walk through Little Italy at
night you will hear voices floating through open windows,
singing to the accompaniment of guitars the songs of Genoa
and Naples, of Rome and Triest, and never for a moment
think that you are elsewhere than in a southern Italian
city. And there is the same antagonism between the northern Italian and the southern one. There is the big, bellowing Calabrian who detests his smaller-sized brother from
Sicily, and the Roman-born who has contempt for both of
them. The Milanese and Tuscanese consider themselves so
far above the other Italians they disdain living in their
neighborhood, and have their own quarters elsewhere.
Political intrigues, camorras and secret societies, jealousies
and hatreds that frequently break out in most violent
forms, are agitating the Italians here as abroad. And yet!
what light-heartedness! What magnificent forgetfulness
of all worries when night has come!
There is the Russian district, with moody Slavs worrying themselves, torturing themselves about this and that
and the other eternal question. Big, heavy-boned, broadshouldered, sunken-eyed Slavs with a mixture of Tartar
blood, colorful in their barbaric emotions, powerful in their
i6




NEW YORK
inert solidarity, more daring because less flighty, more influential because of their resolute steadiness. It was among
them here that the overthow of Russia's old regime was
planned. And living close to them their gay and lighter
cousins, the Czechs and the Croatians and the Slovenes,
dancing to lighter tunes and singing lighter songs, ready
to sacrifice all their worldly goods to an ideal, carrying
their patriotism further than any other nation, further
even than the Poles, their immediate neighbors in the city;
the Poles who even in the most adverse circumstances,
even in bondage and slavery, still persisted in the belief of
being the aristocracy of all nations. "In Poland," they say,
"only noblemen are born."
And what is one to say about the Hungarian quarter?
Where the children of Attila have kept their own tongue so
pure that not a single Anglo-Saxon word has penetrated
their speech. You can see them daily. Their homes, in
crowded tenement quarters, still retain that individuality
which is their own. The color schemes of their decorations
and the manner of arranging their furniture and the relation between the older and the younger element, and their
quick reactions, stamp them as a kind apart in this maelstrom. The gay Pusta children, cousins of the Turk, who
have never been absorbed by any nation and have never
succeeded in absorbing any other one, are what they were
and will remain so. Watch their lives in their own district,
Little Budapest, near the shore of the East River, with gay
cafes and sad violin music made by Gipsies of their own
country come to amuse them.
Further below them is the Rumanian quarter, a race of
17




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
men considering themselves superior to all others of the
Balkan states because they are the descendants of the old
Romans, Trajan's soldiers, who conquered the Dacs of
Decebal more than fifteen centuries ago, proud of their
tongue because it is still the nearest to Latin of any language; they have their own poets here, their own musicians, uninfluenced by the life and the jazz about them,
as if they still lived in Bucharest, which in Europe is known
as Little Paris. Their own Gipsies live among them,
despised and loved by them; hard-working peasants vainly
trying to adapt themselves to a different life, disliking the
Hungarians, suspecting the Russians, neighbors at home
across the Carpathians and the Pruth, neighbors here
across a dividing sidewalk.
The great German population of the city, divided and
subdivided when there is peace on the other side, is united
when its integrity is attacked or endangered. Slow, careful
artisans; slow, careful merchants, with the same Gemiitlichkeit as at home, still reading their home papers to their
wives and children, still leaning back in their soft, comfortable chairs, in their immaculately clean homes. Neighborhoods may change and switch about them, but they
remain where they have once settled. Other peoples may
constantly rise and go elsewhere, seeking other quarters,
as Bedouins raise their worsted tents in search of better
pasture. The Germans remain where they have been,
where they are, only expanding slowly but surely as their
population increases further and further. The Drang nach
Osten, the Urge Eastward, is also the urge of the German
population here,




NEW YORK
And there are Danish and Finnish, and Norwegian
and Serbians, and Slovak and Swedish quarters, each one
with its own life, guarding jealously its national characteristics. There is the Syrian district with one principal
street and several side streets, one of the oldest streets in
the city, with the houses built a hundred years ago. The


*


N
-I —


houses are falling upon themselves, crumbling stone by
stone. The rear houses, to which the sun never reaches,
swarm with people who live as crowded as they did in the
city of Damascus, singing and quarreling in the old Arabic
which we have always thought of as a dead language.
And the Chinese quarters, with the picturesque signs
and pagoda-style houses, the red-brick walls of streets
I9




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


pasted with announcements and signs and newspapers, on
yellow- and green-tinted paper, in that curiously decorative
hieroglyphic script in which the laws of Confucius and
Lao-tsze are printed.
The Greeks live in close quarters in proximity with
peoples near which they live at home, as if New York were
a reproduction of some old Levantine city, Alexandria or
Saloniki, with a dash of Stamboul on Madison Street, a
block from Washington's first home in this city.
There are over a million and a half Jews in New York.
Jews of different nationalities. There are petty quarrels
among them, with all the characteristics of all the nations
with which they have formerly lived, voluntarily living in
Ghettos, though there is no constraint upon them.
And there is the great negro district, where, under the
outward tendency to acquire the characteristics of the
people they are living with, there is an undercurrent of
self-affirmation, of a desire for culture all their own, cultivating qualities inherent in them. There are streets where
the white man is as unwelcome in their midst as the colored
man was unwelcome, and still is, among white people.
A map of Europe superposed upon the map of New York
would prove that the different foreign sections of the city
live in the same proximity to one another as in Europe:
the Spanish near the French, the French near the GerQ.   mans, the Germans near the Austrians, the Russians and
the Rumanians near the Hungarians, and the Greeks behind the Italians. People of western Europe live in the
western side of the city. People of eastern Europe live
in the eastern side of the city. Northerners live in the
20




NEW YORK
northern part of the city and southerners in the southern
part. Those who have lived on the other side near the sea
or a river have the tendency here to live as near the sea
or the river as possible. The English, islanders, living on
the other side of the Hudson as if the river were the channel that separates them from the rest of Europe.
A reformation of the same grouping takes place every
time the city expands. If the Italians move further up
Harlem, the Greeks follow them, the Spaniards join them,
with the French always lagging behind and the Germans
expanding eastward. And yet these people hate one another
as only neighbors can hate one another. It is not love that
attracts them to where the others are. Hatred proves a
more potent element of attraction than love. Is there another city in the world with fifty-two newspapers published
in twenty-two different foreign languages? Is there another city where one can travel from one country into
another in less time than it takes to think of doing so? Is
there another city that so holds the imagination of the entire world, toward which every head is stretched, toward
which so many things gravitate? Over the whole continent, this side of the ocean, the verdict of New York is
waited on everything that is being done, whether in industry or art, in politics or religion. New York is the arbiter.
What New York accepts is accepted. What New York
dislikes is disliked. If New York has put its approval on a
book, or a play, or a painting; that book, that play, that
painting is accepted. If New York has put its approval
upon a musician, or an actor, or a preacher, he is accepted
by the rest of the continent. A baseball player, a prize21




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
fighter, a reformer, whether it be in Argentina, or Chile,
or San Francisco, or Chicago, waits for the approval of
New York before he feels that he has been accepted. How
many dashed hopes! And even the people on the other side
of the continent, though reluctantly, also come to ask the
approval of New York.
There is no other city where you can listen in one and
the same night to a play played in Russian by the best
Russian players, or one played in German by the best German players, or one played in French by the best French
players; to Shakspere's "Hamlet" in English, and Shakspere's "Hamlet" played in Armenian, by Armenian players specially come from Tiflis. In the quaint old Chinese
theater, where the landscape and settings are indicated by
a sign on the wall, the heroine, after having been shot to
death in the play, rises after a few seconds in full view of
the spectators, before the curtain is down, and disappears
behind the wings, but comes back for her cap, which lies
on the floor and which she has forgotten to pick up.
There are Jewish theaters playing tragedies and comedies
written this and the other side of the ocean, and Hebrew
players, playing in the old language of the prophets. There
are Spanish theaters, Arabic, Scandinavian, and Dutch,
each one playing in its own language, each one 'competing
not only for the favor of its own people but for the favor
of others. At the Italian theater here, play the best Italian
actors, in a city with more Italians than Rome. Greek
dancers compete with Swedish ballets on Broadway. A
dozen languages playing in one night in one city, twenty
22




NEW YORK
halls in which music of all the civilizations is being performed at one time, by artists come from the ends of the
earth to compete and court approval.
From all this mass there is a slow filtering, drop by drop,
into a different civilization, giving of its best as it has given
of its worst. Carbon distilling itself into diamonds.
As through hundreds of centuries atoms of carbon form
the purest diamond through crystallization, so does now,
under our very eyes, take place the crystallization of the
spiritual forces all these people have brought here; a crystallization which has no counterpart anywhere in the world,
or anywhere in history. All that has been brought here,
whether it has immediately taken root or not, remains here,
blown hither and thither at first until it takes root, until it
finds its particular soil to grow into. Physically, New
York has not yet reached its limit of expansion. Eastward
and westward and southward it is limited only by the rivers,
which are being spanned; and there is height, height, space
conquered by human ingenuity.
Spiritually also the city's growth has only begun, though
already such a tremendous power in the world. Not another Rome, not another Alexandria, not another Paris,
not another London, but an aggregate of which there is
no counterpart anywhere. A giant that may break only of
its own weight, of its own strength.
City of a thousand schools and a hundred jails. City of
a thousand churches and a thousand market-places. City of
steel and stone. City of all virtues and all vices. City of
magnanimous charity and cruel indifference. City where
23




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


toil kills as many as joy destroys. City of restlessness,
crushing what it has elevated, speeding on rumbling. Thundering madly along, healing, devastating. New York. I am
a fragment of one of its million whirling wheels...


24




CHAPTER II


THE SYRIAN QUARTERS
T   O    one just come from the Occident, from somewhere in New York, a descent upon the Syrian
quarters is like a dream travel. It is as if some
undreamed-of means of transportation had suddenly been
realized, and we could at will, in a few minutes, land across
the seas into some remote, outlying district of Damascus -
Damascus, referred to by the Syrians of the desert as the
Paradise on Earth; Damascus, the city that has remained
as ancient as it was two thousand years ago.
Take the Sixth Avenue Elevated at Forty-second Street,
or wherever you happen to be, and in a few minutes you
are in Rector Street; walk a block westward to Washington Street and you are in Syria.
The street in itself, cut a hundred years ago, is in the
same condition as it was at the beginning of the last century, with here and there a wide marble front of a modernlooking banking-house that enhances the poverty of the
adjoining brick dwellings. Squalid, dark hallways lead
into still more squalid rear houses where the sun never
penetrates. The cobblestoned inner courts are disputed by
cats and dogs conquering them in turn. Looked at from
the opening of a hallway, the courts and rear houses are
not welcome perspective. Both sides of the street are lined
with stores, in the windows of which are retailed all kinds
25




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


% x~~~~~~'Ix
NK.        All


of Oriental wares; long amber-piped narghiles, the smoking paraphernalia of the Orientals; heavy, bulging, mandolin-like musical instruments; and in transparent jars roots
and dried fruits of all kinds that grow one knows not where
and are put to one knows not what use.
26




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS
Every second store is a coffee-house or a restaurant, duplicates of such as are in existence in the Orient, somewhere
around Constantinople or Smyrna, Saloniki or Damascus
itself. And in those dimly lighted coffee-houses, around
rough pine tables, sit swarthy men drawing the cool smoke
from the aromatic titun that burns slowly in the brass container over the large jar filled with rose-scented water
through which the smoke passes before it is drawn by the
smoker. Small coffee-shells, into which the mud-thick
coffee is being continually poured, are being served all
around by the large, majestic, dark-brown owner of the
khava, whose bare feet are incased in pointed, heelless
slippers, babouches, dragged flippity, flippity, flop as he
walks around. In some of the cafes large negroid women,
Syrians from the inner desert, with nostrils pierced where
the ring has once been, placidly watch the guests, nodding
seriously from time to time to an acquaintance, smiling but
rarely; yet so languid are their movements one feels they
are as remote from the actual place of existence as if their
being here were nothing but a dream within a dream. How
have they come here, and why?
A little further down the street, toward Battery Place,
are the small banking-houses, so dear and necessary to the
Levantines for the exchange of money; the zarafs of the
Orient, bankers, letter-writers, advisers, partners, financial
agents, and heads of everything that is being done in that
district. It takes two generations to forget to translate
everything one gets or gives in the moneys of one's own  |
country. In the larger and more pretentious stores are
exhibited profusions of Oriental laces, those delicately
27




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
wrought needleworks of which there is no counterpart elsewhere; showers of rugs, rugs from Persia and Turkestan,
rugs from Turkey and Syria, rugs on which five generations have worked, and rugs which have been turned out
by a mill somewhere in the neighborhood to fool the ignorant who does not know the difference between the real
thing and imitation, and comes to pick up bargains.
Swarthy, tall, well-dressed men, mostly Armenians, stand
idly fingering these priceless things, their faces responding
voluptuously to the feel of some genuine article between
their fingers, or Scwing up disdainfully when an imitation
is shown to them. The signs in the windows, though a
few of them are in English, are mostly in that beautifully
decorative Arabic script which looks more like a lace design than a conveyor of sound. Women, thin-boned and
oval-faced, olive brown, with long, Semitic noses and
fleshy chins, with large black eyes, almond-shaped eyes,
under heavy eyebrows, and lustrous hair hanging profusely
about their shoulders, walk quietly and somewhat stealthily
along the walls. The older ones are not yet accustomed to
the Occidental ways, as if they still belonged to the harem,
to the secluded part of the house where the women's quarters usually are in the house of the Syrian at home, even
if he be a Christian. Their feet, in high-heeled slippers,
amble insecurely on the smooth sidewalk, their soles Iinstinctively searching for the cobblestones of the DamaScus
streets under them, over which they have trod in soft
babouches or in their bare feet. Their demure and quiet
garb hangs loosely on them as if they were manikins upon
which misfit clothing had been thrown. Even when gowned
28




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS
perfectly, the silver ear-rings dangling from their necks,
or the way in which they wear their bracelet on the wrist,
or the carmined finger-nails would betray them wherever
they should be for what they are, Syrians from somewhere
in Damascus or the Lebanon Hills.
The men wear their trousers upon their slightly bowed


legs as they have worn their wide, homespun shalvaris.
The stiff derby hat or the soft Stetson always stands on the
top of their large, egg-shaped heads; somewhat in the manner they have worn their fezzes, or as they still wear their
fezzes in the intimacy of their own homes.
That is but a description of the main street of the Syrian
quarters. If one were to speak of the side streets, going
to Greenwich Street, Morris and Rector Streets, and Car29




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


lisle Street, where because of the very formation of the
street houses lean on one another as if they were ready to
crumble down and fall, with crooked stairways going this
way and that, dark in the daytime and ill lit at night, narrow side streets with broken pavements and neglected,
sloping sidewalks, and the low lights of the stores and the
coffee-houses about them, where most of the Syrian families in that district live, one would still better realize how
Oriental the Syrian quarter is.
How people do transform the quarter they live in to suit
their national temperament and habits! These houses had
all originally been occupied by good Dutch burghers a hundred years ago. It is not only age fHtt has told on the
houses, but also a different attitude of the inhabitants
toward them. The Dutch looked upon these places as
homes, as permanent habitations for themselves and the future generations. The Syrian quite unconsciously conj'siders every abode as a temporary housing-tent. Successively these houses have been occupied by many nations.
It was an Irish district not very long ago. Some Irish families of longshoremen still live there. Then the Italians followed, and were joined by a number of French families.
-. Greeks, Armenians, always the late comers, and other
Levantine folk from maritime ports, who settled upon their
arrival here as near the Battery as possible-near the sea,
to preserve a semblance of their habitats at home. Within
these walls one occasionally sees traces of the different nationalities that have passed through. There is in one a
wide wooden mantelpiece, Dutch as Dutch can be, made
of the red pine which was so abundant near New York
30




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS
when these houses were built. In another house I have
seen birds molded on the ceiling by some Italian inhabitant who passed on. A few French verses are carved with a
knife on the door-sill of another house. From under the
successive paints that have been applied on the walls protrudes the Gothic inscription of "God Save the King,"
painted in black letters.
There are some three thousand souls living in that
cramped little space, within sight of the Liberty Statue,
and deafened by the continual roar and sound and clang
of the boats that pass on the river and the bay. But even
those born here, the youngsters, although going to the
schools of the neighborhood, are as easily distinguishable
from the rest of the population two blocks away as if they
had never lived and should never live in such proximity.
There are two red-brick churches, one the St. George
and the other the St. Joseph, belonging to the Ecclesia
Maronita Catholica. Within these churches at all hours
devotees can be found kneeling and prostrating themselves,
very much in Moslem manner, before the candy-white decorative altars. The decorations and pictures and images, of
the crudest kind, and in the loudest color, make one think
of the beginnings of Christianity some two thousand years
ago, when the Copts buried their prayer-houses deep in the
ground.
One day, walking down Washington Street, a man-of
unusual appearance attracted my attention. Short and
compactly built, he strode down the street with a majestic
stride. His bare head was covered with a mass of loosely
3I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
hanging, long black hair. The upper part of his body
molded in a military khaki tunic much too narrow for him.
From the too-short sleeves two beautiful, delicate hands
hung out at least six inches above the wrist. When I had
caught up with him his beautiful ascetic brown face, illumined by two big black eyes, impressed itself upon me as
that of a prophet. Although he must have been aware I
had remained standing at a distance to watch him pass by
me, he paid no attention to the stranger and looked steadily
ahead above my head, until he disappeared into one of the
hallways in the middle of the block.
I went up to my friend, the editor of "Al Hoda," the
Syrian newspaper published here in the Arabic script, and
asked him who the man was. He hesitated for a few minutes; then he dismissed my query with one remark:
"A religious ascetic."
"What more do you know about him?" I asked.
"A philosopher of some sort," the editor answered, "one
of those dissatisfied men."
"And from where does he come and what is he doing?"
But my friend refrained from giving any further information about the man, dismissing the matter again by
saying:
"Oh, I don't know, and nobody knows much about him.
He has just arrived. He works in the office of some paper,
sweeping out or something like that."
I obtained the same answer from several other Syrian
friends of mine of whom I inquired. A few days later I
met the same prophetic-looking ascetic again. This time I
accosted him. He brushed past me after having looked at
32




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS
me severely with his condoning eyes, as if he had said,
"How dare you disturb me, poor sinner!"
Still I persisted. I greeted him in English, walking after
him, trying to catch up with him. He entered his hallway
and disappeared without noticing me.
That evening I heard him harangue a few young men
who had just stepped out from one of the pool-rooms with
which that district had been Americanized. I did not understand what he said, but I watched the effect of his cool
stream of words upon his unwilling and rebellious listeners.
In a few minutes their arrogant gaze had changed from
derision to humility. They lowered their eyes as they listened to what he said. Soon they closed in nearer to better
absorb his words, oblivious to what was going on on the
other side of the street, oblivious to the heavy trucks that
were rumbling in the middle of the road, oblivious to the
loud calls of their pals from the open windows everywhere.
As he spoke the man seemed to grow in stature until they
all looked much smaller than he did; because their knees
sagged, their heads bowed. They were still standing that
way after he had left them. When I asked one of this
group who that man was, one of the young men answered,
"A saint."
In a few months because of lack of business that poolroom had disappeared from the street. I have never since
asked again who this man was, but I see him frequently and
greet him humbly as I pass him down the street. Thus I   |
am certain the early apostles lived in the slums of Alex- 
andria, Jerusalem, and Damascus, talking to the people on
the streets, changing, reforming, not by ax and fire but
33




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
by word of mouth, by appeals to the soul of man. One can
better understand Paul and Peter after a visit to the Syrian
quarters of New York.
The editor of "Al Hoda" took me down for dinner to one
of the restaurants in the district. The low pine tables standing one close to the other in a row, three rows one after
the other, all covered with colored table-cloths, were set
with heavy porcelain. The owner, a thick-set man in shirtsleeves and clean white apron, stood at the inner end of the
long hall, welcoming the guests as they arrived by nodding
to them or calling their names. A young Syrian poet was
asked to sit at our table. The menu was printed in Arabic,
and as if were in Arabia the dinner was started with a cup
of sour milk, yoghurt, the sour milk, the leban offered to
the traveler at a tent of the deserts of Syria. Little pieces
of lamb's meat, fried on a spit, were served on wooden
plates, and the flat, round, soft biscuits, little leavened and
little salted, tasted as if they had been baked in the redhot sand, or a small mud oven, such as is in every household of Arabia, and not in a modern oven.
While we were dining various people came in, and each
seated himself at his respective place. At that restaurant
the same clients came night after night for their dinner.
During the meal I gained the acquaintance of another man,
Mr. Narian, who spoke French fluently. He had been educated in the French schools of the Orient. When my editor
friend and the poet departed I remained talking with Mr.
Narian. A tall, scholarly man, he was sounding me as to
my sympathies about the situation in the Orient. He
thought the Arabs had received the short end of the bar34




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS
gain in the Balfour declaration about Palestine, that the
Jews had been unduly favored.
"Would you like to have coffee with me in my room?"
he asked me later on in the evening.
Upon my willing acquiescence we mounted two rickety
flights of stairs to a top room. When the door of that
room opened I was in one of the most luxurious Oriental
chambers I have ever seen. The walls were fist thick, covered with priceless tapestries. The low, rug-spread divans
all around the room, the pieces of silk thrown haphazard
here and there, the different sets of narghiles, the handbeaten copper pots, the ornamental brassware, competed
with the numberless incrusted and inlaid firearms and
swords which lay in profusion everywhere. \We lit our
amber-stemmed pipes, sitting on our heels, Moslem fashion,
each waiting for the other to begin conversation. I remembered the breach of etiquette of admiring too greatly
anything in an Oriental house; because the host feels
obliged to offer as a gift what one admires very much, he
resents too high praise of the thing he must then give you.,'
A few minutes later another gentleman, looking more
or less of the same caliber and class as Mr. Narian, entered
the room without knocking. That visitor was followed by
another, and another, and another, until there were eight
in the room. After every one's pipe had been lit and the
coffee was ready, the conversation started in French. But
it slipped immediately into Arabic, leaving me out of its
understanding. Only from the few words which were later
related to me I discovered that I had unwittingly been
present at a meeting at which the policy of the Arabians
35




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


in Palestine who were opposing the English and Jewish
plans there had been settled. The gentlemen were the
heads of the Arabian patriotic movement, which later
caused so much trouble in Palestine.
Feeling myself an intruder, I bowed myself out, back to
the rickety stairs and into the street. The political attitude
of the Arabians in Syria was being settled on the third
floor of a house on a street in New York!
Maluf the jeweler, the one who beats out with his small
hammer on his little anvil, held between his knees, the most
intricate legends on small silverings; Maluf, as dry and
parched as a mummy, with dancing eyes and grinning face,
whose fingers are so immeasurably long and thin, and so,
brittle, one wonders they do not break like glass; Maluf,
from whom I have repeatedly bought rings, asked me
whether I should like to accompany him where there was
a dance. He had not seen me in many moons and wanted
to celebrate. I did not refuse.
He led the way to an upper floor of a house, where coffee
was served to a dozen people. They looked to be freshly
landed, most of them. Some still wore red-brown fezzes
and homespun shirts. Two stout, negroid-looking women,
dressed very lightly, for it was quite warm, slowly turned
their heads when we came in and greeted Maluf with grins
and low laughter. They sipped, from a tall glass, a reddish
drink. Their long hair was woolly and curly. Their eyes,
small and deep-set under penciled brows, were moving
rapidly like scared mice. Their noses were flat, and their
lips were full. They looked like sisters, twins.
36




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS
"Who are they?" I asked Maluf.
"The dancers," he replied, his tongue smacking over his
lips as he looked at them.
Then he rose from his seat and went over to them. A few
minutes later he returned to my table and said:
"They will dance. I have asked them to dance. I have
told them you were one of ours. They will dance. They will
dance."
\From underneath the table one of the women pulled out
an instrument which was a cross between a mandolin and a
guitar, and began to pluck its strings. And then, with
eyes fixed on me, the other woman stood up and began to
move slowly. Her feet remained in one place. Only her
body moved and swayed; at first slowly and languorously;
than, as the music became faster and faster, she brought her
arms and hands and fingers into the dance. The swaying
movement went from hips to breast and from breast to
neck and from neck to head. She turned slowly on her
heels, in a thousand different contortions, her eyes dilating
themselves more and more, dancing as much as the body
danced, compelling every fiber in her to respond a hundred times to every twang of the guitar. And then when
she had reached the heights she suddenly took the guitar
from the other woman, sat down, and motioned to her to
take up the dance from where she had left it. Beginning
in as rapid movement as the other had ceased, and rising
to greater voluptuous motions, she gradually descended
all the range of her emotions until she finished the dance in
exactly the same slow tempo the other one had started with.
It was a perfect cycle. A perfect story told in motions.
37




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


I looked around. Maluf's eyes were half closed. He had
completely relaxed. I looked at the other visitors. They
were all dreamy, as if under the power of some narcotic,
and I realized then better than ever what the dance of the
Orient really is. Not a licentious and lascivious form of
movement, but the song of the limbs and the body, through
which all the emotions can be expressed. I later asked
~,1      ^ Maluf what the two women
\\\had danced. It was "Going
Away and Coming Home"
they had danced, he told me.!  5^ ||  At ~It meant perhaps a good deal
more than Maluf had expressed, but I was satisfied
with that,
Malupa is fifteen, and maybe she is sixteen. Her mother, for she is fatherless, keeps
a little fruit-stand on the street. Malupa is very much
about. Once at evening she asked me to buy her an icecream. I gave her a ten-cent piece. When she had come
out from the candy store she asked me for fifty cents.
Would I not give her that amount? When I refused,
Malupa looked at me scornfully, declaring that I was no
sport. A few days later Malupa spoke to me again. She
offered herself. She knew a place where nobody would
disturb us, she said.
"Malupa, don't you go to school?" I asked.
"What are you bothered about?" she answered.
38




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS


I tried to talk to her, but she sulkily answered, "You are
not a sport."
A few days ago I met Malupa again. She wore better
clothes than I have ever seen on her. This time she told
me she had a room all to herself, unbeknown to her mother,
where she received her guests. Would I not come up?
"And what do you do
with the money?" I asked
Malupa.
"I am saving it, so as to
X buy myself a hat and French      1 ^; slippers and a silken dress, 
C like the American girls have.     f
It costs money to be an 
American."
"And   what   if  your
I  mother finds you out, Mal- 
Add upa? She will kill you!"/ 
Ac    "No, she won't do much," 
8; Malupa  assured  me, al-    --        /ji
though  a tremor passed               8 
"{  through her slender frame.
"How do you know?"
i   "Oh," she answered, "she did n't do much to my older
sister."
That day a young Syrian girl committed suicide because
her lover had been killed by another man who loved her.
There are two daily papers printed in Arabic in the city.
The better situated Syrians, the wealthier ones, have long
39




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


since moved away from Washington Street and its immediate neighborhood, and are now living in Brooklyn, in the
Bensonhurst district and on the Park Slope. The youngsters there, most of them born here, for the Syrian colony
is forty years old, seldom speak their own language among
themselves, using it only when they address their parents.
But the English they use has quaint turns and is phrased
like Arabic. The two daily papers combined have a circulation of about a thousand a day.
Another publication, "Al Fanoon" "The Arts," is edited
by Khalil Gibran, whose beautiful book, "The Madman,"
written in. English, was a literary sensation when it appeared a few years ago. "Al Fanoon" also prints drawings
by Khalil Gibran. It would be impudent to praise Khalil
Gibran as an artist. His works have a quality so much
their own one can neither compare nor classify them. They
are as subtle and pervading as the rarest perfumes; religious, Oriental perfumes. The colors are so delicately
shaded, they are but suggestions of hues. And yet it is
vigorous of its own vigor and strong of its own strength.
Occasionally "Al Fanoon" also prints articles in English.
No other magazine in theg untry is so beautifully got up
as this one.
I have passed many hours with the poet and artist, listening to his musical voice, which makes English as sonorous as if it were Italian, as he read me his poems. Faultlessly attired, Khalil Gibran looks more like a cultured
Frenchman than a Syrian. But at home, in his large studio
on Tenth Street, discussing with me the Orient, he instinctively bends his knees under him as he sits down on the
40




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS


divan to sip the thick coffee, the preparation of which is his
particular pride, when he makes his guests feel at home.
Everything Occidental is forgotten on entering his room
and facing him. Instantly all feeling of hurry is banished.
The day seems to be longer; the hours seem to be slower;
even the rumbling below, in the street, the noise coming
through the heavily shuttered windows, seems to be more
distant than it actually is. And listening to him I have always. felt as though he were a brother to that other man I
had ihet and whom his listeners had called a saint.
The wheels of the city are reaching for the youth of the 
Syrian district. Here and there young girls have already \
been dragged into shops to help turn out the hundreds of
thousands of pairs of trousers which New York provides  i
for the rest of the world. Many of the homely arts which
the Syrians have practised in New York until a few years 
ago have slowly been abandoned for more remunerative
work in factories and sweat-shops; whence they bring home


4I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
that brand of Americanism so distasteful to the older generation. Maluf has gone back home. Another silversmith
has taken his place. But this new man, much younger than
Maluf, is turning out things much faster and less beautiful,
and instead of selling them singly to such as love beautiful
things, he sells them dozenwise to wholesalers who retail
them as antiques and rare wares on Fifth Avenue. The
dancing-place has recently been closed by prohibition
agents. Less nasal song is being heard; plaints in old
Arabic. The hoarse phonograph grinds out jazz tunes and
rags. But after the youngsters have had their share of
fun the older Syrians put on records on which songs of
their own people have been matriced.
-Among my many friends in the Syrian district there
are few I like better than I do Parkyan, the rug dealer.
Parkyan is a man of about fifty. His forefathers have been
merchants. One day he showed me a beautiful rug he'had
just received, which had been made of wool of natural
colors; from brown-wooled sheep, silver gray, black, reddish and yellow sheep, such as are bred on the plains of
Turkestan. It was a magnificent piece of work, and I admired it greatly. He told me the story of that rug; for
every rug has a story.
From time to time Americans come down to Parkyan's
store to price and buy rugs. One day while I was there a
large automobile slowed up in front of it. An elderly man,
accompanied by a lady, evidently his wife, entered and
demanded to see Oriental rugs. Parkyan showed them the
rug he had so highly praised to me, asking for it a hun42




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS
dred dollars, which seemed to me a most ridiculously low
sum. Certain the man would buy the rug; I regretted my
backwardness in asking what the price was. The man
looked at it, then passed it up with the remark that it was
not worth half the amount. He offered fifty dollars for it;
and turning around to his wife, he said:
"Do you think, dearest, it would do for the hall?"
The lady hesitated. "I don't know."
Parkyan rolled the rug away and said: "No, it won't
do. But I '11 show you something much better."
I breathed easier. I wanted that rug.
Then Parkyan produced from his shelves a number of
other rugs considerably inferior to the first one, for which
he asked five and six hundred dollars apiece. Evidently
the gentleman had been told the Orientals generally ask
twice as much as the value of the merchandise; for when
he had finally picked out three of the rugs shown to him
he offered exactly half of the sum asked. Before a halfhotir was over Parkyan had sold him a thousand dollars'
worth, and the automobile carrying the precious rugs had
departed. I waited until Parkyan had rearranged his
shelves, singsonging softly to himself.
"If it is a hundred dollars you are asking for that rug
I want to buy it, Parkyan."
"I have not offered it to you," he replied, turning around
very much taken aback.
"I cannot see that my money is different from the other
man's," I answered.
And then Parkyan explained.
"This rug is my test-stone. With it I test a new cus43




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


tomer's knowledge of rugs. If he passes that up after I
ask him a hundred dollars, which is not one tenth its value,
I know that he does not know rugs. I then offer him anything and am sure to close a favorable deal. Do you understand now?" I understood.
This happened two years ago. The other day Parkyan
showed me that he still had the
rug.
VA hundred feet from Broadway, a hundred feet from the
entrance of the subway which
bores itself through the length
and breadth of the city, a few
minutes' distance only from
City Hall, within sight of
where once stood the Liberty
Pole, and where the final surI W^,~ U   render of the British was ef[fo  t       ~fected, between the Hudson
River and that other river of
steel, the elevated, that flows up town, there is a separate
little world, a world that lives its own life. Hundreds
of these people have never gone out of their district
and do not know much about the life that surges about
them. People from a different world, Christians with Moslem habits, still feeling that they are the Nasrani of the
deserts of Syria, the Kellas and settlements of Arabia, and
the lowlands of Palestine, although they are so far away
from them now. Kavas and bazaars and dancing houses,
zarafs and their own Arabic newspapers, living pell-mell


44




THE SYRIAN QUARTERS
and crowded in tottering old brick houses, a people of a
different seed, of an older civilization that has ever been
reluctant to the new, distilling a certain pigment into the
dull grayness of our modern lives.
Through the open doors one can see the long wax candles
flickering in curved rows right and left of the altar in the
church. Through open windows floats the melancholy
chant intoned by a nasal voice. And the calls in Arabic of
the mothers to their children romping on the street mingle
with the jazz screechings from another home and the
Homeric curses of the truck-drivers on their way to the
wharves. An old Arab sits peacefully on the threshold and
grinds coffee in a brass pestle. Within the store his daughter is ringing a cash-register. Suddenly the scene is enlivened by a quarrel of neighbors across the street. Heads
appear over window-sills. Turbaned heads, fezzed heads,
grave, smiling tolerantly, with Oriental indifference, to
women's doings. A large steamer from the Orient has
moored to a near-by pier and is discharging its merchandise. In the stillness of the air hover the pleasant flavors
of dates and figs, of dry raisins and cinnamon-cane, and
citrons and lemons.... Windows are shut down, and in
groups the men and women stand in the middle of the
street and breathe in the perfumed greetings from home.


45




CHAPTER III


GREECE
F    ROM Syria to Greece is not a very long journey. It
can be made overland or by sea. The route I took
was the land route, although the sea route is just as
fascinating, and perhaps even shorter. You can take a
motor-boat at the Battery, and when the rollers raised by
the large steamers have settled, you slip through, wave a
hand to the government ferry to Ellis Island, from which
people of a hundred nations call to you in a Babel of
tongues, avoid the numerous barges towed up and down
the Hudson, or coming from the East River for some
longer trip, carrying on their decks railroad-cars, and
after you have adroitly and safely negotiated the currents
formed by the merging of the East River with the Hudson,
it is but a choice at which pier you should land oneSouth
Street, capricious South Street that follows the contour
of the shore. There is the old Market Slip which looks
out from the water, or the Catharine Slip with its broad
piazza and dejected, rat-infested, windowless old dwellings that have been transformed into warehouses, or you
could land at old Peck Slip, the most picturesque of all the
wharves in the city, where the boats that came from Brooklyn when it was yet Breukelen were towed back and forth,
to give the farmers from across the river a chance to market their wares.
46




GREECE


But it is more convenient to travel the land route. One
gets a whiff of the western civilization that lies between
Syria and Greece. You hurry through West Broadway. If
it is daytime you will have to work your way between the
trucks and street-cars and automobiles; with a passing
glimpse at Trinity Church, with a smile perhaps to one of
the beautiful young ladies eating her lunch in the cemetery
of the church, or keeping a tryst on the benches between old
tombstones. But if the time be after sundown, that part
of Broadway is as deserted as if evacuated because of a
disease or before the bombardment of some enemy. The
impossible gray architecture of the Post-office is to the
right; the Woolworth Building is to the left. Its gilded
facade and the tall, slender colonnades which hold this
tremendous structure give one fear that it might suddenly
break somewhere, bulge and break, so slender and crisp in
its elegance, so slender in its strength which carries it so
high above the ground, as if it were a magnified structure
of a vase by Benvenuto Cellini.
You may take a rest, if you are tired, in City Hall Park,
the park which was the cradle of the Revolution and on
which once reveled the Manhattan Indians; the fierce and
ferocious offshoot of the Lenni-Lenape nation. All the
temporary failures of the world seem to congregate there,
occupying bqpches and looking bewilderedly about them.
The ones coarsened to their condition, collarless, sleep
peacefully on,while the younger ones who had come to see
the big city  m  Oshkosh and Oklahoma, from Darmstadt
or the Vga, fromTurkestan or Orleans, the youngsters
still trying to preserve decent appearance for a possible
47




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
job on the morrow, are continually awakened by the piercing
hooting and shrieking of the boats on the rivers near-bywhen they are not rapped on the heels by the policeman's
club. City Hall faces you with its clock and the broad
stairs that seem to lead nowhere.
On the other side of the open space is Park Row, from
which angles away Nassau Street. Narrow, crowded, hurried, perspiring Nassau Street, broadened out toward its
mouth, where numerous street fakers and peddlers hawk
their wares. Watch out! If you look like a prosperous
provincial a man in overalls will approach you with an
offer of a gold watch which he has just found; a precious
gold watch he is willing to sell for only ten dollars. He
follows your steps, walks by your side, and shows you his
find in his cupped palms. And if you are anxious for bargains, perhaps to make the expenses of your trip, the watch
will soon be yours. But you may soon discover, when you
anxiously look a little later at it, that the gold watch is a
heavy brass onion, costing probably a dollar and a half,
and worth a good deal less. Diamond rings and ear-rings,
furs and cigarette-cases and other things, are sold that
way by a special class of the underworld. It were also
better to hurry on when a sailor-looking man is offering
you a bottle of this or that or the other liquor that he has
just carried off the boat. You will be lucky if it is only tea.
Pass rapidly under the arch of the bridge that extends
from the Municipal Building to Brooklyn Bridge, near the
Pulitzer Building which at the time of its erection was the
tallest in the city, and is now dwarfed by buildings three
times its height, pass on and you emerge to where you get
48




GREECE


I


I,


^Hi.,^p10  Up 1       Y 
a glimpse of the East River, and you are in a dark street,
lined with pawn-shops and hardware shops on both sides,
with dingy restaurants where saloons have been, and sulphur-smelling hotels, and drunkards decrepit and broken
down, leering with shifty, watery eyes at you from every
hallway, accosting you with demands for a cup of coffee
and a cruller. The pullers-in of the second-hand stores cry
their wares in your face, barring your way to the middle
of the street. A Gipsy woman wants to tell your fortune.
Half a dozen boys offer you papers. A Chinaman looks
at you.


49




,AROUND         THE WQO  Lp IN NEW. YQORK(     'rt,
Frget that you are in New York. This is the lower
part of a Levantine port. Cross one of the right-hand
streets into Pearl Street. Walk up to the corner of Canal
Street, after passing Fraunce's Tavern where Washington
was received by his friends, and you are at the old Jewish
Cemetery, which, according to the tablet on the arched
door inside, beyond the huge iron fence, was inaugurated
in 1656, and had been fortified during the Revolution.
The cemetery is between an old wooden shanty inhabited
by a Greek cobbler and an Italian grocery store on the
corner. The gray and brown tombstones lean pitifully on
one another as if looking for support in the last agony of
their lives. Long lines of wash flutter diagonally across
the burial-grounds. Colored aprons and children's dresses
and underwear filled with the wind will make you think of..,^'hat life is, a momentary inflation of a flexible shell and
)  V then deflation again. Thus the traveler has improved his
miTy umbling himself.
Look up! Between Henry and Oliver Streets stands
the massive square structure of the old Mariners Temple,.
which had originally been the Baptist Meeting-house in
1795. This part of Oliver Street, in rows of old red-brick
houses, is still inhabited by old Dutch families, who so
much resent the foreign invasion about them that their
children, if any, are seldom seen on the street. There are
some wonderfully beautiful doors and copings in these old
houses. The street is remarkably clean... but without
any animation. The Greek and Italian children in the
neighborhood call it Old Man's Street.
I say Greece, but I should perhaps say a Greek city;
50




GREECE
perhaps only a reproduction of the Greek quarters in
Stamboul. Stamboul on the Hudson! For though the
down-town Greek section is in many respects the principal
one, there are several other Greek quarters, the importance 
of the Madison Street district being chiefly in the fact that
the Greeks living there and on the side streets leading
toward the East River wharves are here with their families, while the other Greek quarters up town, between
Twenty-seventh and Thirty-sixth  Streets and  Sixth
Avenue, are only merchants' quarters. Their families are
living in Greece, and their children are brought up there <
until they have reached the working age, when they are ~.imported here to work, if "Patera" has not returned to
Corfu or Candia a millionaire meanwhile. For whatever 
one may say of the Greek he is a very calculating and  t
economical animal. It is cheaper to raise a family in;
Greece, where American dollars are translated into
drachmas and lephtas. One can live there a month on
what it would take to live here two days. The growing
family is being visited every other year or so. It is absentee fatherhood with a vengeance.
One is struck on Madison Street by the innumerable
coffee-houses. The windows are curtainless and the
swarthy men inside play cards as furiously, as passionately,
as if their lives depended on the turn of the next card.
There are numerous small banking-houses, combined with
barber-shop and tobacco-dealing facilities. The banker,
between more important business, is keeping. his fingers
supple rolling cigarettes in the window of his establishment. On the street men drag their babouches slowly.
5I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
The hurry, the noise and bustle do not affect them. They
are accustomed to it from childhood. Born somewhere
near other wharves, on the Egean or the Ionian Seas, life
there is at as rapid a tempo as here. Not because of individual hurry, but because of the simultaneous multitude of
movements in different directions.
Madison Street, from Pearl Street to Market Street, is
the main street of the principal Greek section of New
York. At Market Street it ends, after thinning out at the
fringe like a border town, where the Italians and the Jews
are disputing for supremacy, with the Italians in the better
strategic position. The boundary line at Market Street is
marked by the Maternity Center. On the steps, after
school hours, the older children wait for the doors to open
so they can see their mothers within, and their new little
brothers and sisters. It is an Italian Maternity Center.
One might as well concede that, but the ground is still disputed. Close by the Maternity Center, in one building, is a
Spanish barber in the basement, an Italian political association on the ground floor, and a Jewish congregation on the
floor above that.
The streets branching out from Madison Street and
Cherry Street, from Pearl Street on, are all occupied by
Greek families. Only on the fringe toward South Street,
which is the shore-line of the East River, are living Spanish
families. They are mostly recent settlers, who cannot pay
the high rents of the Spanish district further up town.
They are wedging in in the continual displacement of group
populations in the city. One can easily see the difference
between the two peoples, not only in the signs on the
52




GREECE


Spanish store windows, but also in the bits of color that
appear, and the red and green curtains with which the 
doors of the grocery stores are hung. The Spaniard loves  p
to live behind curtains, the Greek in a show-case.
There are but few Greek stores. They are further up
town. The first thing a Greek business man does when
looking for a location is to ascertain there are not many
Greeks living in the neighborhood. 3It is indeed a very
difficult matter for one Greek to sell to another and make /
profit on the transaction.
The old houses are probably the most decrepit in the city.
The rear houses especially seem unfit for human habita- 
tion, with their peeling walls and rickety stairs, and nond  /
of the modern accommodations. Even the comfort-rooms 
are down-stairs, as well as the water. Many of the oldest
houses have no gas and are using kerosene lamps. It is
only chance, and because the people living there have lived i
in similar conditions across the water, that fires do not
occur more frequently in that district. Should anything
happen, whether it begins on Cherry Street, the first house
under the bridge, which is a wooden shack, or begins at
the other end near Catharine Slip, the whole section might
go up in flames ere the fleetest firemen could apply their
hose to it. In such a holocaust I have no doubt many people
would perish, for there is a great scarcity of fire-escapes
or other means of saving oneself from such a catastrophe. 
It is interesting to note that according to official figures the 
density of population on the lower East Side is three times
greater than the densest London quarters. 
From Catharine Slip, from the corner of South Street, 
53




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
where the San Catharine Mission is, or from the missionhouse at the corner of James Slip, standing under the sign
over the barred windows, "You must be born again," one
can see the spans of three bridges, Brooklyn, Manhattan,
and Williamsburg, from the same point. I know of no
more magnificent sight at night when the bridges are lit;
or early, on a misty morning with the gray buildings across
the river rising like giant shadows into the dusky light
above. It is worth while staying up late; worth while
getting up early.
i   Most of the Greeks living in this neighborhood are not
i only dark but also extremely pale. The air is thick. The
i houses are so close to one another, the rooms so small, so
i ldark, dank, and lifeless, that only the celebrated "lung
blocks" owned by one of our wealthiest churches can compete in darkness. The morning starts around three o'clock,
when the rumbling trucks to and from the wharves begin
to pass through the narrow streets, the wheels entangling
themselves in one another, the drivers cursing, the horses
neighing, the automobiles roaring, and above all rises the
shrill, hollow siren call from the incoming and departing
steamers. The day ends at midnight. Sleep is impossible.
On Cherry Street the Spaniards, the ones lately arrived,
have wedged in. This also is disputed territory. The
Spaniards envy the better homes of the Greeks, not daring
even to think of the luxurious homes of the Italians in the
neighborhood. One side of the street is inhabited by Q
Greeks, the other by Spaniards pressing further down.
The windows of the few Greek stores are pasted with
announcements of incoming and departing boats. The
54




-GREECE


windows of the Spanish barbers in the neighborhood carry
big show-cards advertising the Spanish Players performing
at the Daly Theater.
At 24 Cherry Street there is an open-vaulted portico,
which ends in a large square place, margined by the high
brick walls of adjoining factories. The cobblestones of the
pavement are in figured patterns, squares, circles, triangles,
of the most beautiful and perfect design. At night, when
the children of the neighborhood play in that walled in
square, it is as if Victor Hugo's Cour de Miracles had
suddenly materialized. Evidently the place has once been
a fortification of some kind. In daytime it is now an openair stable.
Through the district, to the squat Presbyterian Church
at Henry and Market Streets, there are beautiful old doors
and fine window openings, with bits of fine masonry work.
What pity that such beauty is lost in the decrepitude
surrounding it! 
This Greek district has not been Greek for very long.
The Greeks formerly occupied the Syrian section, and have';
been pressed out from there. Of twenty children below ) B
sixteen years, I have only found one that was born in this
country. It is only very recently that some of the Greeks i
have called their families here. The rest of them are still 
transitory, waiting until they have made a sufficiency to
return. Compared with other people, the Greeks have the'
smallest native-born population in this city. There is not' 
a single public library in the district, not one park or public j
playground, except Jackson Park, further down beyond/
the Greek section, and not one public bath. 
55




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


These are not the descendants of the old Greeks, not the
descendants of Plato, Socrates, Euripides, or Demosthenes,
but just Levantines, mixtures of a hundred races, that have
come to be called Greeks. But here afd there, among the
men, women, or children, there looms up a beautiful face,
as though carved in bronzen marble, the paleness of which
is accented by the shock of black hair, like a black onyx
crown on a golden figure. Here and there, while the children dance to the music of the organ-grinders, to some old
jazz or rag tune, one sees beautiful limbs that move about
more gracefully than any. There is my little friend Perisa,
the daughter of a barber in the neighborhood. I hope no
Broadway manager ever puts his eyes on her, to curb and
destroy the rhythm with which she was born. To see
Perisa dance in the mud-puddles formed by the depressions
in the pavement of the street, to see Perisa walk down the
sidewalk, to watch Perisa toss her head, is great enough a
delight for living near wherever she lives, so as to see her
frequently enough.
On Water Street is the store of Yanaides. It is in that
part of Water Street which is inhabited by Jews. Yanaides
is one of the oldest Greek inhabitants of that district. I
went to see him, desiring information from him about
several things of which I was inquiring. I talked to him
in English. He did not understand me. His Greek was
rusty. But he spoke a perfect Yiddish. This was the
language he had learned in this country. As his store is
open seven days a week, and he is very stout and heavy,
Yanaides has never been above Pearl Street and never
further than Second Street. The rest of New York he
56




GREECE


will see, as he told me, through the windows of the hearse
when they carry him on his way to the cemetery. He has
heard of the existence of a Broadway. He reads in the
Yiddish papers of things that go on in other parts of the
city. His family, whatever there is of it, is still living in
Greece, because, as he says, "It is too expensive to keep
them here."
"Every day it becomes more expensive," he complained.
"Things for which I pay wholesale here five dollars, my
family can get there retail for one tenth that price."
57




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


"But then why live if you do not expect even to return
home with your riches?" I asked Yanaides.
He shrugged his shoulders enigmatically, as if he would
say: "I myself do not know. But I merely go on."
J   "You must like the Jews very much to prefer living
among them?" I asked.
"Like them! I? I hate them! They are spendthrifts!"
Some years ago I met in one of the coffee-houses a young
Greek poet who had come to this country with the firm
desire to uplift his people. He was a young and handsome
chap, and his wife, equally handsome, had a beautiful voice.
The couple used to go from coffee-house to coffee-house,
where Greeks assembled, and recite and sing their songs,
after which they used to sell the mimeographed ditties.
They lived in a little garret on Roosevelt Street, where I
visited them frequently. The poet was a scholar, a reformer, and a nationalist. He cursed America for what it
had done to the Greek. It had debased him through gold.
The influence showed itself even in Greece, where all the
youth dreamt of America and the flow of dollars. Greece
was being transformed into a country of women. "Nurseries for America!" he exclaimed often.
I found the young couple one day in a very dejected
mood. They were making no headway. Their work made
but little impression on the people. They were poor,
hungry, starved. They were being mocked and derided.
The couple had some admirers in the neighborhood, notably
a Greek wholesale grocer, who proposed to them that the
poet and his wife should give themselves over to business
for a few years. He would let them manage one of his
58




GREECE


stores on Nineteenth Street below Avenue A, which is also
a Greek quarter in miniature, after which they might retire
on the profits made and saved, and produce poetry without
depending on it for bread and butter. They were tempted
to accept.
I saw my friend the poet a few years after that, greasy
and stout and sloppy, and his wife heavy from not moving
about enough, for she was standing the whole day behind
a cash-register, and I talked to them. They were still of
the same mind. Another year and they would withdraw
from business to return to poetry and uplift work.
I saw them again the other day, back on Roosevelt
Street, my poet considerably thinner than when I had last
seen him, with patches of gray hair on his temples, and his
wife haggard and worn out. They were again at it,
singing their poetry in the neighborhood coffee-houses.
"What has happened?" I asked my friend.
"Well," he answered, "after I had withdrawn from
business with enough money and a comfortable home, I
could not write poetry. It had all evaporated with the
smell of oil and cheese and kerosene. I had a nervous
breakdown. The doctor advised travel. And so we traveled until we finished our last dollar. Then we came to
live here again, and I am writing poetry as good as when
I left it off. And from all the years of business all that is
left to me is this." And he showed me his gray hair.
There is another man I know and love. Cresoveloni is
his name. He is a Greek philosopher, living on I do not
know what, dressed in the garb of philosophers of two
thousand years ago, speaking beautifully French and Eng59




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
lish, and he holds forth about his theories of life to the
truck-drivers and chauffeurs waiting their turn to line up
at one of the wharves. I have seen many a truck-driver
listening earnestly and sincerely to Cresoveloni's theories
about Plato, whom he accuses of all the ills of the world;
because he had corrupted the philosophy of Socrates, and
rationalized paganism out of existence. "Business, hurry,
bee work, all caused by Plato's philosophy."
At other times the philosopher, sitting on one of the
brownstone steps, between two garbage-cans overflowing
with the litter of the street, the streets of the district being
so very seldom really cleaned, is teaching the children
Greek. He makes them recite after him the Philippics of
Demosthenes. School fashion, the children repeat after
him, "Pedi che vechia Athena," "Children of old Athens,"
while bonfires made by the Italian boys across the street
crackle and spit sparks, and old mattresses and brokendown furniture are thrown with loud huzzas on the fire.
Above the hissing of the flames around, Cresoveloni's
voice, accompanied by the twenty or more voices of the
children, rises in one of the old Greek chants.
It is people like my poet friend and Cresoveloni the philosopher who will eventually do something, or are already
doing, to bring relief to the crushed and displaced souls in\
J that neighborhood. Not the settlement workers who come
to them bearing precious gifts in charity. They do not
understand and do not appreciate the struggle of these
people. It is not physical only. The factory-fashion
Americanizers who hold forth for a few minutes on the
corner of the street, before election, telling them what a
60
x,




GREECE
great man this and that and the other politician is, will
also have no influence on them. And not even the public
schools in the neighborhood, grindig    mLin       in   ~
the same fashion as sausages, all in the samecasi ngthough
from diffefrenttkids-o meats. Not from any of these
agencies will relief ever come, relief or understanding or
help in the assimilation process. Their own poet and their 
own philosopher speak to them in a language they understand, in a manner they understand, appeal to them with
an appeal that comes from the same source as their own;
appealing to them to be better Greeks first, that they may /
become better Americans. It is a crime that people should k.X
be permitted to live in such homes as they do. It is a blotch' -
on civilization that there should be owners who receive
rent, profits from such kennels. Razing these houses to 
the ground would be good Americanization work. Otherwise we merely desire multiplying peanut-venders, shoeshiners, petty merchants, waiters, consumptives, insane, /
and degenerates.
It is remarkable that commercially in this city the Greeks I
have competed only with the Italians. The two nations are 
competitors in every port of Europe. In the last ten years
the Greeks have practically appropriated the whole shoeshine trade of the city, indeed of the country. Wherever
there was an Italian is now a Greek. It is not because the
Italians have gone on to more remunerative occupations,
but because of the better padrone system, the hiring of
cheaper labor by the Greeks, that one man was able to buy
off ten, twenty, thirty, or more shoe-shine stands. They
import young boys from Greece, and deduct the cost of
6i




,     AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
the ship ticket from  the next-to-nothing salary. Yet,
living economically, these youngsters save enough to open
a:   their own shoe-shine parlors or stands, and import themselves one or more laborers, whom they in turn exploit as
mercilessly as they have been exploited.
The fruit-stand business of the city has passed from
the hands of the Italians into the hands of Greeks. It is
true that in this particular trade the Greeks excel the Ital-:'~  ians because of the numerous fruits in their own country,
3.   which they know how to preserve and keep beautiful and
fresh. The Italianss _ neither as economical nor as hardworking as the Greek. At first the Greeks opened comX  petitive stands 'wsith the Italians, underselling them. Having accomplished that, having driven them out, the Greeks
returned to the original prices and soon bettered them.
There is no competition among Greeks. Chains of stands
and stores are owned by one individual in a section of the
city.,'      The ice-cream parlors, and the small quick-lunch rooms
all over the city, and in practically every other big city of
the United States, are in the hands of Greeks, and have
been taken away from the Italians who were running them
until a few years ago. They are run according to an OldWorld system, by gerie or share partnerships, on a tenper-cent-of-profit basis. It is the system most in vogue
with the Greek business men here. A share of the profits
instead of salary stimulates business.
An example of this competition between the Greeks and
Italians can be seen on Ninth Avenue and Thirty-sixth
Street, where the Greek business men are trying to squeeze
62




GREECE


the Italian business men out of the street. Already the
Greek stores are more numerous. They compete by imf


porting the same products as the Italians, only they import
from Greece at a smaller cost, and are therefore able to
undersell the Italians in their own stronghold. The Italian
63




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


woman buys where it is cheaper. The Greeks also have a
much more attractive way of displaying their wares.
Greeks are born advertisers. They know how to arrange
the wares in an attractive manner. They are also more
adroit because of greater experience in foreign countries.
You will seldom find Italian stores away from the Italian,districts. But  reeks ao  id        districts. Their
people are too economical. The Italians spendteT'earningsin ood and clothing. There is no profit in selling to
one's own people, who know the exact value of the thing
they buy. There is not a block in the city that has not a
Greek store of some sort in its neighborhood.
There are two Greek newspapers in the city, the "Atlantis" and the "National Herald," both of them published
up town. There are also several magazines but very few
book-stores, for illiteracy among the Greeks is very great..
A young Greek who had been shining my shoes for several
years once asked me if I could read his language. I told
him that my knowledge of it was very rusty. Whereupon
he insisted that he speak Greek to me every time I came
in. A few months later, while he was alone with me in
the store, he begged me to read him a letter he had received
from his family. Remarking that the postmark of the
letter was six months old, I asked:
"Why, have n't you had that letter read to you before?"
"No," he answered me. "There is not a single man in
whom I have confidence to read that letter. I expect
important news from my family."
It turned out to be a communication written for his
mother by the public letter-writer of Piraeus, the port near
64




GREECE


his birthplace, in which she told him that their goat had
given birth to a kid.
"By golly," he remarked in English, "they must be
milking that kid now already."
"It may be a buck," I told him.
"No, no, it is a milch goat. Otherwise mother would
not write. It costs more to write a letter than a he-goat
is worth. She would have killed him for food."
With a little practice one can find out by the odor inn
what part of the city he is. The odors that rise from/
kitchens and restaurants are like signs in windows. They
Greek odor is one of olive-oil, cooked tomatoes, and garlic.
These three things seem to be the main foundation of their
cooking. The Greeks have also a different method of
brewing their finely ground coffee, the odor of which is
much stronger than the odor of the coffee ground in any
other Oriental district. There are not half as many desserts as there are, for instance, in the Syrian restaurants.
Food is considered a necessity, not a luxury. One gets
along with as little as one can, the Greeks being as frugal
as the Arabs or the Spaniards.
All the years of my association with Greeks here, Greeks
in all the walks of life, I have never seen any drinking
among them. Here and there a man would nip from a
little bottle of rachiu. Though the Greek liquors have the
best name in Europe, they are very little drunk in their
native country. They are made for salenot for home use.
I do not believe there are a hundred manual workers, in
factories or shops, among the Greeks in this city, althoughl
there are some thirty thousand living here. Still, wherever -
65                         ~'




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
the Greek may have his business place, whether it is a peanut stand at Bronx Park, a florist shop in Washington
Park or on Fifth Avenue, or a restaurant on Broadway, at
the close of his business he will go among his own people.
And when I say among his own people, I do not mean
merely among the people of Greece. For there are streets
occupied by Greeks whose home originally was in Alexandria, Egypt, and other streets of Greeks whose home was
in Cairo. The Greeks of old Stamboul, descendants of
' the Fanariots, the fathers of many of whom have under
/ duress accepted the religion of the Moslem, live separately
from the others. The Greeks from Corfu crowd in one
part, and the Greeks from Athens in another part of the
district. Really the Greek quarter is another repetition
of factional Greece, which though to us known as an entity
is only so geographically; while, racially, it is composed of! people as different from one another as any other people,might be.
So far the Greeks have contributed nothing to the spiritu" life of the country. They take no interest in the 
political life of the country, either. New York is to them
atransitory station on the way to... nowhere.


66




CHAPTER IV


ON THE EAST SIDE
NE can go to the territory where a particular
nationality has settled, and, traveling and inquiring, living there with them, listening to their
dreams and aspirations, analyzing their past, one can make
some approach to the truth of their being. But there are
as many different Jews as there are nationalities in this
world. Chinese Jews, Abyssinian Jews, Moroccan Jews,
Turkish Jews, Spanish Jews, Russian Jews, Rumanian
Jews, German Jews, English Jews; in short, Jews from
everywhere. And each variety of them is in itself a special  — '
group, with some of the customs its people have acquired  tj
from those with whom they have lived, above their own,  ing
which in the process of adaptation to those countries have
changed so they are not nearly as like one another as the
world supposes them to be. There is a vast difference of
character, modus of life, and behavior between the German
Jews and the Russian Jews, and still vaster difference
between the English and the Russian. And though the
Rumanian Jews are neighbors with the Russians and Austrians and the Hungarians in their homeland, separated by
a river on the one side, by an arbitrary frontier line on
another, and a mountain chain on the third, the difference
exists nevertheless. The Jews of one nation are friendly
67




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
or unfriendly with the Jews of a neighboring nation ac-.
cording to the friendliness or unfriendliness of the nation
with which they live. It is true that in a great calamity,
which endangers all the Jews as a race, they all come Y
together and act in concerted manner, but in the every-day
life there is anything but similarity, anything but friendli- -
ness, between Jews of different nationality. The dispute
as to whether the Jews are a race or a nation is still raging
among the Jews themselves. I dare not hold an opinion
on the subject.
One would like to think of the Jewish quarter in New
York, the East Side especially, as if it were Palestine.
The Jews have independence and freedom as if they were
in their ancestral homeland. They elect judges, senators,
congressmen, assemblymen. They practically have their
own industrial world, their own institutions, their own
hospitals, own charities, own libraries; they have their own
political factions and newspapers and magazines.
Yet one cannot help upon first going into the East Side,
say from the lower end of it, from as far down as Monroe
Street or Cherry Street, beyond which the Italians by slow
infiltration have formed one of their quarters, one cannot
help noting that that part of the East Side is really a vast
Russian territory. One hears on the streets a good deal
more Russian talk than Yiddish, and even the Yiddish the
people speak is much more corrupted with Russian words
than it is with English or any other language.
Briefly sketched, the history of the Jews in America is
as follows: A ship loaded a number of Sephardic Jews,
some three hundred years ago in New York, when New
68




ON THE EAST SIDE
York was yet New Amsterdam. They had fled the Torquemadas of Spain and gone first to Brazil, where' the
Portuguese then reigned. And as Brazil was not overfriendly to them, those who escaped the auto da fe embarked again, seeking a more hospitable shore, in the hope
that the Dutch living there might be more tolerant, as
tolerant as Holland had been to the Spanish Jew refugees.
However, fate was again unkind. Peter Stuyvesant was
then the head of the city, and he was unfriendly to all nonDutch people, and still more so to Jews. He argued in
council they should not be allowed to remain here, for they
were "the scum of the earth."
But the Jews weathered the first storm, worked hard,
and prospered. Fearing to antagonize the rest of the population, they built their huts a little westward, eastward,
and northward of the other settlers. Humble, hard-working, and saving, they prospered and multiplied and were
in time, as the attitude of the burghers toward them
changed, looked upon with more favorable eyes than at
first. The first cemetery they erected on Oliver Street
was frequently defiled by the neighbors and was the cause
of much dispute, although it was farther away from the
town than any other cemetery. It was practically at the
foot of a hill which rose then in that neighborhood, and
as near the marshes which were formed by the Kolk, the
sweet-water pond which is now Canal Street, and water
seeped frequently into the graves. It is because of that
that the cemetery was built on an elevation, the ground
being probably raised artificially so as to keep it above
the seeping waters.
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
Later on, when the English replaced the Dutch and the
city spread westward, the Jews followed the tide. There
is another cemetery, the Portuguese-Jewish cemetery,
at Eleventh Street and Sixth Avenue, back of a pastryshop, which shows that. But though the English had
treated them fairly, most of the Jews were Rebels and
warred for independence. They thought that their haven
of refuge should be an independent nation, and the wealthy
merchant Haym Salomon put all his fortune at the disposal of Washington. There were probably a good many
other merchants who had contributed to the Salomon
fund, although such a thing is not recorded anywhere.
With the 'first large German immigration, with the
forty-eighters of Germany, there came a number of German Jews, a very cultured element at first, among them
the lamented Professor Jacobi. In their wake followed
a merchant element from the same country, who, having
for many decades previously been trading with the Dutch
and English, were better suited to do business with these
people then living here, and laid the foundation of the later
great fortunes made here by the German Jews, first, so to
say, freeing themselves of many imports with which they
had burdened themselves. Clerks of the great merchant
stores, dealers from Leipsic and Munich soon afterward,
after coming here, saw the great opportunity awaiting
founders of a clothing industry in this country.
Humbly following the German Jews, mostly merchants,
there arrived great masses of Russian Jews, mostly working-men, tailors and weavers from the great Russian centers. The German Jews put them to tailoring work in the
70




ON THE EAST SIDE


factories and shops; the trade was sectionalized. The sewing-machine had meanwhile made its appearance, and with
its help the great factories employing hundreds and thousands of men were beginning to turn out clothing for the
whole country. Raw material was still imported from
England and Germany, but soon after that even this was
remedied, and the great worsted factories and cotton-mills
were established here.
Attracted by the reports of fabulous wealth and the
tremendous earnings of working-men, and because of the
persecution in Russia and in Galicia, waves of Jews, comparable only to the great exodus spoken of in the Bible,
left Europe to come to work here in the factories established by the German Jews.
Russian and Galician Jews, who had lived on a much
lower standard at home than the German Jews, saved considerably from their meager wages. In the first flush of
ambition they worked so hard that hundreds, nay, thousands, of them perished of the white plague from overwork, bad housing, and underfeeding, in the attempt to
accumulate enough wealth to establish themselves in business-sweat-shops in which the newly arrived immigrants
were exploited by people from their own villages, importation of cheap labor, child labor, sixteen-hour work-days
under the most impossible conditions, in rickety dark shops,
which were shops only in the daytime-for at night the
owner and his family slept in these windowless houseswith, as a general rule, no sanitary conveniences. These
people slaved and slaved, until the ones who had risen to
the top superseded the German manufacturers, underbid
7I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
them, undersold them, because they managed their labor
much more cheaply than the Germans, because they knew
how to exploit it better; and in a decade the whole industry
passed from the hands of the German into the hands of
the Russian Jews.
Parallel with the clothing industry, the women's dress
industry, the underwear and shirt industry, followed suit.
The Sephardic Jews who had first come here were overwhelmed by the first numbers of the German Jews, with
whom, because of their character, they were unable to
compete. The Sephardic Jew is too contemplative and
Oriental. The German Jews on arriving here had come
with their intellectual leaders. They had been as a matter
of fact already so thoroughly assimilated in Germany that
they were much more German than Jewish, and although
the German population here was not over-friendly to them
they were content and satisfied with whatever culture they
had brought with them. Heine, Goethe, Schiller, Grillparzer, and the rest of the German romanticists and poets
were their intellectual fare, next only to the rather perfunctory religious exercises in their temples.
It so happened that at the same time with the Russian
Jews' immigration, there also happened a great political
exodus. Those were the days of the nihilists in Russia, in
which the young Jews had played a very important role.
Escaped from Siberia, escaped from other places of exile,
from the mines of Saghalin and the mines of Kamchatka,
Russian Jewish university students, sometimes more Russian than Jewish, and at other times more Jewish than
72




ON THE EAST SIDE
Russian, thronged here, mostly because their relatives and
parents had preceded them, and sometimes because there
was no other place to go. London and Paris had meanwhile become like midway stations on the way to Mecca.
On the one hand the Russian Jewish merchants built up
a tremendous industry, and on the other hand from their
own midst those who had formerly languished in the
prisons of the czar for the betterment of the Russian


(aS~'~


muzhik now began to fight with the same energy against
the sweat-shop exploiters here. It was they who organized
the big trades-unions. It is they who are the foundation
of the big socialist movement in this city. Strike succeeded
strike; and strikes were not the polite affairs they are today. It was a question of life and death. A good many
73




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
of these intellectual leaders, fiery, idealistic, passed over
into the movements of other industries in which people of
other than their own nationality were engaged.
In this striving and battle they established their own
culture, a revolutionary culture in Yiddish. The English
language had meanwhile remained more or less of a mystery to them. One could address his own people only in
their own language. And as a good many of these Russian Jewish students had never known Yiddish, they set
about and learned it in order to be able to help their people.
Most of the editors of the Yiddish newspapers-and some
of them are still conducting these newspapers-learned
Yiddish in this country, because it was expedient, because
it was immediately necessary. The Russian Jews' philosophy is expediency. It was only in their intimacy that
they pursued the culture of their own language, which was
Russian. It is owing to them that Russian literature, Russian music, and Russian art had such a tremendous impetus
in this country.
To-day there are five newspapers printed in Yiddish,
I several Russian newspapers edited by Jews, several magazines, a dozen Yiddish theaters in Greater.New York
I (which Yiddish theaters are the source of all the Yiddish
theaters of the country); there has sprung up a whole Yiddish literature in America which at its best can hold its
head with any literature in the world. The East Side is
'the cradle of all this culture.
If you care to go from Greece to the Jewish down-town
quarter, the matter is a very easy one. Walk back to the
74




ON THE EAST SIDE
elevated and continue your way up to Grand Street, after
passing at your right the magnificent entrance to the Manhattan Bridge. Perhaps the best time to go there would be
toward evening, when the thousands upon thousands of
people arriving from all directions stream homeward in a
hurry. Seeing Manhattan Bridge with its magnificent
wide plaza, at the entrance, you might think it a good deal
too beautiful for the innumerable trucks that pass over it
in such a disdainful and careless way, with no regard, with
no sentiment for its pillars and porticos that rise so elegantly and eloquently from the flat, large base, turning
semicircularly around it.
There is great temptation to turn into Canal Street
because of the whirling color about you, the whirling color
and noise and bustle, and that imitation of Broadway on
the right- and left-hand side of the street, caused by the
stores and jewelry shops, and big electric signs everywhere.
But we shall come back here soon. Do not stop, for there
might be some religious procession at your left hand from
the Italian quarter just passing the other side of the street,
with children holding big lighted wax candles in their
hands and some ikon under a baldaquin of red silk carried
by little girls holding on to white poles.
Just walk on until you reach Grand Street under the
elevated railway overhead. Then turn to the right. You
are now exactly on the spot which was once the summit of
a hill from which the early settlers used to espy the country
about them when they were warring with the Indians.
From here one could have seen the whole island with the
undulating valleys and hills about it, and the little gurgling
75




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


streams that covered network-like the Manhattan Island.
Streams and outlets, fresh-water and salt-water ponds,
with the largest one, the Kolk, right at the foot of the hill.
There are tomahawks and stone axes still being found
every time foundations are dug in this neighborhood. It
must have been a good battle-ground for the Manhattan
Indians, for they were anything but a peaceful tribe.
Much of this spirit, multiplied a thousandfold, seizes any
one as soon as he enters Manhattan. It is something
hovering in the air, contagious, compelling.
We are now on Jewish Main Street. Both sides are
lined with push-carts which groan with wares of all kinds.
Although there are stores, large stores, selling the selfsame wares inside, which are also exposed in the windows,
the push-cart trade is brisker than the indoor one. You
will see e.pensive furs and jewels and art objects, fine
laces, antiques, pell-mell with holy prayer-shawls, rugs,
neckties, perfumes, and needles and thread, one near the
other, one on top of the other, in a continual riot of color;
thrown pell-mell as if some ship had suddenly been emptied
in haste after it had gone on the rocks. There seems to be
no order. The push-cart venders call out their wares in a
Babel of tongues, in the singsong of the Talmud and the
wailing of the prayer of the Day of Atonement. - Bearded
men and mustached men, blond men and high-cheekboned
men, with their wives, stout and thick, and their daughters,
bob-haired and trim, stand behind the glare of the burning
white light of the acetylene lamps, yelling, talking, calling,
and singing while dealing and bargaining with the customers pressing around them. One is carried along by the




ON THE EAST SIDE


wave of humanity pressing homeward and from all sides.
If one wants to buy something at a push-cart one holds on
to it as if firm ground in an attempt to get to the shore had
suddenly been struck.
A little further is the old Grand Street Theater, now a
moving-picture and vaudeville house, which had once been


77




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
too far up town for the Jews to go to and which is now too
far down town. Walk on further down. The tide lets up,
for the home-comers diverge into the side streets, and you
have more leisure to look at the expensive and beautiful
things in the windows of the stores. If you think you can
pick up bargains there you may be mistaken, for Grand
Street is as expensive as Fifth Avenue and Broadway.
But you may find better workmanship. Grand Street
knows, for those who buy the expensive dresses and gowns
have only yesterday been the ones who have made them in
sweat-shops and factories. Jewish women dress and jewel
above their means.
You come, on crossing the street, upon several bookstores, the finest one kept by Mr. Maisel, where you may
find things you cannot find in any other book-store. A
little further down is the Neighborhood Playhouse, founded
and built by the Lewisohn sisters. There may be a bill on
of which you have not read in the theatrical advertisements
in the papers. But you will after inquiry find out that it
may be so only because it is much too highbrow for Broadway. You will feel a different atmosphere on entering the
theater. The very sight of Joe Davidson's engraved tablets in the vestibule will compel you to know you are at
a theater that is different. Ibsen, Bj6rnson, Hamsun,
O'Neill, the best and the newest in the drama of every land
has at some time or other been played there by non-professional actors picked and trained from the neighborhoodactors very often superior to some of the most highly
praised talent on the professional stage. The incidental
music is a delight to hear, and if there is anything at all
78




ON THE EAST SIDE
to be said against it, it is that the place is all too well
patronized by the people from up town, by the wealthy
patrons and friends of the place, instead of being visited
by the people of the neighborhood. The East Side is /
educating the rest of the city to better theatrical fare. 
Turn again to your right and hurry through any of the
streets without much looking to the right or the left, until
you reach East Broadway, at the corner of Division Street.
There is a little coffee-house there which from the outside
looks in no way different from any other coffee-house in
the neighborhood. It requires no particular audacity to go
in and inspect it from the inside. Strangers are welcome.
I have been there so frequently that the third table from
the window has grooves in the marble top from the frequent resting of my elbows. Nowhere else am I as
comfortable.
Each patron of the place has his favorite table, to which
he comes to sit at fixed hours. The first one belongs to
Abram Raisin, the Yiddish poet. Gray-haired, dark-faced,
slender, his black eyes look at one piercingly, penetratingly,
then cover themselves with a misty film; transported as suddenly to another world as if he were in complete solitude.
He is undoubtedly at present the greatest living Jewish 
poet. His songs, set to music, are sung by all the millions
of people speaking Yiddish.
Although in his fifties, he is young and alert. The
entrance of a fair lady attracts his attention, and, leaving
his admirers at a table in the midst of a conversation, he
would approach her and inquire and cover her with a
thousand delicate flatteries.
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
The younger poets show him their manuscripts; what
they have done or are doing is first shown to him, and
Raisin reads everything before it has gone to print. He
offers his praise as frankly as he censures, pointing out
defects, arguing, teaching, as if the coffee-house were
some college and he the professor.
The table next to Raisin belongs to P^vid Pinski, the
dramatist, whose works have been translated into English.
Pinski is the very opposite of Raisin. He is shy and reticent, seldom speaking in praise or blame in public. Though
he has been here a matter of some thirty years, he will pick
his English carefully when he wants to say something.
Sholem Ash, the other payIwright, and one of the very
finest prosateurs in Yiddish, wanders from one table to the
other, laughing and talking with Raisin, but very serious in
his conversation with Pinski. Boisterous Sholem Ash,
always just returned from some long travel in Europe, will
have something to say, and he will say it thunderously; for
even in his individual conversation he talks as if he were
addressing an audience.
There are many other notables who come to that cafe.
It is the center of all Jewish culture in America. The place
was once owned by a lover of literature and the theater. It
is now run on a more businesslike basis; but tea or coffee
is five cents a cup, and the rest of the food, though good,
is equally reasonable in price.
One day on going to my table I found it occupied. I
exchanged glances with the waiter. The face of the intruder, a middle-aged man of the cast and build of a Russian peasant, was so stern and forbidding that Henry, the
80




ON THE EAST SIDE
waiter, did not dare to ask him to give up his place. I saw
he could not bring himself to do it.
For the first time in years I tried to drink my tea at
another table. But the tea was not half as good; the chair
was too high; the place was too noisy. The peasant-looking
man was staring vacantly at the white marble top, while
his tea was cooling.
Then the telephone-bell rang and the waiter called out:
"Matteo Bensman! Mr. Matteo Bensman!"
The man's face lit up suddenly. "Bensman," he said;
"I am Bensman."   And he went to the telephone booth.
Bensman! In Paris my music teacher had spoken to me
about a great composer of that name. Could it be that the
great Bensman was sitting there unknown to any of the
patrons? Why had no paper in town reported his arrival?
When Bensman returned to finish his tea I was sitting
opposite his place.
"Mr. Bensman?" I inquired.
"Yes," he answered, still standing up.
"I know you by reputation."
"So!" he exclaimed, and sat down, placing his elbows in
the grooves I had made in the marble top. My grooves!
And then we talked about many things. He had just
arrived from abroad, about a month before, and was encountering difficulty establishing contact with the powers
in the musical world of our city.
In I905 Bensman had won the Verdi prize with his oratorio. His "Opera Nova" was produced there with great
success. His violin concerto was played by every great
European master in the principal cities of the Old World.
8I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
His "Palestine," a symphony with ballet, was performed
forty times in one year.
But here the great maestro was neglected, as Wagner
had been neglected, as Mascagni had been driven to desperation. And he was sitting at my table and complaining
bitterly.
"And what have you done to come into contact with
conductors?" I asked. "Have you written to them?"
"I? I? Why should I do anything? They should know
I am here. It's to their interest." Childlike, he sulked
and pouted.
"They should know. They should come to look for me,
no matter where I am. They should come here to look for
me. I am the maestro. I am the creator; they are only the
middlemen between the creator and the public."
And so the great Bensman was waiting for GattiCasazza, Bodanzky, or Damrosch in that little restaurant
where he deepened the grooves I had made with my elbows
on the table.
And they did not come quickly enough. Matteo Bensman starved. He died the night they gave a first performance of his symphony at Carnegie Hall.
Around the corner from the cafe is the office of the
"New Truth," edited by L. E. Miller. Mr. Miller himself
is one of the first intellectuals who came here in the wake
of the great immigration of thirty years ago. Though a
university student, his first occupation in this country was
that of a shirt-sleeve maker.  Short, well built, with. ----piercing black eyes and a florid face, of which the wide
82




ON THE EAST SIDE


brow is the most prominent part, he laughed, telling me
the story:
"A German Jew taught me shirt-sleeve making. Satisfied after my third or fourth day of work, he called the
other people of the shop to see how well I had put in a
sleeve and said, 'The time will come when this young man
here will be able to make a whole shirt.' "
Miller is most certainly the best and wittiest and sharpest
editorial writer of the Yiddish press, which has since the
very beginning, when he was its father, multiplied like the
proverbial sand of the sea and stars of heaven. An essay
of his, printed in "The Century Magazine," called "A Nation of Hamlets," is a masterful study of the Russian
people. The past can be understood and the future
deduced.
Further down the street is the office of "Forward," the
socialist paper, of which Abram Cahan is the editor. Today those who have founded the paper and been its first
readers while working in sweat-shops and factories have
become themselves the owners of shops and factories. A
good many of them are very wealthy landowners, living up
town, kings of industry, but they still read the socialist
paper. It's a habit. They could themselves when necessary talk as much against exploitation as if they themselves
were still working-men. Yet they are the bitterest foes
during a strike, fighting the movement they started. Abe
Cahan, who still prefers speaking Russian to any other
language, came to this country at about the same time as
L. E. Miller. In fact, they were members of the same
83




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


group. Several of his books in English, especially "Yekl,
a Tale of the New York Ghetto" and "The Rise of David
Levinsky," though thoroughly in the Russian manner, deal
with the most despicable characters of American Jewry.
"Forward" is one of'the most feared papers on the East
Side. It can make or unmake people according to its whim
or appreciation. It can make and unmake plays. Woe to
the one who has ever antagonized it, politically or in any
other way! Two eyes for an eye and ten teeth for a tooth.
It is feared more because of its power than because of its
strength.
Further below is the office of "The Day,' a paper
founded by Herman Bernstein but now edited by William
Edlin, "Gentleman Edlin," as he is called in the neighborhood. Mr. Edlin was the friend of Jack London during
the latter's school-days. The readers of "The Day" are
those who have more or less assimilated themselves in
America and are still desirous of holding on to everything
that is Jewish. It has also a wide circulation among the
newly arrived intellectuals from Russia.
Next door to "The Day" is the office of the "Jewish
Daily News," the oldest paper, the first owner of which used
to sell his paper himself on the streets of the East Side,
after having written and printed it, meanwhile peddling
also other things. It is now one of the wealthiest papers.
There is another paper also, the only morning paper, the
"Jewish Morning Journal," which has been inherited by
the sons and nephews of the original founder. It is an
orthodox religious paper, the policy of which is directed
by Peter Wiernikl, whose book on American Jews in this
84




ON THE EAST SIDE
country is probably the most authoritative one. But these
nephews and present owners are hardly able to read what
is being printed in their own paper, ignorant as they are of
the Yiddish language. To the founder it was an ideal, to
them a splendid business.
There are also a number of other Jewish publications,
magazines, all clustered down together along East Broadway, within a stone's-throw of one another, forming the
Yiddish Park Row and facing Seward Park, across which
is the largest American public school in existence. Seward
Park is like an open-air forum, where from early morning
till late at night bearded men with their tool-bags under
one arm and prayer-bags under the other are discussing
the policies of the world, as well as the interpretation of
passages in the Talmud and the Bible; while the youngsters
of the neighborhood do their courting, between games of
baseball and football and foot-races that are being organ —
ized by the teachers from the neighborhood schools.
Across the park, at Jefferson Street and East Broadtvay,
is the brick building of the Educational Alliance, founded
by German Jews in the Russian Jewish district in order to
help the assimilation of the people. How far it has succeeded can be known by listening to the people talking on
the street. Like St. Mark's Church, which in order to
attract people has had to give itself over to the advancement of the arts, the Educational Alliance has had to do
the same. The youngsters of the neighborhood are much
more interested in art than they are in religion of any kind.
There is a very ably conducted art school in the Educational
Alliance. Abe Ostrowsky and Auerbach Levy are staff
85




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
teachers. Its drawing and painting classes are frequented
by hundreds of people in the evening, working-men returning from shops and factories, some still in their overalls,
anxious to work before they have taken their evening meal.
The whole neighborhood is teeming with young artists, the
future great artists of America. It is from this district
that came such celebrated singers as Alma Gluck and
Sophie Braslau, players like Mischa Levitzki, Max Rosen,
and Maximilian Rose. There is not a house, no matter
how poor it be, where there is not an easel, a piano, or a
violin, and where the hope of the whole family is not pinned
on one of the younger set as a future genius. Indeed, the
question in the neighborhood when two fathers meet is:
"What is your son?"
"A player of the violin."
"And who is his teacher?"
Or:
"What is your daughter?"
"A player of the violin."
"And who is her teacher?"
And teachers... but that is another story.
But this is only the intellectual Main Street of the East
Side Jewry. Back of that, on Henry and Monroe Streets,
and Cherry Street, Madison Street, and 'way down to the
East River, there live the sweat-shop workers of the million and a half Jews in this city. They sleep in windowless
rooms after a day of terrible toil. Airless, cold, underclothed and undernourished, they are the ones who form
the block-around line at every concert, shivering in the cold,
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ON THE EAST SIDE


wet to the skin in the rain, waiting to hear this or that or
the other opera, with which they are more familiar and
from which they derive more genuine pleasure than the
people in the horseshoe. Watch a performance of Heifetz,
of Mischa Elman, of Zimbalist, or any of the other great
players, and you will feel what great desires animate these
shop-workers.
On Second Avenue,          -
which is the white-light
district of the Jewry,
there are several Yidfarthest one is the Jew- By
ish Art Theater, which                r  l
has won its spurs with            I
our   English-speaking i
audience also. Half of
the audience of the Jewish Art Theater is frequently Gentile. It is in this theater
that its director, Joseph Schwarz, himself no mean artist,
has given plays by Andreev and Ibsen and Chekhov long
before the Moscow Art Theater had appeared. It is from
this theater that graduated Jacob Ben Ami and Celia Adler,
and this is where played the Schildkrauts, father and son,
and a host of others too numerous to mention. And Mark
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Schweide, undoubtedly the best character comedian, combines the profession of actor with that of essayist and poet.
Among the Jewish theatrical critics largely responsible
for the present better class of plays acted in the neighborhood theaters is I. Friedman, whose witty and trenchant
pen has been the cause of the elimination of many a trashy
thing from the theater.
But this is largely Russian Jewry only. Its district is
apart from the Jewry of other nations living in this city.
Below them on the other side of Grand Street and below
Avenue A is the Galician and Polish district, with men and
women who still believe in miracle rabbis abounding in the
neighorhood, the men with side-locks and long caftans and
the women with wigs over their hair, which was shorn the
day of their weddings. And farther up, encompassing the
district from Delancey Street to Houston Street and First
Street, and westward to Second Avenue, is the region of
the Rumanian Jews, distinguished from the others by the
number of cafes and dancing-places, and also by the
number of libraries, one of which, the Rivington Street
Branch, has the most complete Rumanian library in the
city.
At Greenberg's and at Moskowitz's you can hear Rumanian music, haunting melodies, tripping dances, while
you eat the highly spiced food waiting for Mr. Volstead's
amendment to be forgotten. But nothing is as typically
Jewish, typically because it is of all nations, as the marketplace under the Delancey Street Bridge or the push-cart
section of Orchard Street. Everything under the sun litters the sidewalks and the push-carts: expensive overcoats,
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ON THE EAST SIDE
pianolas, jewelry, radishes, onions, silk shirts, stockings,
corsets, and even the most intimate wearing apparel is sold
in the open by the bargaining dealers, whose asking price
is at least three times the selling one.
You can pick up some beautiful Russian candelabra and
other antiques, brought by families who have discarded
them in favor of some trivial New-York-made thing. Bits
of rugs and lace, Paisley shawls and other things, brought
from the far corners of the earth, are to be found there;
not always at reasonable prices, for there have been too
many amateurs who have descended lately upon that district, and the venders have learned the value from the
increasing demand for such things.
The Delancey Street Fish-market on Thursday or Friday gives one the impression that all the seas in the neighborhood have suddenly been emptied upon the slimy cement
floor under the bridge. Fishmongers of all nations are proverbially alike. Fat, ruddy, coarse, and quick. Although
it is in the Yiddish district, people come from everywhere
on Thursday and Friday. The wares are hawked in a
hundred different languages, shrilly in every possible voice,
by men and women and children.
The poorest of the poor live right and left at the foot of
the bridge, on Goerck Street and Lewis Street, where the
lower floors are occupied by rag-sorters, with the stench of
all the garbage-cans of the world in one's nostrils, and in
dilapidated houses, from which the next habitat is one of
the consumptive hospitals of the country. Really it would
be a great public saving for these institutions if they were
to obtain means to raze that part of the city. It could be
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dumped into the barges of the D. S. C. at the near-by East
River to great advantage, with the garbage of the city.
Lewis Street was originally an Irish district. When the
Jews began to occupy it there were sanguinary battles, until
by sheer numbers and because they offered higher rents
the Irish had been pressed up further. But now the Italians
are doing the same thing the Jews have done. They are
pressing further and further. Upon the painted signs of
former Jewish grocery stores can still be seen the Hebrew
letters under the Italian "Grocerias."
It would be idle to say that this district has only furnished artists and cultured men. It has also been the home
or the stamping-ground of gangsters and thieves, some of
whom have already paid their debt to society. The wonder
is that there have not been many more, if one takes into
consideration the conditions of life there. I know of one
home in which the eldest son is a doctor of theology and
the youngest son is a pickpocket, while of the two daughters
one is a celebrated pianist and one a street woman. I know
another home where out of nine children three are prominent business men, three died in consumptive hospitals, and
the last three moved away with their families to Riverside
Drive and have become charity workers.
The Henry Street Settlement, the Rivington Street Settlement, and all the other settlements in the neighborhood,
because of the poverty of the newly arrived, bewildered
immigrant, can do very little. There is little one can say to
men and women who work in impossible sweat-shops twelve
hours a day for less than a living wage, or to people who
have to make out of their homes a workshop, carrying from
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ON THE EAST SIDE
the large factories bundles of trousers and coats to finish
at night. There is little that can be told to a child who has
to help his mother to work on coming from school. Charities only pauperize the people they try to help. The only
thought of those who still have strength after a few years
of living in this country is to get on commercially and get
on financially, and to run away from where they are. The
Jews in Harlem, the Jews in the Bronx, on Morningside
and Riverside Drives, are the ones who have left all that
behind them. It is they who have built up the Bronx from
a wilderness into a borough. It is they who have built up
the tremendous apartment-houses on Riverside Drive.
A million and a half of people of one race, though of
different nationalities, in one city. All the faults of a
whole nation are to be found within them, as well as all
the virtues.
The Moroccan and Greek Jews living under the elevated
along Allen Street, Allen Street where the sun never penetrates and the night is only a little darker than the day,
and which was not long ago a red-light district, have apparently little in common with the other Jews. They have
their own synagogue, their own newspaper. They are in
touch with the original Portuguese Jews who came to this
country first and who have now spread all over the city,
the home of these Portuguese Jews having originally been,
around where Washington Square now stands. These
Moroccan Jews, looking as unlike the other Jews as if they
were not of the same source and origin, indeed looking like
Moroccans themselves, are slowly filtering westward,
spreading toward Third Avenue, mingling with the Ital9I




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ians with whom they seem to be nearer akin than with any
other people.
Of the numerous synagogues in the neighborhood there
are many which were once churches, and were abandoned
by their congregations, who moved further up town, driven
by the Jewish invasion. A number of these churches of
different denominations, though still nominally in existence,
have less than a handful of active members. Indeed, St.
Mark's Church, until it had got on to the spirit of the
people about it, had had its pews practically abandoned and
empty. To-day with its statuary in the churchyard and
its pointed facade which makes it look more like a medieval
French building than a modern one, its pews are steadily
occupied by those who think more of their own intellectual
advancement than of religious segregation.
Hemmed in between the East River that runs from the
south to the east of the city and that other river of steel,
the elevated, that runs upward on Third Avenue, in that
voluntary Ghetto called the East Side, is perhaps the best
reproduction of what Jerusalem was once and what Jerusalem might be. Here are to be found men of the type of
Isaiah and Jesus, preachers, self-immolators; and the Sadducees and Pharisees who pray on the street corners are
here represented by the soap-box politicians holding forth
each near the other.
As after a long thirst the traveler is never satiated with
the water he has suddenly found, so have these East Side
Jews never satiated themselves with their newly granted
political rights. Socialists, Republicans, Democrats, and
Progressives, Anarchists, Bolshevists, Communists, ists of
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ON THE EAST SIDE
all kinds are in continual dispute, shouting imprecations
across the street to one another from the platforms or the
rear ends of trucks at election time. And yet those same
elements, so vitally interested in the politics of the country,
find their real recreation in dreams of the times in which
they lived in the countries of their birth. There is a Hungarian coffee-house in which Reigel, the celebrated Gipsy
violinist, is playing Hungarian songs to those who did not
fare any too well in Hungary. At the Russian Bear, on
Second Avenue and Thirteenth Street, they crowd the
place to hear the Russian Balalaika Orchestra play the
Russian folk-songs, the songs sung by the same muzhiks
who only yesterday killed so many of the relatives of the
ones singing them here now. At Moskowitz's on Houston
Street the Rumanian Jews sing at the top of their voices
the songs of the country they left for more than one reason.
There are Polish music-halls where the Jews of Poland
gather and sing. There are book-stores, carrying books
exclusively each of a particular language, the language of
the people in whose neighborhood the book-store happens
to be. And though there are other Ghettos they are but
the arm stretched out, grasping at something, while the
body remains there on the East Side.
In the hectic going and coming, in the continual whirl
and noise, and the babble of buyer and seller, there is too
much movement for any sensation of sadness. Houses of
that district, which only until yesterday were mostly dilapidated old shanties, are slowly growing up and becoming
modernized, owned frequently by those who formerly lived
in the dark basements of the selfsame places.
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And stretching across the river, through the Delancey
Street Bridge and under it, the arm still goes further,
rounding up on the other shore as if it were merely across
the Jordan, making of the quiet and peaceful Williamsburg district in Brooklyn another wing of the great
Ghetto. It pulses of its own life. Poverty there is not as
prominent as in any other district. It is less than one
generation between shirt-sleeves and shirt-sleeves. True,
it vomits forth from time to time the worst that is in it.
You may have to guard your pockets tightly while passing
along its densely populated streets, but they are densely
populated because of the toiling many going back and forth.
The East Side, which to many, and to most until a few
years ago, was akin to the slums of a city; is now fast becoming something else. Poverty is absorbed much faster
here than elsewhere.
Already one can see the strong mixture of several peoples; propinquity is doing its work. Children of mixed
marriages, marriages between Italians and Jews, Poles and
Jews, Russians and Jews, and Americans and Jews are no
longer a rarity anywhere. The curious mixture of black
hair and blue eyes, and of blond hair and black eyes, of
high cheek-bones and round chins, is becoming more and
more an every-day occurrence among those people. But
the other half never seems to count with such children.
No matter what the mixture, they still remain Jews, partly
so because they are considered such by the people with
whom they come in contact, and partly because of other
reasons too manifold and complicated to discuss here.
Though the up-town and the Riverside Drive Jews have
94




ON THE EAST SIDE


abandoned the outward appearances by which they were
commonly recognized, eager as they are to assimilate themselves with the rest of the population, the street inhabited
by them is as easily distinguishable from the next street
inhabited by another nation as if one had suddenly passed
from one country into another. Nay, even when the people
are not on the street a glance upward to the windows would
surely in some way betray the building which houses the
children of Israel.
A million and a half of Jews of all nations and of all
degrees of culture, assembled in one city, most of them
thrown in one district. A whole race, with all its elements,
the worst and the best, most of them, though yearning for
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a new condition, still longing back to the old one, the
present generation nothing but a midway station between
what has been and what is to be.
The first Italian ice-wood-coal cellarman who located on
Cherry Street gave ample warning to the neighborhood,
which was Jewish, of what was to follow. A few months
later an Italian grocer moved in. And shortly afterward
the old, bearded fellows of the neighborhood dared not go
out after dark. The Jewish barber, who knew how to give
a hair-cut without violating the ritual by shortening the
side-locks, also had to make room for a mandolin-playing
son of Napoli la Bella. And in a year all the street, except
one block, was thoroughly Italianized.
In that block, very near the East River, lived Nathan
Berman. He was there before the invasion. In fact, he
was left over from a group of immigrants of which every
one had become wealthy. He alone had put the left foot
first when he stepped on these shores. Not a single thing
that he had undertaken but went to the rocks. His old
friends had tried in vain to lift him out of the mire of
poverty. His feet were as if glued to misery. It got to be
known that there was no use helping him. A curse preceded and followed and hung over everything he did or
intended to do.
It seemed that the same curse also followed his children.
Though they were healthy and of the average kind, they
had no luck. In school the teachers paid no attention to
them. The other children did not chum much with the redhaired Bermans. When Bessie was sixteen and worked
at shirt-waists she was idle half the time. Strikes and city
96




ON THE EAST SIDE
ordinances closed up the shop. She was not to be thrown
away either, Bessie; but the boys did not take to her. She
was without a sweetheart until she was eighteen, when she
married a widower thirty years older than herself.
The Berman boys, two of them, had no better luck. Sadeyed, slow, plodding printers both of them.
Mother Berman had no time to think of her misfortune.
She had too much work to do. She kept the rooms so clean
one could mirror oneself in everything.
Nathan Berman sold coal and ice to the Jewish families
of his block. When he was not delivering a bag of coal or
a chunk of ice he was chopping wood for kindlings. He
had settled down to such work for the rest of his life. He
never smiled, never laughed. In fact none of the Bermans
ever smiled or laughed. This may even have been the cause
of their misfortune.
As the Italian invasion became more pronounced, the
Italian coal and ice men began to take over the cellar trade.
In the summer they threw crusts of watermelons after
Nathan Berman. In the winter they bombarded him with
snowballs. The little slate and pencil that hung on the
cellar door for customers to write their orders on during
Berman's absence disappeared every day. It was nothing
but ill wind and curses and attacks from the invaders. The
Jewish coal man became even sadder than before. He was
continually surrounded by enemies. Every non-Jew was
his enemy. He began to fear for his life as well as his livelihood. It was with great difficulty that his block held its
own.
Then one day Nathan Berman wandered out from his
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dark hole into the sunshine. It was a cold and crisp
morning. The windows of the Italian stores of the neighborhood were resplendent with colored glazed confectionery set between green pine twigs. The street had taken
on a different air. Joe, the terror of the neighborhood,
greeted him with a friendly, "Hullo, you old Jew!"
A little further Berman's business competitor, a swarthy
Sicilian, stood in front of his cellar in his best clothes and
smiled at him.
"Hullo, Nathan; come have a drink." He dared not
refuse.
In the coffee-house everybody was friendly. They
slapped him  on the shoulder.  They begged him to
drink with them; and before he had 'left the place
Marino, the barber, had filled his pocket with long, black
cigars.
Berman walked out into the sunshine again. There was
something gay and green in every window. There was
something friendly in everything and everybody. He
thought of his wife as he-lit one of the cigars that were
given him.
It was a gift. He had never before received a gift.
People had helped him with loans, and even if he had never
paid them back, the debt was still there.
He had never made a gift to any one. He had given
when it was his duty to give. He had never experienced
the pleasure of giving-giving only for the pleasure of
giving.
A smile dawned faintly on his face. He felt so nice and
warm. He had never made a gift to his wife. Of course,
98




ON THE EAST SIDE


he provided her with what he could, but he had never
given her anything unasked.
"Oi! O Oi  Oi!" wailed his wife a little later, when
Nathan Berman appeared in the doorway with a few
packages and a Christmas tree under his arm. "Oi! Oi!
Oi! He has betrayed his faith!" she yelled as she barred
the way.
The neighbors assembled. Nathan Berman tried to explain but only succeeded in smiling. It transfigured him.
That red beard of his shone as if it were oiled with gold.
His wife looked at him. His children looked at him. They
did not recognize him. They had never known he could
smile!
He smiled as he begged them to take his gifts and the
Christmas tree. But nobody wanted to touch any of it.
Still smiling, he slowly descended the stairs to see his friend
Marino, who had given him the long black cigar he was
smoking.
It was midday, and I was on Second Avenue, watching
some excavation. There were mysterious thuds within the
empty bowels underneath the street-drillings-hissings,
hoistings, and the "hey-ho" of men pulling at a rope.
Suddenly a whistle blew and gray overalled men appeared
from below, peered upward like so many prairie-dogs,
blinked in the light, wiped the dirt off their hands on their
trousers and the sweat from their brows with a movement
of the back of the hand, and sat down, some on thick pipes,
others on the edge of the sidewalk, to eat their tin-pailed
lunch.
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Meanwhile two young fellows had erected, at a little
distance from each other, two portable speaking platforms
and were busy performing the usual faker tricks to attract
a crowd from the hurrying host of people rapidly filling
the street.
One of the fakers was pulling unending lengths of colored ribbons from his mouth; the other one was playing a
funeral march on a trombone. In a few minutes each of
them had the nucleus of a crowd round himself. The ribbon-pulling gentleman had the youngest of the crowd, ones
who would be the first to arrive at a circus.
He closed his mouth with a sharp bite, swallowed hard,
worked his Adam's apple up and down comically as if he
were choking. When the giggling had subsided sufficiently
this wiry faker uncoated himself in one movement, appearing in a sleeveless athletic shirt, rubbed his hands, and
began:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am so pleased to see a young
audience to-day. Why is it that the other kind goes where
a funeral march is played? Why do they think of death?
It is because they are sick. Why are they sick? Because
they have not taken care of themselves. Why have they
not taken care of themselves? Because they do not know
how. I am the only man in whose possession is the
Ponce de Leon elixir of youth, of eternal youth. It is not
a drink, it is not a medicine  "
As he spoke his hand worked a cardboard box open, and
in a second he had gripped the handles of a gymnastic
apparatus and was demonstrating its possibilities.
I00




ON THE EAST SIDE


"Five minutes of this every day, and you will be eternally
young and happy."
"My brothers," shouted the other faker, "my brothers,
I am just out of a sick-bed. I have been ill all my life, and
did not know it. Then, last year, I broke down and the
doctors gave me up. I should not be here now. I should
be buried seven feet below the ground. But I met an old
Hindu, and he gave me something that saved my life. And
now, brothers, because it has saved my life I have decided
to devote myself to saving yours. You are sick, you are
ill, all of you. Not one but-"
"Only fifty cents and you shall never lose your vigor,"
shouted the ribbon-pulling man. "Here, thank you, thank
you." 
"You are sick, you are mortally sick and don't know it.
I don't charge for the medicine, only for the bottle, fifteen
cents. If any one of you has a bottle- You are all sick!
Maybe consumptive, as I have been. Asthmatic! You
can't sleep. Thanks. Fifteen cents. Who wants another
one? Here, thanks. You are all running fast to your
grave. You don't digest well. This medicine will give
you health, will save you," hoarsely shouted the funeralmarch man and grabbed his trombone again.
"Shut up!" shouted the other one. "What you sell is
good for the dead. Nobody needs medicine. What you
need is exercise, proper exercise. Shut up. Ladies and
gentlemen, this little apparatus selling for only fifty
cents   "
And so it went on for about an hour. The two men
IOI




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
debated at a distance about gymnastics and medicine, each
winning away from the other's crowd those who were
convinced for prevention and those in favor of cure.
And there were some who had bought both medicinebottles and gymnastic apparatus. Meanwhile the two enemies shouted at one another, mocked each other, and it
looked once as if they were coming to blows.
The lunch-hour was dwindling rapidly. The crowds
thinned out. At the stroke of one the two men folded their
platforms, put on their coats, and walked away in opposite
directions.
A little later, entering a little lunch-room in the neighborhood, I saw them at the same table eating. I sat down
next them.
"What do we do to-night, George?" asked the athlete.
"To-night? Well, let's see. It's Thursday, eh?"
"Yes, of course it's Thursday."
"How about socialism?"
"How many books do we have?"
"About a hundred."
"You take it, then."
"And you?"
"I '11 do the corn-removers."
"Too bad you have n't got another book to sell against
mine!"
"Books is rotten, anyway. I hope we get rid of them
soon."
Then each counted his money from the hour's sales.
"Sixty bottles."
"Fifteen Sandorfs."
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ON THE EAST SIDE


"Rotten."
"Rotten."
"Do you know those fellows?" I asked the waiter a little
later, as the two were leaving the place.
"Them? Them is two brothers. The best men in their
business."


103




CHAPTER V


CHINA
F    ROM Russia, if you were going up through Siberia
and Manchuria, the road to China is not a very long
one. If you are retracing your steps through Canal
Street, going westward, have another look at the Manhattan Bridge to the left, tear yourself loose from the
pullers-in of the clothing stores, and turn left again to
Chatham Square, which had once been a suburb of New
York. The dilapidated building of the old Thalia Theater,
once the pride of the city and now a colonnaded shambles
of stone and brick, housing cheap Italian vaudeville, stares
you in the face. Don't let curiosity tempt you into Baxter
Street, where is the open-air market of old clothing. Go
straight to Mott Street.
In the morning little Chinese children play in front of
the gilded pagoda-like house-fronts; children with faces
like cameos cut in amber, as unreal to the immediate surroundings as if they were little dolls that had been stuck
in for bizarre effect. There is an air of utter abandon and
freedomi about these tots-so very much unlike the preoccupied mien of children one meets anywhere else, the
unreality is still more heightened. Unafraid and undaunted, they look every one square in the face with their
almond-shaped, downward, well-set-apart brown eyes, certain that no one would molest them. For nowhere in the
I04




CHINA
world are children brought up as freely as among the
Chinese. A passing man in blue silk cassock and felt slippers, with drawn face and a long cue hanging on his back,
looking the very personification of evil, stops in front of
them and watches their little game on the stoop. He raises
his hands within the long sleeves, crossing them over his
breast, and remains long to gaze at them, smiling and
encouraging them. Then he reaches into his pocket and
throws them coin more liberally than any other children
ever get from parents or uncles. The manner these children receive the gifts, as if they were due grace, is another
indication of the relation between children and the older
ones among the Chinese. It is not only because there are
so very few children in the Chinese quarter, the immigration laws having long forbidden Chinese to come with their
wives here; it is characteristic of the attitude of the Chinese to children everywhere under all conditions. In the
few Chinese households I have visited, most of them very
poor, where there are children, it is safe to say that seven
tenths of all the family's earnings are spent in luxuries for
the little ones. The garb of a six-year-old little girl costs
fully five times as much as the whole expense of dress and
clothes of the father and the mother. Silks and satins in
profusion, and the best of everything at all times.
Mott Street is a narrow, curving street, on which the
lower floor of every building houses a business of some
sort. Numerous novelty shops, with all sorts of Chinese
and Japanese embroidered wares, kimonos, robes, fake
jades, chop-sticks, dishes, tea-sets, dolls, knives, and a lot
of other similar things the "rubberneck" coming to visit
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Io6




CHINA
Chinatown in one of the sight-seeing cars is bound to buy
as souvenirs. Between those large stores, right and left,
are other stores catering to the Chinese of the neighborhood. In the windows are nondescript things of which no
white man knows the use, but which under the expert
handling of the Chinese become excellent savory dishes.
Even the fresh vegetables in the windows are strange
things to the average visitor.
Farther down is Doyer Street, where the Doyer Midnight Mission is. It was up to not long ago the Chinese
Theater. The inside of the theater was left much as it
had been, with the broad wooden benches disposed in geometrical figures on a slight incline toward the blind stage.
Instead of the actors we now have the droning of the
preachers. Next to the Doyer Mission is the Baptist Mission House and the kindergarten, with carved teak-wood
tables and paper lanterns hung on the low ceiling, and the
walls decorated with dragons and serpents in bas-relief
with green eyes and mysterious golden manes. I wonder
whether the good these missions do will ever offset the
value of what has been! I wonder whether Kindergarten
No. 30 has anything it can teach Chinese children except
the tyranny of the older over the younger... and a few
English words. But-it was pointed out to me that they
are becoming civilized. A door from the Doyer Mission
House is a real-estate agency, conducted chiefly by Chinese
brought up in the American way. The paper posters on
Pell and Mott Streets used to be announcements of plays
and concerts; to-day they are real estate ads.
There are numerous places especially conducted for the
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benefit of a sight-seer. For a consideration, one is shown,
in a room of a rear house, rows upon rows of beds on which
lie the stupefied opium-smokers. But most of these men,
and sometimes women, are hired by the hour to simulate
conditions Mr. Poodle and Mrs. Grundy are going to denounce in their home town on their return from wicked
New York. They are created specially for their benefit.
Opium-smoking goes on of course, but not where it is
shown to sight-seers.
There used to be one place where the murder of one of
the guests was staged nightly. It was done with such
realism the guests would fly after having paid for dinners
they had only ordered but not eaten, afraid lest the police
on coming would arrest them. Some white woman would
get up from a table and begin to execute an Oriental dance.
Dancing, turning, she would reach the pianist and put her
arms languorously about his neck and draw him to her lips.
One of the Chinese, somber-eyed, supposedly her lover,
acting as if he were half stupefied with dope, would rise
from another table to tear her away from the pianist.
There would be a scuffle between the white woman and the
white man and the Chinese; a knife would flash in the
wicked hand of the yellow man; there would be a loud
scream, and the woman would fall to the floor. The
attendants of the place would drag her away into a back
room. A few other Chinese would spirit away their compatriot while the hubbub created by the screaming visitors
and guests would be at its loudest. The pianist would continue to bang away on his instrument as though nothing
had happened. And the visitors, thrilled, scared, horrified,
Io8




CHINA


would run to the doors, not without leaving their watches
and pocketbooks in experter hands than theirs. It is no
longer staged as frequently, but occasionally it still takes
place to satisfy those who come for thrills in that district.
When the tongs-those secret societies of the Chinese,
the difference between one and another unknown and nonunderstandable to anybody else-when the tongs are fighting a few bullets are whistling past the narrow streets, and
a man or two may be found lifeless in a hallway, but the
Chinese quarter remains outwardly the quietest in the city.
A hundred Chinese, walking back and forth silently along
the walls in their felt slippers, so thoroughly merge with
the surroundings you neither see nor hear their movement.
The quiet color of their clothing so well fits in with the
grayness of the sidewalk and the dull-brown reddish color
of the outer walls they seem not to move from one place
to the other. Their mincing, effeminate gait, while the
upper body remains stiff, makes one think they are automatons, not human beings. At a joss-house, while a hundred
men are conversing with one another passionately, or praying, it is so quiet one could hear the buzz of a fly in the
middle of the heavily scented, teak-wood-walled room.
The upper floors, above the business places in the district, when they are not occupied by soul-saving stations
and mission-houses, are mostly club-rooms of the Chinese.
A man can go in any time he chooses and sit all by himself
in a little corner and doze off the little poppy that he has
put into his pipe, or seek that inner quiet, that dumb quiet
within himself, so precious to the children of China.
The few households with families and children are
I09




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


usually on a floor above, or in one of the rear houses on Pell
Street, Mott or Doyer Street. There is my friend Me
Tom, who has married a white woman who for years tried
to convert the heathen Chinese to Christianity. She has
more than become converted herself to her heathen religion.
Me Tom had given in to her ways at first, and eaten her
corned beef and cabbage, and permitted her to furnish
the apartment as she
A     d\N'~ ~ ~k\ chose, with ugly mahogany sideboards and
--- 0  ~      brass beds and French
mirrors and cretonne
even put in a davenport
in the dining-room. It
looked for a while as
though Me Tom    was
becoming reconciled to
the taste of his American wife. 'He never protested, and let her do what she wanted. Little did Mrs. Me
Tom know, having come from Boston to New York to do
uplift work, that her husband was maintaining a separate
bachelor apartment just across the street, which was furnished in his own Chinese way, with low-burning lights
and round, teak-wood tables and backless round taborets
incrusted with mother-of-pearl. For three years Me Tom,
kept on furnishing that apartment with the beautiful
things from his own country he could lay his hands on.
And when it was all finished he asked his wife to come and
IO


f




CHINA
see it. And even she, antagonistic as she was to everything that was not Anglo-Saxon, had to admit her heathen
husband had furnished his apartment much more beautifully and much more comfortably than the one she had
arranged. And they moved over into Me Tom's establishment, abandoning the other one to another mixed couple.
For such things happen only too frequently. Those who
come to convert become converted themselves. There are
three little Me Tom children now. The oldest is nine years,
a little girl, blond and slender, looking very much like her
mother except for the somewhat slanted eyes and oversensitive hands. The other two children, Chris and
George, look exactly like their father. So far the only disagreements in the family have been because of the children,
the mother not being inclined to let them have as much
their own way as the father intends them to have. The
other day Me Tom told me, "Little childlen in Amelica vely
unhappy." And pointing to a Chinese woman walking on
her heels because of the stump-like feet that have been compressed in bandages since birth, he added, "Feet of Amelican woman not nice."
There are of course other couples in the district not as
happily mated. Those of the Chinese who cannot live alone
and were unable to get women of their own kind have married colored women, particularly from the West Indies.
The offspring of such couples have inherited the worst
there is in both of them, with the cunning of the one and
the cruelty of the other, with the rapacity of the one and
the shiftlessness of the other. The Chinese have no confidence in the result of such mixtures and keep away from
III




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


them. But there have been other mixtures, particularly
with the Italians, which have proved more successful; and
there is one Chinese man, Chon Loei, who, claiming he was
arChinese Jew, had married a Russian Jewess. They also
have two children, boys both of them, named by the mother
Israel and Moie. And although they look very much like
their father, with only a little of the mother in their noses,
they speak the most perfect Yiddish I have ever heard
children speak, and even sing Yiddish songs. Their mother
has lately become a very active Zionist. It is side-splitting to see these two children among the other children,
and hear their noisy singsong talk, so different from the
speech of the others. The mother sends them both regularly every day to a Hebrew teacher in Henry Street.
that they may become men of Israel.
As you come out from Mott Street and go into Doyer
Street you will see the walls plastered with yellow papers
upon which are printed a hieroglyphic script running downv ward. These are the announcements of tong meetings and
other meetings that are being called. It is part of the
social life of the district, a small world in itself, with its
J own problems and troubles, leaders, statesmen, and gossips. The forward young Americanized Chinese use these
bill-boards for free real-estate advertisements.
J   Most of the houses of the Chinese district are owned
by Chinese themselves. Through whatever hands these
houses have once passed, they are now Chinese. The
architecture, the material used, the laced iron of the balconies and fire-escapes, the projecting garret-hoods from the
wooden shanties, the painted brick, the narrow crooked
112




CHINA
stairs, the dark hallways, and the flagstone yards, it is all
Chinese; transformed, rebuilt to suit the general taste.
No other people have changed their environment as much
to suit them as the Chinese. The Catholic Church of the
Transfiguration on Mott Street is architecturally out of
place and looks like an intrusion. How much more in taste
with the surroundings is the balconied building housing
the joss-house, the house of public worship, facing it!
Below the joss-house is the home of the Chinese Free

I — 3




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
masons. There seems to be no contradiction between the
two institutions. The efforts at Americanization are evident in the large signs over the American Citizens' Alliance, but they are nullified by the Chinese National League.
Wherever one Chinese lives is China. He carries the
country, its traditions and customs and laws, with him.
If you are lucky enough to see Rose, otherwise known
as the Angel of Chinatown, and she can usually be met in
one of the soul-saving stations, she will conduct you into
places where many of her friends live, where you will see
more of the intimate life of Chinatown than can be seen on
passing the street-except for such sights as are especially prepared for the sight-seer. It is true that on Doyer
Street and on Baxter Street there are several opium-joints.
I have visited one several times myself, and counted eight
white people out of eleven in the place; people whose names
are very frequently blazoned in the papers as principals of
this and that. There they looked more like disemboweled
creatures from whom everything that had a semblance of
real life had been taken out. Their brains seemed to have
been scooped out from within their skulls. Their eyes were
bleary and partly closed. The twitching lips, and the arms
hanging over the edges of the narrow cots on which they
lay down, made them a picture of contemptible distress
portrayed to horrify. The Chinese lay in a trance without
in any way giving the impression of disgust and horror
given by the others.
When I asked one who knew what caused the difference
of appearance between the opium-smokers, I was answered:
"Because the Chinese know and the white man does n't.
I14




CHINA


White man hog. He eats much. He drinks much. He
smokes much."
You cannot fail, from whatever side you enter Chinatown, to see the missions of the neighborhood. I do not
know how many souls they have saved to justify.their
existence or the cost of maintenance. But it were interesting for them to know that the Chinaman sees no objection to worshiping at six different shrines at the same time.
There are such who are Confucianists, believers in Laotsze, Mohammedans, and Christians at one and the same
time. How they can be all that together is clear only in
their own minds, and cannot be made clear to ours; no
more than a Chinese puzzle is as readily understood by a
white man as it is by a yellow one.
Chinatown in New York is also the central traffic-station
of the underworld commerce of narcotics that goes on
throughout the continent. No matter where it is carried
on, in California, in Canada, in Florida, or in Mexico, the
trails forever lead back to the gates of Chinatown, where
they are lost never to be found. For the one who would
divulge a single thing is through some peculiar method of
the Chinese immediately found out and silenced forever.
Of the many crimes that have been committed in that
district, very few of the guilty ones have ever been found
out. The justice of the Chinese is meted out by themselves
as swiftly if not swifter than any other justice. Most of
these crimes are committed for commercial reasons. The
honesty of the Chinaman in his direct dealings with people
is too proverbial to need any repetition here. Any Chinaman can get any reasonable amount of money from any
I 5




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
other one, by paying usury, without giving any other guarantee for the payment than his word, which is also his life.
Failure to pay is not aired in the courts of justice. There
are swifter means than that, and the example is a much
more efficient one.
I once ducked several revolver-shots while walking with
Chuck Connors through Mott Street. They were aimed
at a man passing along the street. Connors looked at me,
and, with his knowledge of the people more intimate than
that of any one, he told me, "That man will never reach the
corner of the street."
And he did n't. For before Connors had finished his
phrase the lifeless body of the man was dragged into one
of the hallways. There was no outcry. There were no
screams. Several Chinese passers-by, or lookers-out of
windows, or whatever they may have been at that particular moment, turned their backs immediately and entered
their homes. The street became deserted for a few minutes. By the time the vigilant policeman from the corner
had rushed upon the scene with his menacing club and
drawn revolver, there was nothing to be seen.
Connors turned around and told me: "You won't say a
word. I vouched for you."
A little later I asked my companion why and how he had
vouched for me, since.it had been a chance meeting between
us two! Connors answered, "I gave them the sign."
Still later he explained to me that he had made several
signs with his raised arm after the shots had been fired.
The dead body was never discovered. It was disposed of
Chinese fashion.
i I6




CHINA
There are fewer Chinese wearing their Zues down their
backs than there were a few years ago. This Ws due to
the change of the government in China, permitting thei
to do so. At first only the youngsters fell in with the new
order of things. But slow as the Chinese are to accept any
new thing, this particular reform they hastened to adopt as
rapidly as our young ladies accepted the knee-length skirts
a few years ago. The fights, the revolutions in China have
their echoes here, echoes and partizans.
But Chinatown never looks as much like China as at
New Year's or at some other Chinese fete, or when a new
treaty of peace has been signed between the different warring tongs. Then the colored paper lanterns are hung
across the sidewalk from every floor of the houses, bits of
quaint paper masks appear in the windows, silks are hung
from here and there, blank cartridges are being exploded,
and the fireworks for which the Chinese are justly famous
the world over are being let loose everywhere, changing
the narrow, crooked streets into a fairy world. From the
windows of the joss-houses, club-houses, and restaurants
float curious, plaintive, screeching melodies from the zitherlike instruments which carry the melody, while the people
sitting around it sing harmonies to the song.
Now that peace has been established, members of the
different tongs play fan-tan together; fan-tan and not mahjong, which, although widely known as the Chinese national
game, has been denounced to me as a game foreign to the
Chinese people. Playing fan-tan a man may lose his laundry establishment, for which he had worked twenty years,
in a few hours, and depart outwardly as peacefully from
I17




AROUND 'IHE WORLD IN NEW YORK
the table as if tke game had been one in which a toothpick
was involved; for he has the hope of winning another
laundry back very soon. As a matter of fact, Me Tom
explained to me that the Chinese laundries over the city
are never sold by one Chinaman to another, but only lost at
fan-tan.
Here, too, the same as in the other districts of foreign
population, the Chinese known to us under one name live
in groupings of people of different cantons. Because of
the numerous Chinese dialects, totally different from one
another, very frequently Chinese do not understand one
another as well as they are commonly supposed to. I was
having dinner one night with my friend Me Tom and
remarked that he was trying to speak English to the Chinese restaurateur, which the other man understood with
great difficulty. I thought at first Me Tom did it for show,
or because he wanted the other to learn the language of
this country, but Me Tom explained to me: "He comes
flom a fal-away canton in China. I do not understand his
language."
Me Tom is a very emotional and temperamental gentleman. More than once he had refused to serve me tea or
even admit me to his sanctum when I was accompanied by
people he did not fancy at first or second glance. He simply
barred the door of his little place, which is a-tremble every
time the elevated train stops at Chatham Square, and said:
"No, no, no have tea, no have nothing, no, no. Come
other day."
Or he folded his arms, standing near the counter, if we
118




CHINA
had succeeded in getting by him at the door, looked askance,
and intrenched himself behind that Oriental impassiveness
which is refractory to all appeals. And when Me Tom
does not want to do or answer something, he does not know
a single word of the English language. He is deaf and
dumb then. The best and the only thing to do is to leave
the tea-house as graciously as possible. For it is known
that Me Tom's place is not altogether a public place. He
serves only such people as he likes.
The food, the tea, the manner of service, the price, are
altogether a matter of emotion, of temperament. Ever the
color of the dishes is a matter of Me Tom's choice. He
has more than once refused to serve tea, to a friend-at my
table, in a cup of the same color as the one from which I
drank. Explanations? If you care to have them in Chinese you will be welcome-sometimes. In English he gives
none.
So, as you see, we have to deal with a peculiar sort of a
man, and the story here offered may sound as strange as
the man himself is. But then you must remember that Me
Tom is a Chinaman of refinement, a man of taste, a philosopher and an artist. Thought is Me Tom's art medium,
as words to a writer, sound to a musician, color to a painter,
or solid mass to a sculptor. Me Tom is an artist philosopher. Would there were many like him!
The day previous to the one I am telling about, Me Tom
had refused to serve some friends of mine.
"I don't like them," was all he had said.
As I was sipping my tea the following day, I decided to
I 9




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


turn the tables on Me Tom. Calling him over, I pointed
to a group of gentlemen from the Flowery Kingdom sitting
at another table, and said:
"Me Tom, I don't like them. Put them out."
"Why don't you do it yourself?" he answered.
"This is not my place, Me Tom."
"Ha, no. But you may do it if you
~*!  ~care to," was Me Tom's rejoinder.
^   >1 ~  He waited a long time and looked
i^ j^ iso searchingly into my eyes that I felt
very  uncomfortable.  Finally the
^'fi,   guests left of their own free will to
play a little game of fan-tan elsewhere.
Me Tom first cleared the table they
had left. The work done, he closed
the door so as not to be disturbed,
made some tea for himself, and came
to sit next me on the upholstered teak-,! ^   ^  wood bench under a Buddha, close to
the wall. A flickering movement in
the incense-bowl had revived the insinuating odor and submerged the scent of sandalwood
which had dominated till them. It was Me Tom's way of
letting me know that he demanded absolute attention.
I gave it, and here is the story he told me.
There is a province deep down in the interior of China.
It has not yet been penetrated by whites. And in that province they once had a judge who was very severe.
But one day the people rose against that severe judge
120




CHINA
and decided to kill him and choose another judge. So one
man said to them:
"Choose the wisest. One who has lived with his body and
mind. Not one who has never sinned, but one who has
sinned and repented and therefore knows that if he should
have paid for his sin with his life he could never have repented."
Then an old man asked to be heard. Said he:
"Let us keep the same judge. But dispense with the executioner. Let the judge also execute his judgments."
And so the following day the executioner was sent away
from the palace and the province, and the judge was vested
with a new power.
That day he ordered a man flogged. Fifty lashes was
the judgment. But having given as far as the third one,
and heard the shriek of the culprit, he let the bamboo fall
from his hand, and was so faint that he had to be carried
home.
When he returned to his bench the next day he was a
much milder man, and people heard him admonish like a
father where formerly he would have ordered the most
cruel tortures.
Then one day a man committed such a heinous crime that
the populace of the whole province clamored that his life
be taken to pay the penalty.
Tremblingly the judge pronounced the fatal sentence.
The people were determined that the judgment be executed.
The judge, sword in hand, went down to the subter121




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


ranean execution chamber, but returned with head bowed
so low that it seemed as if he and not the other one were
the culprit.
"Let him live another day," the judge said.
The following day the judge was ill.
On the third day he first heard all the cases before him.
Then again he thought of the criminal in the dungeon. But
he could not act; he could not. Not that day.
"Oh, let him live another day," he said to the people.
Another day, and another day, and another day, went by.
The judge's hair turned gray, his hands became feeble, his
knees weakened, and he could think of nothing else but
of the man he had to kill. And whenever he postponed the
duty for another day, it was as if he were postponing his
own death by that length of time.
"Oh, let it be for another day," he now b1egged each morning. He pleaded with his wives and his children, and the
passers-by on the streets, and the people who came to him
for judgment. At last life became such a burden to the onetime severe judge that he died.
"And for all I know the man who has committed the
heinous crime is still alive," added Me Tom, as he looked
me straight in the eyes.
"When I object to some one's presence I put him out
myself, friend. I execute my own judgments."
There was too much incense-smoke in the room; so Me
JTom opened the door again, and went to wait on a high
stool behind the counter. His immobile face, his heavy
small eyes, and the rigidity of the pose he assumed told me
plainly that my friend wished to be alone, all alone with
122




CHINA
his memories and thoughts and the Confucius statue up in
his private room over the restaurant.
But at the door Me Tom called to me:
"Man should be more like to a match than to fire-stone.
He should burn and consume himself when he produces
fire."


723




CHAPTER VI


LITTLE ITALY
HE down-town Italian quarter extends on the east
as far as Forsyth Street, with small infiltrations
into Rivington, Houston, Stanton, and Delancey
Streets, southward to Pearl and Oliver Streets, and west
from Bayard Street through Elizabeth, Mott, Mulberry,
and all the streets that run westward to Seventh Avenue,
and northward to about Tenth Street, encatpassing almost
all of Greenwich Village, which was, and still is in a measure, the American quarter of New York. On Bayard Street
the Chinese quarter fringes off. The sign of Chon Tu Fa
swings in the wind against the sign of the Italian levatrice,
the midwife, next door to him. Wherever a few Italiar
families come to settle, among other evidences the sign of
a midwife springs up immediately. And so if by some
order all push-carts and names on windows were to be suddenly wiped out, _these levatrice signs would be a perfectly
safe guide through an Italian quarter.
In former years, before the first generation of Italians
had somehow acclimatized itself to conditions, a night visit
through Little Italy was not a very safe one. There was
too much revolver- and knife-play in the neighborhood.
Whether it has been due to stern polite reprisals, education,
or Americanization, or perhaps prohibition, I do not know,
124




LITTLE ITALY
but the fact is that Little Italy, which furnished such a
large percentage of the criminal elements of the city, is
no longer entitled to that infamy. And if prohibition has
done one thing, it has emptied the streets of the Italian
quarters of their dangerous gangsters and of their houses
of ill fame and their votaries. One is no longer pulled in by
women standing in open hallways, offering sensual pleasures within, in the same tone of voice hardware or fish is
offered in Turin or Naples. It is, I am told, much more
difficult and expensive than it ever was to hire a gangster
for some dirty work. These women and men have settled
down somewhere to a much more lucrative and safer profession. They have become respectable citizens, building
homes for themselves and raising families. Prohibition has
done all that. Bootlegging has reduced the number of prostitutes and gangsters in New York City.
You go down through Park Street, sloping down from
around the corner of the Church of the Transfiguration on
Mott Street. Mysterious Chinese signs hang on both sides
of the street. You come upon the open square of Mulberry
Park, deserted in the daytime, and the place of trysts at
night. You are in Little Italy, Elizabeth Street, with
fruit push-carts on the sidewalks, groaning heavily with
all the colors; with deep cellar stores and cellar restaurants,
and the odor of fried fish and oil; the cries of the venders
in that open-mouthed Latin of the southern Italians are
hurled at you. In the upper stores are banking-offices and
export-houses combined with cheese and olive wholesalers.
The tooting from a boat on the river near-by completes
the illusion that you are in Naples. The men, tall and blue125




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


eyed, with coal-black mustaches and sonorous voices, and
little tufts of hair over the forehead, are mostly Neapolitans. One can easily distinguish them from the rest of the
Italians. There is something gay and easy about them,
something of the blue sea of their homes. Even as they
call out their wares, whether fish or peaches, apples or
oranges, dates or figs, they interpolate little phrases from
the Italian canzonettas, "0 Sole Mio" or "Santa Lucia."
Go as far as West Houston Street, or better still to
Bleecker Street. Don't pass hurriedly by the former residence of Thomas Paine, the Revolutionary patriot. The
wash of several Italian families, colored, patched, and clean,
fluttering in the wind, hangs from the window he used to
lean out of when tired reading and smoking. Bleecker
Street was once a great residential center. It is now just
like any of the shore streets of an Italian port, with music
stores combined with barber shops, and dressmaking shops
combined with grocers. You may want to stop at one of
the music stores where some new canzonetta is tried out.
There will be no objection. These canzonettas are turned
out by the hundreds weekly, sentimental love-songs, or
clever ditties about the eternal subject of mirth, mothersin-law.
Pass under the elevated station and hurry down further,
until you come to Elizabeth Street, then turn back to your
right. Pass the old Paradise Park, with its brick-inclosed
walls, and you are in the heart of one of the most extraordinary industries of the city.
All that has come out of garbage-pails-old forks, old
knives, broken plates, collar-buttons, old shoes, worn coats,
126




LITTLE ITALY
trousers, vests, women's dresses, all that has been discarded
by the rest of New York as unfit, as unusable-is being
hawked and sold by men dressed in the very things they
buy and sell. It is here that those who have lingered too
long in the Bowery come down to change their "good" coat
for a worse one, so as to get a few cents in exchange. Vests 
and hats are being sold from head and body. Shoes are
being taken off from feet and sold; pocket-knives, cigarettecases, everything that can bring in a penny. Things that
have been stolen, small things not valuable enough to be
pawned, are being disposed of in this way. Across from
the power-house, there are several saloons where all these
buyers and sellers come together, and in the back rooms the
old clothing exchange, where things are thrown in a balance-scale, weighed, and paid for across the counter, remind one of the old Moulin de la Galette and the old Place
Maube of Paris. The smell of dirt and sweat, and a hundred other indefinable odors, the appearance of the
merchants and the sellers, drive one out into the street,
despairing of ever breathing fresh air again. The whole
street is lined with stores and sweat-shops where bearded
old men, bent and half blind, work away to put these old
things in a wearable condition, whereupon they are shipped
south, after being washed and steamed, for the colored
trade.
Turn around and go into Mulberry Street, where both
sides are lined with fruit-stand push-carts. What strikes
one first is the beauty and the variety of the vegetables
and fruits sold there in what is supposed to be one of the
poorest quarters. Peaches with blooms on, and the softest
127




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
and the most luscious plums, the largest apples and most
beautiful pears, the cleanest salads, are sorted and handled
in the most expert and delicate way, lying near and between each other so as to form a color-scheme-the most


\%"\I 
A\-.' 


I\


II,%


IAM


11


unusual vegetable leaves and roots, coming from the Italian
gardens around New York and grown especially for the
people here.
Whether winter or summer, the Italians of the district
live much more on the street than in their houses. In the
summer the houses are almost completely deserted; mother
128




LITTLE ITALY
and children, mostly very numerous broods of small ones,
wait outside on the steps, or at the hallway, until the last 
minute before the return of the paterfamilias. And as one
looks up and sees the green growth on every window-sill,
it makes one think these houses serve no other purpose but
to hold these flower-boxes on the windows, and the fireescapes to serve as poles for the wash-lines hanging between
them. It is as if the street were in continual holiday, with
the wash of all nations unfolded and fluttering in the wind.
And all the time there is the cry of the vender, and the
canzonetta sung by the idle merchant, and the sound of the
mandolin and the guitar coming from the numerous barber
shops in the neighborhood. Oh, these barbers! Each one a
cousin of Caruso and a nephew of Verdi.
You may still be able to get a passably good glass of wine
in some of the restaurants. It is extraterritorial as far as
prohibition is concerned. And a good many Italians speak
now with contempt of those who left the country after
the enactment of the Eighteenth Amendment. Those fools
feared not to be able to get their glass of wine with their
meal, and did not know how they could live without it. I
met an old friend of mine not long ago who had returned
to Italy then, swearing never to come back to America.
When I asked him what he was doing here again he answered:
"Me did not know 'prohibish' was one of the best laws
for the poor in this country. You no need no lis', nothing
at all."
That is the manner most of the Italians view prohibition.
The best law for the poor... bootlegger.
I29




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
It is in these houses that for years the first inrush of
Italians thought the bath-tub was a coal-receptacle, and
wondered profoundly when the real use for which the tubs
were intended was explained to them. They were outraged
to know that children could not go to work before they
had reached a certain age, and resented any interference
when they had transformed the homes they were living in
into sweat-shops, mother, grandmother, and the whole family, to the little suckling, working at something or other.
And until a branch of the Garment-workers' Union had
been specially formed from them, ameliorating conditions
of work and standard of living, I have no doubt that many
diseases, the white plague especially, were frequently carried in the garments finished in these decrepit homes. To
this day hundreds of homes are really sweat-shops, factories where Fifth Avenue lingerie and the finest of silk
gowns are being made for less than one twentieth of the
price obtained for them in the big stores.
It is to be expected that the Italian native population,
although it has shown a tremendous advance over the native
population of any other group till now, will be reduced,
though the number of levatrices in the neighborhood is increasing. But I have heard a woman singing the praises
of one levatrice as follows:
"She is one good levatrice. I know twenty women, her
customers, and in five years they did not get one child. She
one good levatrice."
The priests of the neighborhood thunder and cry.
Greater powers are competing with them. There is an
inverse relation between the increase in the cost of rent
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LITTLE ITALY
and the birth of children. A family of ten or twelve, living,/
in a three-room apartment, is not considered overcrowded
by the Italians themselves. On visiting one family some
time ago, I expressed wonder to the lady of the house that
she was able to live with eight children in a two-room-andkitchen apartment, whereupon the good woman exclaimed:
"We no live in all the apartment. My husband's sister
she got four children and she live with us. Half my children, half this room, and half the other room." 
"And how do you get on?" I asked.
"Not so very bad," the lady replied. "Only my sister-inlaw she take in boarders. They got children. That makes
too much noise, a little bit." Of course rent in the Italian
quarter is, considering space and service, higher than on
Riverside Drive.
The saying that children should be seen and not heard
is not a dictum of the Italians. Their children are more
frequently heard than seen. There is a continual shouting
up from the children on the street to the mothers at the
windows and vice versa. There are no curtains to Italian
windows. The people are too Latin for that.
There is very little effort on the part of the Italians to
learn the language of the country. Being over a million
in the city, they are so complete an entity that they do not
find it necessary to learn English. Indeed, those who have
any business with them must learn Italian, if they intend
to get along at all.
The colored people living in Carmine Street speak Italian
as well as the Italians. There is an occasional intermarriage between Italians and colored people, as well as be13I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
i tween Italians and Jews, the latter because of their proximity and because of the garment factories abounding in
I the neighborhood. On a visit to Little Italy with my friend
Maria Lombardi, who was in search of some canzonettas,
we found a colored man, black as pitch, in the store. And it
was he who tried out the songs for her, singing them in a
full-throated voice, phrasing the Italian much more roundly
than the best singers at some of our operas. Upon expressing her wonder she was told the son of Ham was partly
Italian.
Of the hundred societe, mutual-benefit lodges, political
groups, named after famous prize-fighters and politicians,
most of them are joined for the handsome burials they
give their members. Not an Italian family but is indebted
to its neck for burying some one. If you are lucky enough,
on turning from Mulberry Street to Bayard Street,
you will hear from a distance the blare of trumpets and the
roll of drums, playing some funeral music. The musicians
march ahead and are followed closely by the members of
the societa to which the deceased belonged. Some of them
are dressed in gala clothes, and others are in their workinggarb; they have been just able to jump out for the two or
three hours that it takes to accompany the deceased to the
Brooklyn Bridge. Then comes the gorgeous-looking hearse
and a number of caparisoned carriages, with the undertaker acting as major-domo. Burial seems to be held in
much greater honor by the Italians than either birth or marriage. People canvassing for such societe are continually
putting forward the number of members who, because of
the heavy fine imposed upon those who refuse, will eventu132




LITTLE ITALY
ally follow the deceased one, and the number of carriages
after the hearse, as well as the funeral decorations over
doors and windows.
Each street has its own patron saint, sometimes several
saints, for whom festas and processions are being given at
stated days of the year. The particular street, or part of
the street, as the case may be, is then decorated with flags
and lanterns, and rows of colored oil-lamps overhead. The
image of the patron saint is placed on a high pedestal
against a wall, with tens of big, tall wax candles burning
right and left, and a large collection-box near-by. The
societa which had arranged the festa, to which every merchant and every family has contributed, each according to
his wealth, is marching to the blare of fanfares in front
and in the rear of the procession. Different floats, naively
and childishly crude in their arrangement, pass back and
forth. Behind the holy image, carried in a baldaquin by
bareheaded men holding colored wax candles six feet high
in their hands, are carried stretched-out flags for the collection of different moneys supposed to go for this, that, or
the other charitable institution.
There is great rivalry between the organizations in
charge of the different saints' processions. Many of them
are really nothing else but grafting gangs to whom the
religiosity of the ceremony is nothing but an excuse. To
hear a discussion between such opposing gangs, when the
respective saints are being reviled, is a Homeric treat.
Architecturally, Little Italy gives the impression of a
town that had suddenly been left by the native inhabitants
following an invasion. The invaders, having occupied the
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I


houses, let them go to seed, not knowing how long they
were to remain there, lest the vanquished suddenly return
to their own homes. The whole district presents the most
pell-mell throwing together imaginable. There is not the
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LITTLE ITALY


slightest order in the alinement of the streets or in the residential qualities of the adjoining houses. Crumbling-down
brick houses lean on wooden barracks which were erected
temporarily and have remained so for the last forty or fifty
years. Shanties lean on million-dollar industrial buildings.
Crooked archways built on ten-foot frontages bulge in
the center like a card-house ready to fall.
On Broome Street near Elizabeth Street, where the
Ogden Hall once was, between a saloon and a fire-engine
company, stands the beautiful Salvatore Church with windows painted loudly, audibly, in red, green, blue, and yellow, as if it were a Village tea-shop. The Broome Street
Tabernacle, a most magnificent brick building, ornate and
aged, faces Police Headquarters on Center Street, and
leans on houses that seem to have been blown there by
some wind from the east. From a distance the tall, angular
buildings, erected on narrow triangular strips, look like
toys built too tall, ready to topple over at a first shake.
There is St. Patrick's Church on Mulberry Street, going
through and occupying a full block to Mott Street, squat
and square, as though sitting on the ground, surrounded
by a brick wall with iron-clad doors pierced through the
brick that time has somewhat worn. The broken windows
of the colored panels, running all around and almost to the
ground of the edifice, the leaking roof, the patches of repair on the cracked walls, leave one with the feeling that
this church was built within a fortress, as though in inimical
territory, though the few trees within the fortress are the
only ones in the neighborhood. Fantastic, the cracked toy
building, as if erected by the hasty hands of some children
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playing at building, stands a little brick house on the corner of Houston Street leaning on the church. The windowframes are oblique; the doors are hinged on a side, with a
little toy balcony over the first roof. And as if to mock
the whole thing, the enormous Puck Building, with its
severe and magnificent doorway, looms up near-by. Crowding one another as if drunken and afraid of falling, trying
to support one another, stand all the houses on Mott Street
from one end to the other. A little further up is Colonnade
Row, in Lafayette Street, from one of whose houses President Tyler married Julia Gardiner of Gardiner's Island.
John Jacob Astor was once a resident of Colonnade Row.... Colonnade Row, like the architectural survival of
some remote past.
There is a passageway about four feet wide between 311
and 313 Lafayette Street, between two tall buildings. Half
the bootleg traffic of the quarter is transacted there. Not
very long ago, the meeting-place of the C. K. Club of the
neighborhood was here. The C. K. Club, which I joined
many, many years ago, was the Captain Kidd Exploration
Club. It was composed of about twenty-five Italian boys
of the neighborhood, who met regularly every morning
with demountable spades under their coats, to go down to
Liberty Street, to the supposed site of the home of Captain
Kidd, and dig under the buildings in search of hidden treasure. Those were exciting days, and my little friends hoped
to some day... but time is cruel, more so than age..
When I last visited the C. K. Alley, most of my old C. K.
"brothers" were there, only in spats and expensive fur
136




LITTLE ITALY
coats, with goggles and leather gloves, while the running
engines of their big cars were waiting for them outside.
They were still out for treasures, and they had found an
easier way than to dig for the ones under Captain Kidd's
house, the house of our dreams.
"Where is Pietro?"
"Pietro was shot dead," Moreno informed me.
"And Joseph?"
"Joseph is in jail."
"And Amato?"
"Amato is all right."
"All right," also were Cordova and Charles, and Nardo.
And "all right" meant he was in the Volstead business.
Next to C. K. Alley is Shinbone Alley, the dirtiest shame
of the whole city. One can literally wallow in dirt to his
knees after a rainy day. A suffocating stench vapors from
the ground on the warm days; children play in the gutter;
the little mothers in charge of the tots, left with them by
the mothers who have gone to work in the factories
ground, play in the dirt, and black flies cover their pale,
sickly faces. It is just across from the Speyer Hospital
for Animals. Really there is much greater concern for 
the welfare of dogs in this city than for children.
As if to show that there is still something of old romance
and adoration left in the hearts of men, there is a brick
building on Lafayette Street with the word "Mary" in big
gold letters over it. Cleveland Place is a little square between Kenmare and Lafayette Streets, just facing the
office of "La Folia," the humorous Italian weekly. It still
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presents some appearance of orderliness, for it was until
not very long ago inhabited by a survival of the great number of French people who had once occupied that district.
As early as seven o'clock in the morning numerous children wait on the door-steps of the public schools in the
neighborhood. Their parents having gone to work, there
is no other place for them. For their delectation and edification there are daily dog-fights in the street, between
dogs of rival kennels, kept in the cellars of the neighborhood.
The beautiful Church of Our Lady of Pompeii, with
most magnificent round panel windows, is a near neighbor
of Jimmy's Restaurant, from which emanates so much interesting news in the daily papers-news of battles and
fights and scandals. It is not very far from the Garret,
now Grace's Tea-room, in which Washington is supposed
once to have lived. It is in this garret that the first Village
newspaper was published. When a fire destroyed it partly
a few years ago, many original manuscripts of Wilde,
owned by the man who inhabited the place, were burned,
as well as several original drawings by Aubrey Beardsley.
To-day the Garret, once a meeting-place of artists of all
branches, is the rendezvous of those who come "to see" the
Village.
Then there are the dark streets of Mercer, Greene, and
Wooster, dark and deserted at night; for they are occupied
mostly by factories in which work fourteen nationalities
elbow to elbow, hatting, dressing, and clothing the rest of
the country. The streets are completely dead after nightfall
except for the hollow sound of the hickory club of the
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LITTLE ITALY
night-watchman on the sidewalk, an occasional fire, and the
unsupportable odor coming out from the windows of the
factories being cleaned for the following day's work.
By reason of a thousand causes, little barracks on ten
or twelve-foot frontages separate huge buildings. There
are empty places in which all the refuse of the neighborhood is being thrown.
Coming upward, there is little Congress Street, back of
the old Republican Club on King Street, with an old brick
stable that was built in the days when this was still Greenwich, and horse-carriages were a necessity and in style.
A minute's walk from there is a beautiful row of buildings
erected by Frenchmen, with love for vine-covered fronts
and lace portals, now occupied by Dante Alighieri pastryshops, pleasure-clubs, and such like. Across from it, on
Macdougal Street, where the invasion has not completely
destroyed all the old homes of the only American quarter
of the city, stands a new row of studio buildings, just
below Bleecker Street, in which some of the old architecture of the neighborhood has been revived. There are any
number of magnificent doorways and windows in the vicinity that should be retrieved and conserved, which are
now being hacked to pieces every time one of the old buildings crumbles down and a new one goes up in its place.
Such doorways and windows will never be made again.
At the left of the entrance to Macdougal Street, on
Spring Street, where is the Butterick Building of granite
and a wooden shack facing it, is Vandam Street with its
gay small red-brick houses, with white doorways and cleanlined windows and arches on the wide street. Little flowerI39




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


boxes on the window-sills of the houses, greening and
blooming, outside in the summer, inside in the winter, seem
to smile at one the hope that more of them will yet come.
These houses had already gone to pieces a few years ago
when a movement sympathetic to the return of old things
in Greenwich Village revived them. The houses were rebuilt or put in order, with a feeling for the old lines that
had been. But of this,^ r3^5 ~  later when we shall pay
our visit to America.
At the Antica Rome
-  EC ar u sCaruso is in the lobby
of  the  Metropolitan
Opera   House,   and
whose Dante adorns the library of Columbia University.
A hundred of his other works adorn different buildings and
institutions in the United States. Tall and swarthy, handsome, his voice rings even when he speaks in whispers.
Forever embroiled in some big political or artistic dispute
with this and that one, mincing no words, siding definitely
with one faction or the other, he may be thundering one
day at a Fascist whose host he is for lunch, and thundering
against- some of his old friends of the extreme Left the
following day.
Arturo Giovannitti, the Italian-American poet, whose
book, "Arrows in the Gale," attracted considerable atten140




LITTLE ITALY


tion sometime ago, and who was one of the mainstays of
the great Lawrence strike, for which he was put in jailblond and vigorous, sarcastic and spoofing-is generally
shouting his repartees to Ruotolo from the other end of the
restaurant.
It was at the Antica Roma that I witnessed one evening
the following incident: The Societa del Ditto, a more or
less musical organization headed by Halpherson, the veteran musical critic, and presided over by Galinele, a celebrated Italian lawyer, with members in all walks of life,
painters, artists, judges, lawyers, etc., was dining Chaliapin,
the Russian singer, as the guest of honor that evening.
The conversations at the tables and all the speeches were
carried on in Italian. Galinele-short, stout, with a goatee
beard, rubicund, and a laughing face, looking very much
like a drinking monk cut out from a Rembrandt picture-is
one of the few men I know who can talk interminably
and yet be interesting.
Chaliapin, the big Russian, whose gray hair in no way
diminishes the impression of youth given by his pantherlike body, was continually on his feet telling stories. An
assistant district attorney, whose name may remain unmentioned, was constantly interrupting the great basso,
asking him to talk American; for he was the only one who
did not understand Italian. There was no way of quieting
him. He was forever on his feet telling of the green
Emerald Isle from which he came, and damning these
"foreigners," who spoke "Wop language" instead of "good
old American."
This assistant district attorney was not a member of del
I4I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
Ditto; only a guest who happened to have been invited by
some one. Chaliapin turned around to him from the opposite end of the table and begged him, in his very broken
English, to be so kind and not to interrupt. I could see
the repressed flame in the eyes of the angry Slav. The
Latin element was turning around, wild-eyed. Many a man
would readily have silenced the intruder in a more or less
permanent way. Again and again the man interrupted and
insulted all present. Chaliapin as well as the others begged
him to desist, and when some one had tried to apologize
for him to Chaliapin, telling him that this was not an example of an American, the man of law grew angry and
raised his fist against the apologizer.
With a panther-like leap Chaliapin had jumped across
the table. Bottles, dishes, and forks clattered on the floor,
and although twenty men tried to halt his leap, clinging
to his arms and tall legs, he shook them off like a football
tackler. One big shove and he threw the man through the
door to the sidewalk. The district attorney was lucky indeed that the rest of the people had interposed themselves
between him and the infuriated Boris. Attorneys Wolfson
and Neuberger spent the rest of the evening convincing
Chaliapin that this assistant district attorney was not the
best example of an American.
The Societa del Ditto dines some celebrity every week.
The food is... well, the food is divine. The company
human and male exclusively.
There is a barber on' Mott Street. Galifero is his name.
He works from early morning till late at night at his trade.
Between work he spends his time at a tiny little piano at the
I42




LITTLE ITALY


rear of his store, reading scores of operas and singing the
heroic tenor parts from them. Every once in a While his
old ambition to sing in public gets hold of him. Galifero
is one of the musical barbers. Every once in a while some


U


fake impresario canvasses the numerous Galiferos with
operatic ambitions in the neighborhood, and, after having
them invest all theirs savings to give them the privilege
of singing and showing themselves, the company is wrecked
somewhere in a little town around New York. Seldom if
ever has such a company lived long enough to appear in the
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city. And yet there is no end to the gullibility of the Galiferos. Perhaps the same or another impresario will turn
the trick again with the same man next year or the year
following, when he thinks the barber has accumulated some
dollars. Since the advent of Valentino all the youth of
Little Italy try to look as much as possible like the movingpicture hero, and to haunt the moving-picture studios of the
city, having in their Americanization somewhat abandoned
the desire to become grand opera singers. Caruso is the
idol of the older relations of the young Italians.
I have always been rather lucky in my choice of artists
of the shears and razors. My first barber was Max Rosen's
father. In those days Max was a nice, blue-eyed little devil
practising the violin after school hours, or after he had
come home from wherever he had been instead of school.
There was a back room in the barber shop which was
kitchen, sleeping-room, and dining-room to father and son.
It was on Delancey Street, near the Williamsburg Bridge.
Beril, Max's father, was the teacher himself. He had
studied the violin with Enesco's former teacher, and considered himself teacher enough-himself and the razorstrop. Of course, Max played better than his father even
then, but you know how artists are-jealous, terribly jealous. Father, son, brother, mother, it does not matter.
Front stage, by any means.
Beril Rosen probably imagined we came because we liked
to hear him play or discourse on music. It certainly was
not my reason for walking twenty blocks. I liked Max,
still like him, and think a lot of his great playing.
After the Rosens had gone from Delancey Street to capI44


~




LITTLE ITALY


ture Europe I looked around for another barber. It took
me a full year to discover him, on Mulberry Street, between
a pastry-shop and a grocery store-a good barber, an excellent one, and with a beautiful tenor voice. Bonatesta
was and is his name.
And every time I came I found him singing-good, jolly,
round Bonatesta, perhaps a little over-perfumed, a little
overfed, a little bit too flashy, but perfectly groomed and
teethed.
Busy? From early morning to late at night. For everybody liked the singing barber. And Bonatesta was no
robber.
He shaved you or trimmed your hair without forcing the
"best" scalp treatment or the "special" face-massage on
you.
But last summer I remarked something very unusual in
my man. He sang less frequently, looked worried, and
began to extort the usual little extras from me and from
all the others.
Then one day I found him much agitated; indeed, too
agitated to perform any work.
"What's the matter, Bonatesta?" I asked.
"Wait, wait; you see to-morrow," he answered. "Something big, big!" And was unwilling to give further information.
The following morning Mulberry Street was covered
with large posters announcing the opening of a grand
opera company of which my friend Bonatesta was the
chief tenor. Indeed, his name was smeared over the whole
of the large red poster. Knowing the basis on which such
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companies are organized by shaky managers, I understood
at once the basis for the little extras, the hair-balsams and
the massages and the sudden increase in price of all work
in Bonatesta's shop.
Very soon after that the place changed owners. Opera
is so very expensive!
And now, Bonatesta being only a salaried man in the
place which he formerly owned-before the venture in
grand opera-he no longer sings while working. He has
lost his sleekness, his sure-footedness, his joviality. His
forehead, which was so innocent of any sign of thought or
worry, is now deeply furrowed.
He does not sing.
"Why don't you sing, Bonatesta?"
"This is a barber shop, no opera-house," he answers.
Formerly he considered himself a barber with a beautiful
voice, but now he thinks of himself as an unhappy great
singer who has to work as a barber. So he has become a
bore.
He is now trying to rake together enough money to appear anew in some "opera."
I am already in search of a new artist of the shears and
razor.
Further down on the Bowery stands the old Thalia
Theater, in which all the old and the new farces by Italian
masters as well as the tragedies and melodramas are being
repeated. Across from it is the Mori Theater, the former
Miner's Theater of old fame, and still another theater
where the Lipzin Theater once was. There are occasional
presentations there of plays and players that for artistic
I46




LITTLE ITALY
merit have no counterpart anywhere in the theatrical history of New York. I am speaking of Mlimi Aguglia, the
Sicilian actress, whose performance of Oscar Wilde's
"Salome" ranks with that of the greatest actresses of all
time. She and Grasso, whose stay in the city was such a
very short one, are at present the greatest living exponents
of the Italian school of acting. It is curious that Mimi
should have failed on Broadway because of her slight
accent in English, when so many others whose English is
in no way better than hers, but whose accent belongs to a
different nationality, have succeeded so well.
There was another Italian theater, the old Garibaldi
Theater, on Fourth Street near Third Avenue. It has
been demolished. A shirt-factory stands on its site. Alla
Nazimova saw her start in this country there. I well remember her playing there with Orlieneff, the Russian
actor, who was also her teacher. Emma Goldman, the
anarchist writer and orator, had acted as the impresario.
The hall was not heated, and as some of the seats were
broken or had been completely torn away, people sat on
overturned lemon-boxes, with their coats on, their collars
up, and their hats well over their ears. I shall never forget
the performances of Ibsen's and Gorky's plays in that cold
theater. There was no scenery and no lighting, to speak
of... but what acting, what sincerity, what enthusiasm!
There are four daily newspapers and one weekly, all of
them in the Italian language. Unfortunately, the writing
is so badly sprinkled with English that the more cultured
of the Italians of the neighborhood are continually protesting against it. "La Folia" is a humorous weekly, and by
I47




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far the best paper of the five. There used to be another
weekly, edited by Hugo d'Annunzio, the great d'Annunzio's
son. Quiet and unassuming, Hugo, who is an engineer and
an aviator, is the most modest son of a great man I have
ever met. As engineer, he works quietly, winning his spurs
by his labor instead of deriving any advantage from his
lucky birth. I do not know but that, given the choice of
spending a few hours in the company of son or father, I
should not prefer spending it with the son. No living literary man is so honored, spoiled by his own people as
Gabriele d'Annunzio is by the Italians.
/ It is not correct to speak of Little Italy as the only Italian
v quarter in the city. Over a million Italians could not, no
| matter how densely they would populate the area, be
-  crowded in such a small few acres as the district described.
There are several other Italian settlements; one on Twentysixth and Twenty-seventh Streets and Eighth Avenue down
to the river. There is a large Italian settlement in Harlem,
another one in the Bronx, still another one in the Morningside district, not to speak of the Italian districts in Brooklyn and East New York. As the Italian population grows
it continually extends northward and eastward, pressing
out other populations, notably in the Polish and Austrian
districts, making incursions into the Greek and French
settlements, gaining footholds everywhere, steadily, mercilessly. But Little Italy seems to be the central body, the
others outgrowths and tentacles, which spread only to
repeat within themselves the same characteristics as the
central body. (Like any other nationality, the Italian, too, is
moving upward as he Americanizes himself, abandoning
148




LITTLE ITALY


sometimes the outward characteristics, shaving off his long
mustaches, and giving up some of the color about him, yet
}i
2 a}
forever retaining that foreign something which characterizes him everywhere. Levatrice signs spring up wherever
he comes to live.


I49




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At Tenth Street and Second Avenue, in old St. Mark's
Church, is housed the art school Leonardo da Vinci, presided over by the sculptor Onorio Ruotolo. At night hundreds of pupils working in the daytime in factories and
l  shops come to study their favorite arts. The teachers attempt with great devotion and love a renaissance of art
and artisanship among their people. It is one of the most
interesting places in the neighborhood, and visitors are wel\ comed in that loud Italian fashion which makes one forget
he- is intruding.
A. Walkowitz, the musician of the palette, he who uses
his brush as a violinist uses the bow, first introduced me to
Darino, the sculptor.
We were walking one early morning after an all-night
session with Horace Traubel, who has recently joined his
great friend Whitman; as I say, we were walking up Fifth
Avenue and were silently drinking in the shadow of light
thrown by the rising sun when Darino, tall and thin, coming from the opposite direction, called good morning to his
friend.
The introduction was as unceremonious as the breakfast
we had a few minutes later was simple.
"Will you come to see me one of these days? I am always
home after six in the evening," Darino told me before we
separated.
"During the day he works in some shop, but at night
he models. And what a wonderful artist he is!" So mused
Walkowitz.
That very evening I went to see Darino. His studio was
a small room on the lower part of Eighth Avenue. A bed, a
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LITTLE ITALY
piano, a table, two chairs, a sculptor's easel, a barrel of
plasticine, and the walls, the four of them covered with
drawings. Marvelous, delicate drawings.
I found Darino at work at his easel. He was modeling
the curly head of a child. His long, thin fingers caressed the
wet clay with such lightness one could hardly realize they
left any trace where they passed. Like a master pianist
evoking a pianissimo passage from the keyboard, he passed
his fingers on the lips of clay.
In the evenings that followed I climbed the stairs many
a time to see my new friend at work. That curly head he
was modeling had entered into my life. I was always thinking of the pure and holy lips of the child, of the clean brow
and the almost imperceptible line descending from the
throat to the dawn of a bosom.
A month later Darino was still working at the same head.
Every night after six, and Saturdays and Sundays the
whole day, he worked on that head. The lips became holier.
The brow cleaner. The oval-ended chin finer.
"Won't you come out for a walk?" I asked him one Sunday. "You look worn out. A walk would do you good.
Come, Darino."
No, he could not come. He had to finish his work. Another few weeks and he would be through with it. Only
once or twice had I heard him play on the piano.
He had to play, he explained, to sensitize his fingers.
They were coarsening because of the work he was doing
in the locksmith's shop. The touch of cold iron was thickening the epidermis. A Mozart sonata was very helpful.
He had learned to play the piano for that very purpose.
I5I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
It was the same with reading great poetry. He had
learned to appreciate great poetry. It was very helpful.
One's mind had to be so nimble to perceive fine lines.
Nuances of line and curve.
And then one day, when I had come up to see him, Darino
told me that the curly head was finished. Such loveliness,
delicacy, purity of line! The sight of such beauty gladdened
my heart-overpowered it. One could almost feel the little
mouth breathe, the throat throb.
I said little. Darino, too, was silent. He had wrapped
his shoulders with the only blanket, sat on the edge of the
cot, and chewed nervously at his thin blond mustache.
There was just a hint of fever in his large, blue eyes. The
room was cold. Warmth softened the clay too much.
The following morning I climbed the rickety stairs again.
I was not alone. I had brought a friend with me to view
the masterpiece.
"Come in!" called Darino.
The easel was empty.
"Where-where is curly-head, Darino?"
He showed me the barrel in the corner of the room.
"There."
"Why?" It was almost a cry.
"Well? Had not I told you yesterday that it was finished? I have no other plasticine. I am beginning another
head to-morrow."
And for years and years he had done the same thing
over and over again. He was found dead of starvation the
other day.
I52~


V




LITTLE ITALY
And speaking of interesting places, one must not forget
the famous Barbetta at Thirty-ninth Street and Eighth
Avenue, where most of the Metropolitan song-birds come
for their meals. Caruso had his steady table there. It was
draped in black and remained so for two months after the
great tenor's death. A favorite stunt in former days, and
it can still be done to-day, was to bet as to who could eat
a dollar's worth of food at Barbetta's, the food is so cheap.
But there used to be Chianti and Lacrima Christi in matcovered cool flasks.... It is well Caruso died before the
best in life was taken from him... from us.
Noon-time, after a rehearsal of "La Juive" at the Metropolitan Opera-house, I was waiting in a dingy little hallway of the office at Thirty-ninth Street. That entrance for
the artists looked more like a waiting-room on the elevated
railway or one of the D. S. C. section offices, where the
white wings leave their brooms and shovels after work.
What a contrast between this entrance and that other one
for the patrons! And that other one is not extraordinary.
I was waiting to see my friend Carlo Edwards, the
chorus leader. I admire him because he has changed his
Christian name only to wedge himself into America's great
opera-house. Others have made greater concessions for
things of lesser importance.
The rehearsal over, the chorus, the principals, and the
leaders rushed through the door as boisterously as schoolchildren. A word in French to one another, an Italian
greeting, a good-natured slap on the shoulder, "Au revoirs,"
"Rivedercis," thrown right and left, and the hallway was
I53




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


empty again. Empty, save for a white-haired old gentleman who had come in at the last minute to pick up some
smoldering, half-consumed cigars from the floor.
I had turned my head away in pity. The man's clothes
were passably clean, though the once black coat had turned
green, and the holes in the felt hat showed evidence of innumerable battles with wind and rain. The whole of his
countenance stamped him as one of the profession, one
who had either dreamed of appearing or had actually appeared on the boards to shout the fatal words, "Alas, poor
Yorick! I knew him," or the toreador aria to the gallery.
Such dreams leave indelible traces on a human face.
I followed him to the street. He walked slowly to the
corner, lit one of the cigars, cocked his hat jauntily on one
side, and blew the smoke in full blast to the wind as he
closely scanned the passers-by.
"Good morning, Harry," he called to a nattily dressed
young actor passing hurriedly by.
"Good morning, old man," was the answer.
A little later another acquaintance passed and was
greeted in a familiar fashion. An hour, two hours later, the
old man was still on the corner of the street, calling greetings to bediamonded young men and to over-painted women
in fur coats.
The following day, before Broadway's business began,
he was at his post. He buttonholed a leisurely strolling
young man, locked his arm in his, and walked with him
to the office entrance.
"Bonjour, signor; bonjour, maestro."
Left alone, he looked to the right and left, eager to know
154




LITTLE ITALY


whether somebody had seen him walk arm in arm and
shake hands with the maestro. He planted himself again at
the corner, in the middle of the sidewalk and, as he saw
one of the singers coming, walked over to greet him.
"Bonjour, Martin. I just had a long conversation with
the maestro. We spoke about you."
"So!"
"Yes. I told him that in my days the orchestra was kept
more subdued. It's no use-we old fellows know."
"Excuse me, I'm in a hurry, old man. Many thanks for
mentioning me to the maestro."
"Have you a dollar, perhaps..."
"No, no, not a centime, old man." And as he walked
away he called over his shoulder, "Thanks for mentioning
me to the maestro."
"I did, Martin. I told him your voice did not carry and
that you sang off pitch."
But the other was already within the door of the office.
A little later the gray-haired old fellow buttonholed another man.
"I was just talking to the maestro...."
"I have no time, old man."
"I mentioned your name to him."
The other slowed up.
"So! That was nice."
"Can you let me have a dollar?"
The most interesting family in the city is that of d'Angelo-builders of churches. The father is an architect, the
oldest son is a sculptor, the second one a painter, and the
I55




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
third one, the youngest, a sculptor again. They live and
work together. It has been so in their family for several
generations; some pretend since the Renaissance in Italy.
They have always been builders of churches. Only one
name is signed to the work of all of them. And theirs is
beautiful work, honest, faithful as work is seldom done at
present.
At their shop visitors are not welcome. These people,
like the old builders of cathedrals, live only for one thing:
their work.


I56




/


CHAPTER VII
THE AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
IT is right that the only distinctive American quarter
in New York should be where it is, on the site of the
old Indian village, the Sapokanikan, where the Indian
planted tobacco on the sweet meadows that lay between
the North River and the Minetta Waters. Though so near
to the Italian quarter, once part of the village, now practically merging with it, it is so distinctive that the streets 
which still belong to the Village are easily distinguished
from the others. The Village has not been made after a
definite plan like most of the other streets above Canal
Street, which have been laid out in advance by the city
engineers, but it has grown. Lane after lane between
neighboring houses was widened out in the most convenient
way, without thought to the future development of the
streets as at present. It is why this part of New York presents such a resemblance to the network of streets in the
Montmarte in Paris, to certain quarters of New Orleans
and Philadelphia, and has not been affected by the city
plan of New York.
From a bird's-eye view, the haphazard winding of
streets and alleys is that of a wild garden grown without 
much aid by the hand of man. No twenty-story buildings
rise suddenly on the land between shacks. No industrial
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cupolas darken and danken the streets; for the Minetta
Water, though no longer on the surface, is still lustily flowing underneath the ground, thus making it impossible, or
too costly, to erect tall buildings on the shallow foundations, as those who have attempted to do so have learned
much to their annoyance and cost. The East Side branch
of Minetta flows underneath, less than fifty feet below the
surface, east of Fifth Avenue through Twentieth and
Twenty-third Streets, in a straight line to the southwest
corner of Union Square. Another branch crosses Washington Square and flows through Minetta Street to the
North River between Charlton and Houston Streets.
On the ground encompassing Fifth and Sixth Avenues,
the Minetta Water was not so very long ago a very sweet
lake, on which the Dutch burghers, when Greenwich Village was yet the Bossen Bouerie, fished for trout. A little
further westward, and up to the present docks of the
Cunard and White Star Lines, there was good duck-shooting in the wooded land this side of the shore.
From a few houses erected there by thrifty farmers because of the quality of the land, after the settlement of
New Amsterdam, the Bossen Bouerie grew to a good-sized
village by the time Governor Van Twiller decreed it was
his own property and used practically the whole of it for a
tobacco plantation.
There is something indefinable that has remained about
this part of New York, which distinguishes it from any
other quarter in the city. That sweet smell which emanated
/formerly from the tall poplars and the woodland about it,
and the sweet earth and clear water, still lingers in the
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AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
air. A slow tranquillity, as if one were away from the
mad industrial rush about the few acres which form this
district, seizes one as soon as he dips into one of the narrow
curving streets winding capriciously hither and thither,
with that old carelessness that hath no regard for time, and
no hurry to get somewhere by the straightest line.
So much has been written about the Village in the papers
and magazines that now every visitor from the Far West or
the North or the South, upon coming to New York, wants
to take a look at it, as if it were a menagerie or a showplace. Booths and tea-shops and stores, cabarets, dancing- 
places, and all sorts of fake attractions are dotting the lips
of the Village and poisoning them. Only the heart remains
pure, as it has been, of all this pretense. To the stranger
who has only heard about it but not lived in it, to the occasional slummer and passer-by, Greenwich Village means
a sort of wild place where pretended poets, pretended
painters, and pretended writers prance about with their
bob-haired, bare-legged women in extravagant dress, playing at art, fooling away time with no care or regard for
their own morals or the morals of their neighbors, exhibiting themselves, so to say, to the ridicule of the rest of
the' world. Even New Yorkers, who should know better,
look upon Greenwich Village as strange territory, as upon
an exotic growth which has been allowed to remain where 
it is. New Yorkers treat the Village as if it were a foreign
country, when as a matter of fact it is the most American
of all districts. It may not be the most New Yorkish of
all, but it is certainly the most American, for here you find
people from all over the country, frequently the best from
I59




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


everywhere, working, laboring, to voice the spirit of the
country.
J   Greenwich Village has been the artistic center of the
country for more than a half-century now. Poe lived here,
Washington Irving, Mark Twain, Thomas Paine. Of the
present generation of writers and artists I know of no
center in the world where there are gathered in one locality
as many as there are here. There is Theodore Dreiser,
living in St. Luke's Place, facing the St. Luke's Park,
working with his heavy head, too heavy even for his big
body, held in his hands at the open window, trying to capture a mood or a color, laboring with words, arranging
and rearranging them, with seldom a respite from his
labors. I have never yet met Dreiser in his studio without
a feeling that though he was pleased to be interrupted, to
have an excuse not to work for the little hour that I spent
with him, he also resented being interrupted from doing
his work. No, you cannot get him to live anywhere else
but in the Village, of which he knows every house, every
inch of ground, acquainted with most of the people about
him, with his landlord and the landlord's agent, and the
janitor and the children of the janitor, knowing what each
one of them is doing and how each one of them is getting on
in this world. And had I no scruples of robbing Dreiser
of one of his stories, I could tell a most extraordinary tale
he told me about the scullery tramp he employs to clean
his room from time to time.
And should you find out where Dreiser lives you are next
door to the working-room of Sherwood Anderson, whose
work has attracted so much favorable and adverse attention
I60




AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
from all sides. He, too, is a hard worker. He, too, is a
great lover of the Village and has come directly to it from
Chicago, as Dreiser has come, without even dreaming of
taking up his abode elsewhere. You can occasionally meet
them both, walking one behind the other, Sherwood the
younger one, with the big black eyes he has inherited from
an Italian grandmother riveted to the ground. His forehead is partly covered by the blond tuft of his Scotch ancestors. A muffler is wrapped well around his neck, under
the heavy coat tightly buttoned over his sturdy body.
I am yet to know a better raconteur than Sherwood.
Breakfasting with him across the table at the French
Pastry-shop, I have many a time forgotten that it was a
working day which had only begun. Tales of the Middle
West, imitations of conversations with farmers and working-people, anecdotes of his friends in Chicago; of Ben
Hecht's innumerable business ventures, upon which he
grows so enthusiastic until they fail; and of Carl Sandburg's strumming upon the ukulele while he shouts with a
thick tongue the verses he has just written; and of wanderings with his father, who knew the slang of every trade
and the craft of none and obtained temporary jobs on his
conversational charm.
And to go from this heavily masculine type to the lightest, there is the little home Edna St. Vincent Millay has
just built not far from Cherry Lane, a crooked, narrow
little street that reminds one of Venice, a toy house in which
none but she, tiny, light, and skipping, as aerial as her
own verses and as harmonious in movement, lives. No one,
on passing her slight, modest, gay little figure, hopping
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down one of the streets, in her bare head and with a shawl
negligently thrown across her narrow shoulders, would
suspect that he is in the presence of America's most charming poetess.


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On Macdougal Street near Washington Square is the
Provincetown Playhouse, celebrated now because it was
the original home of Eugene O'Neill's plays, before their
phenomenal leap to Broadway and fame. O'Neill, too, is a
Villager. I remember when some years ago, just returned
from the sea, he had brought with him some of the plays
which have since made him famous, and some germs of
I62




AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
plays he is still writing. We were having breakfast together in the Washington Square apartment of John Reed
-Jack, big Jack, beloved by all, who has since died in
Russia and was buried in the Kremlin at Moscow. Floyd
Dell was there, also. We were discussing plans for a new
theater. I do not believe the total capital of all present then
was a hundred dollars. And yet what enthusiasm! This
enthusiasm made it possible for the one-act plays that were
first presented in the lecture-room of the Liberal Arts Club.
The stage was nothing but the speaker's platform elongated
and widened a little. A play by Floyd Dell, a play by Reed,
and a play by O'Neill were presented to an enthusiastic
audience of friends. And because of the interest aroused
immediately, the stable next door, which had come into
disuse because of the advent of the automobile, was rented
for a larger theater. It seemed a very dangerous undertaking then. But the young men put their hands to the
wheel. Within a few weeks the stable was transformed
into a theater, and where the horse-manger or something
else had been, a stage was erected. The Provincetown
Playhouse is the most significant thing that has happened in
American dramatics. The Washington Square Players,
the Theater Guild, the Little Theater Movement that has
since spread over the country, received its baptism here.
I met O'Neill again the other day. How well he wears
success and fame! He has remained the same unaffected,
quiet soul. The same passionate seeker of truth. The same
uncompromising artist that he has been. A little mellowed
but just as enthusiastic, with as much confidence and as
much interest in the Provincetown Playhouse, which does
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not bring him a cent, as he has ever had; forever writing a
new play for it, directing its destinies, much more concerned with what happens there than with his Broadway
audiences and Broadway managers.
Many other efforts have seen their beginnings here.
Djuna Barnes's plays, Edna St. Vincent Millay's plays,
first of which is her now famous "Aria da Capo," Schnitzler, Strindberg; whatever was too good and too uncommercial for Broadway, and yet had artistic value, has seen
its first production there.
Another former Villager, who now is too busy to come
down frequently, is Charles Edison, Thomas Edison's son.
Witty, whimsical, poetic, he is the friend of many whose
names were not known until a few years ago. And his little
theater that was, on Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, the
little Thimble Theater, has also been an effort toward
something better on the theatrical stage. There is Jo
Davidson, the famous sculptor, with his studio in the heart
of the Village. And Mrs. Whitney's studio with the perpetual exhibition of the work of young artists from the
neighborhood.
Of painters there are no end living in the Village. There
is Jerome Bloom, Maurice Becker, -oQini, Paleologue; and
that most charming and playful of all cartoonists, Al
Frueh, whose home is on Perry Street. Cesare, Stengel,
Auerbach Levy, Jerome Myers, and a hundred others
whose names are not on the tip of my pen.
You can meet any of these masters and worshipers of
clay, the palette, and canvas hurriedly going down the
street in their working smocks, to breakfast or lunch, or
164




AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
on a sudden excursion to a paint-shop in the neighborhood.
I do not believe there is any other district in which people 
labor as faithfully and as constantly as in the Village, de- 
spite the vulgar opinion to the contrary. Almost fifty per
I cent of the literature in America is written here, and a far
greater percentage of the painting done in this country is
by people living in the Village. Almost all the sculptors'
studios are within its radius. All that is real in modern
music-I am not speaking of jazz and rag-but most of
the members of the International Composers' League and
the Guild of Modern Musicians, Varese, Ruggles, Salzedo,
Eve Gauthier, are Villagers. And if you happen to be on
an afternoon in Washington Place between Sixth Avenue
and Sheridan Square, you will meet a short, graceful lady
of uncertain age, walking slowly up and down, wrapped
in a fiery red mantilla, with her bobbed golden hair hanging loosely and uncovered. It is Madame Georgette Leblanc, Maurice Maeterlinck's former wife, in her own
right an interesting artist, writer, poet, singer. She came
from Paris to... the Village.
The various stories and articles about the Village that
have spread have helped to root the idea that the Village
is composed of the idlers of the country. The contrary is
true. The Village may not be and is not the most New
Yorkish of all the quarters, but it is the most American,
as a glance at the above-named celebrities will prove. Few
of them are native New Yorkers. They have come from
the Middle West, and the South, and the Northwest. But
on coming here and on trying to find their own milieu,
they have gravitated toward the most likely place. It is
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unjust, criminal almost, to libel the numerous serious artists
who have wasted their lives in hunger and starvation in
cold garrets, and refused to abate their artistic standards.
Every once in a while an item in the paper ends such a
struggle. No road is as hard to travel as the road to artistic
fame. For one who succeeds, five hundred equipped as
well if not better, but with less luck or personality, perish
by the side.
There are, of course, as there are in Paris and in other
big capitals wherever artists congregate, a number of men
and women who play at art. Those who have read Murger's "La Vie de Boheme," or who have seen the opera with
the same name, will think of the number of professional
students in the Latin Quarter, young men grown old on
their parents' monthly allowances, wearing their students'
caps on their gray heads, who have danced and visited
cabarets in school hours, consorting with women as lightfooted and gay-hearted as themselves. Surely Musette was
as light as she was portrayed, and there are a thousand sisters of hers doing the same thing the world over. But no
one in France thinks that this is all that is being done in
the Latin Quarter and Montmartre. For almost every bit
of literature of France has come out from there; every bit
of art in all the branches. Montmartre and the Latin Quarter was the home of Zola and Anatole France, and Balzac
and Maupassant, and Debussy and Vidor and Rodin. They,
too, have undoubtedly had their hours of gaiety and abandon, but who dares look at all they have produced, their
tremendously prolific labor, and reproach them such recreations?
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AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
Like Montmartre, the Village needs no apology, and
this is after all a travel-book. But for those who may be
tempted to visit the Village, attracted to breakfast at a
piggery or a crumpery, and dine and dance at.a Green
Horse or a Black Moon, or shiver among pirates on Christopher Street, or look into the fireplace of Romany Marie's
shack, I want to say that this is not the "goings on" of the
Village, but merely the fringe of it. The young men in
flowing neckties and long hair they will see exchanging
jokes and kisses at the tables with the bobbed-haired,
smocked young ladies are not students, but those who have
come there to masquerade as such, little clerks of the neighborhood, or young students from the adjoining New York)
University, who come here to play the devil smartly. Those 
who belong to the Village, the real ones, are not to be seen,
or are seldom seen, in any of these places.
Until publicity was given to the Village, say about ten
years ago, I remember when there was not one single place
of the kind. We used to go down, a group of us, to Polly's
on Macdougal Street in the basement of the Liberal Arts
Club, and by chipping in we got a common breakfast or
a lunch. Some unfortunate colleague of ours, on needing
money, once described this place and sold the story to a
newspaper, whereupon the Village became a newspaper
source and center of attraction. In time people began to
go to the Village for lack of something better to do, and
thrifty New England ladies changed the aspect of quiet into
a fair where all things are bartered and sold, Many
of the New England ladies who have come here to study
are the cause of it, for they saw immediately how an
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
honest penny could be turned, and opened their bead-shops
and toy-shops and antique shops and tea-shops. I venture
to say that nine tenths of those shops are in charge of
Bostonians.
"Where is the Village? Where does it begin and where
does-it end?"
Hypolite Havel, an inveterate Villager, once answered
this question, "The Village has no geographical delineation;
it is a state of mind."
The Village extends from the south side of Washington
Square and Macdougal Street, clear across to the North
River, swerving off on the side to comprise King Street
and Vandam Street from the beginning of Macdougal
Street to the other end, and northward practically to the
river at Thirteenth Street, and down again to Sixth
Avenue.
Its streets, except a few, and the avenues, Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth, were not cut originally. The houses,
most of them, had not been constructed in one street line
with some definite plan in mind. As there were large
tracts of land between farms, the original inhabitants built
their homes on the best sites of their particular plots of
land, turning the entrances and windows whichever way
they thought best. As the adjoining plots were occupied
and new houses were built, lanes were formed between
them. And when still more houses were built they somewhat faced these lanes, although not in any regular fashion.
The result was that when Greenwich was incorporated into
the city of New York, and the streets were being made to
conform, it was found that the extension of Fourth Street
i68




AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE


i~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4ff'' iriilr
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W  m.~~~~~d


i69




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
from the East Side crossed Tenth and Twelfth Streets
and ended at Thirteenth Street.
There are streets in the Village that suddenly leave off
and run away from you, and you have to dodge and turn
until you pick them up again three or four blocks away.
There are others that stick to the traveler, no matter how
hard he tries to avoid them. You leave them and dodge
into another street, only to find out that you are still in the
same one. There are any number of wooden shanties left to
fall apart by themselves, by the grace of wind and rain.
Litigations, because the different inheritors are at odds,
and because of lack of order in the title-papers, make them
belong to nobody. Indeed, not long ago nine families on
Commerce Street discovered they had paid rent to some
one who, having seen the house vacant some ten years before, had moved into a part of it and had rented the rest
to tenants. For eight years these people had paid rent before they became aware of the fact that the house did not
belong to the man from whom they rented it, and that he
himself did not know to whom it belonged. Had the Building Department of the city not protested against the lack
of fire-escapes, that man would still be collecting rent. It
can be done again and again.
Most of the houses in the neighborhood cannot be sold
because of litigation. Some of them are twenty or twentyfour inches outside of their ground limits. Most of them
are at odds with the rules and regulations of the Building
Department. But all of them are beautiful to look at, with
something about them which makes them distinct from the
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AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
houses anywhere else. 'Age mellows the color of brick and
copings.
It is easy to see that these houses were built by their
original owners with a view of inhabiting them themselves
and not of renting them. These are houses made to live in
and not to speculate with. Long and beautiful French windows and wide oak doors, hung on hammered hinges, are
a delight to the eye. Everything feels a regard and care
for beauty of line-the roof, the chimney-stacks, and little
flower-gardens in the front yards of a good many of these
houses. It is a pleasant surprise, on coming from up town,
suddenly to see that row between Twelfth and Thirteenth
Streets on Seventh Avenue, with wide wooden balconies
and verandas in front of the houses set back forty feet
from the sidewalk, and beautiful flower-patches and trees
in the little front yards; and this in New York, where every
inch of ground is appraised at big amounts of money.
There are beautiful green vines creeping over the old moldy
wood, and though the insides of most of these houses have
been remodeled and changed, still enough of the old is left
to show what it has been.
All through the Village one frequently encounters such
sights. There are trees in the back yards, old poplar-trees
and acacias which emit a sweet smell on their blooming
days, and patches of green everywhere. There is less hanging of wash-lines fluttering in the wind here than anywhere
else. And the curtains in the windows, in sheen-colored
gauzes, are a study in themselves. There is the Cherry
Lane district, with the Cherry Lane Theater built on the
site of one of the old stables; and situated on it and
I7I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
spreading from it a multitude of little one-family houses
with large studios on the top, for painters and sculptors.
There is Washington Mews with its row of little bluepainted houses, with a large iron gate toward Lafayette
Street, in itself a little gem set apart from any of the houses
in the city. Another similar artistic corner which makes
you forget where you are is Macdougal Alley; and on
Eighth Street is Cat Alley, not in New York's Baedeker,
but well known to Villagers. From midnight to sunrise it
is the rendezvous of all the cats in the district. And what
battles for supremacy are fought here!
There is a profusion of originality in building everywhere. Even those who build to-day, artists and writers, who have succeeded in getting enough money to do so in
these days of expensive construction, build according to
their own dreams and their own necessity. Nest-holes, or
whole floors with only one room, large and wide, so as to
give one space to walk around while he thinks or dreams.
There are a great number of good old folks, old inhabi~ tants of the Village who have lived there for generations,
who would not change or think of leaving it for any other
district. The old folks of St. Luke's Place, or Commerce
Street, or Barrow Street, seem to have been considerably
disturbed by the sudden inrush of visitors and slummers
in the neighborhood. And rents, too, have gone up considerably. Garrets which once rented for eight dollars a
month now rent for twenty times that amount; because
some up-towner has taken it into his head that he, too,
should have a litttle "nest" in the Village. There is one
particular house on Bank Street, in which I lived for sev172




AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
eral years, paying what was then the large rent of thirty
dollars a month. To-day it rents for exactly eight times
that sum. And Bank Street is anything but in the center
of the Village.
There used to be a French bakery shop just around the
corner from where I lived, and several other French families were living in the neighborhood. The Village was once
a center of the Parisians living in New York, probably
because it reminded them so strongly of their own Montmartre. But on visiting my former habitat I found that
the French bakery shop, which had stood there for over a
hundred years and had been in the family for several generations, had suddenly become a tea-shop. My old French
friends were compelled to leave. And because the other
French families could not get their croissant and their
long, crisp baked bread, they, too, have moved away to
other places where such things might be obtainable.
The building where Thomas Paine died, on Grove
Street, although there is a bronze tablet on the wall commemorating this fact, is now a restaurant gaudily painted
outside. The home of Mark Twain is being torn down to
make room for some tall tenement-house. The Garret on
Washington Square still lives, but it, too, will soon be torn
down for some industrial edifice that is to be erected in
its place.
Because of the tremendous rentals asked now, the artists
have had to move elsewhere, leaving their rooms for those 
who are in a more lucrative'employment than theirs, advertising illustrators, jazz-players, and bubble-makers, who
want to live in the Village. Only those who own their
I73




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homes in the neighborhood, and the old inhabitants who
have lived there, are in a position to remain, to withstand
the inrush of slummers and sensation-seekers, and keep
the only American quarter in the city a distinct entity.
On West Thirteenth Street an old wooden house, No. 38,
marks the slanting line of the old Union Road, which was
frequented by the stage-coaches connecting Greenwich
Village with New York. There used to be a monument
to General Wolfe, the hero of Quebec. It was this that
gave the street once the name of Monument Lane. But
evidently the English soldiers at the close of the Revolution took away with them the memorial to their gallant
countryman, afraid lest the victors might mishandle it.
There are no definite data as to this fact. Some assert that
the monument was in the form of an obelisk and was taken
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AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
back on board by the English; some, that it has never left
the country. At any rate, it has never been traced. It
may be resting somewhere in an underground cellar in the
neighborhood.
Where the Washington Arch now is, on the site of the
old Potter's Field, was the old public gallows, from which
much less than a hundred years ago culprits were swung in
the air. Looking on from the front stoop of an inhabitant
of Washington Square, an old man still living has recorded
how he saw the execution of Rose Butler in 1822, a negro
done to death for murder or for witchcraft.
There were many French farmers who had neat gardens
a little southward from what is known as Greenwich Village proper, and toward Franklin and Leonard Streets, in
the old South Greenwich. There are still many houses on
West Eleventh Street which retain their old French cottage building characteristics, with wooden stairs away
from the street, from what was once a lane, inclining terraces, with little trellised gardens within. On a summer's
day, peeking in through the wooden fence, one can still see
leisurely French families dining on warm evenings outdoors under their trellised arbors.
In memory of Thomas Paine, Barrow Street was once
named Raisin Street, a corruption of "Reason," to commemorate Thomas Paine's most famous book, "The Age
of Reason." And the records of John Randall, the city
engineer who prepared the present city plan, speak of how
he used to see the old philosopher sitting at the south
window of the first-story room in a house on that street.
The sash was raised, and a small table or stand was placed
I75




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
before him, with an open book upon it, which he appeared
to be reading.
"He had his spectacles on. His lower lip rested upon his
hand, and his chin rested between the thumb and fingers
of his hand. His right hand lay upon his book, and a
decanter containing liquor of the color of rum or brandy
was standing next his book or beyond it. I never saw
Thomas Paine at any other place or in any other position."
Thus writes the careful Mr. Randall.
And there are other records speaking of the old philosopher, who, when he escaped from the surveillance of
Madame Bonneville and her noisy children, would rush to
the ale-house for another supply of rum, his hat well over
his brow, and his silent face grimly set in defiance.
What tended mostly to develop Greenwich Village from
a farm to a city was its excellent natural drainage. The
soil underlying it for fifty feet is pure sand. Every time
an epidemic of smallpox or yellow fever hit the city of
New York, below Canal Street, the inhabitants, loading
their household goods and their merchandise, would rush
away to the country-to Greenwich Village. The thrifty
burghers would then put up shanties to accommodate them.
Upon the farms and meadows little wooden stores, selling
provender, were erected. Where Bank Street now is there
used to be a corn-field, but at the corner of it, during one
of the last great epidemics, one of the city bankers erected
a branch of his bank in order to continue his business with
the people who had fled in great masses to the more
salubrious part of the island.
From every epidemic a number of people remained to
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AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
live, so as to insure greater security against disease and
pestilence for themselves and their children. During the
great pestilence of 1822, not only did people come to live
in Greenwich, but even the custom-house, the post-office,
the banks, the insurance offices, and the printers of newspapers located themselves in the upper part of Broadway,
building houses, some temporary and some permanent, in
the heart of the Village. Indeed, on West Eleventh Street
an enterprising Mr. Sykes erected a wooden house capable
of accommodating three 'hundred boarders. Even the
Brooklyn ferry-boats began to accommodate Greenwich
Village at the foot of Eleventh Street.
Perhaps one of the most interesting land romances is
the development of the Sailors' Snug Harbor. Captain
Randall bought the twenty-one acres of land lying east of
Fifth Avenue as far as the Bowery and Washington
Square, east and north, in I790, for about twenty-five
thousand dollars. It was a beautiful piece of farm land.
He bequeathed it in I820 or thereabouts to the Sailors'
Snug Harbor, with the provision that the grain and vegetables grown on the place should be sufficient to nourish its
inmates. It produced then food in the value of about four
thousand dollars. Within a short time the executors saw
that they could derive greater profit by leasing the ground
to others. To-day the ground-rent of this twenty-one
acres brings more than half a million dollars a year profit;
the whole thing was accomplished in less than a hundred
years. There are still men who remember the free and
wide meadows on that site. There are still such who have
eaten vegetables grown on that place, where to-day stand
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innumerable houses, erected at the leaseholders' own expense; for not an inch of ground owned by the Sailors'
Snug Harbor has ever been sold.
There are any number of houses in the Village which
are not sold for similar reasons. It is why they remain as
they were a hundred years ago.
An interesting bit of old New York can be seen at
Eleventh Street and Sixth Avenue, back of the French
Pastry-shop. It is a small triangle with the ground raised
above the level of the street, in which is part of what was
once the second Jewish cemetery. When Eleventh Street
was cut through to the West Side, the rest of the cemetery
was swept away by the street. Another Jewish cemetery
was then formed at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-first Street
on the West Side. From the rear windows of the drygoods stores which face the street the leaning old gray
tombstones can yet be seen, for they are still, in a desultory
way, cared for. The Hebrew inscriptions and the dates
plainly marked on the tombstones are witness to thle early
date at which the Jews lived in the city.
Stretching down to what was once Love Lane, Twentyfirst Street, going directly eastward, is another branch of
the American quarter of New York. There are conflicting
dates as to when it was first established. I mean Gramercy
Park proper and its neighborhood. I doubt whether any
house there is more than a hundred years old. Many very
tall apartment-houses have already been erected on the
southeast side of Gramercy Park, thus destroying a good
deal of the former enchantment of the place. For there
are any number of houses in that neighborhood with little
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AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
gardens in front and in the back yards. Doubtless it was
the later merchant nobility that came to settle around there.
A good many of the houses on Gramercy Park have
changed from private dwellings into clubs, aid~ omtf the
old inhabitants have found it much more convenient to rent
their homes at the exorbitant prices they command than
to live there. If instead of a district it were a pottery, one
could characterizeit asLate  merca. In spite of its air
of distinction, it has something foreign about it, something
mixed in its brownstone, florid architecture smacking of
our architects' visits to Italy and the more stately France.
Of course no one passing through East Nineteenth
Street could miss the residence of Robert Chanler, familiarly known to his friends as Sheriff Bob Chanler. It
suffices but to glance to the left side, until one sees a painted
giraffe in bas-relief over his portal, with its curious heavy
set-in door, looking very much like the entrance to a fortress, to know immediately one is before an original existence. But this is not half as interesting as the man living
within. Big, curly-headed, heavy Bob Chanler, looking
very much like the picture of the elder Dumas, is one of
America's greatest decorative painters and the scion of one
of the oldest American families. Weary and tired, I have
many a time knocked at his door and been received in as
friendly a fashion as if it were an oasis in the desert and
he the Arab owner of the tent. And something better than
dates and camel's-milk has always been offered to me.
What a man and what a house! From the stairway to
the studio in the garret, it is decorated and painted in the
most fantastic way, with serpents and grotesque animals
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crawling over one another in the most vivid and subtle
colors, red tongues hanging from leaping dragons, and
porcupines embossed in gold jumping over one antherNaiads and sylphs and giraffes and elephants, pell-mell,
grouped only because of harmony of color and movement
and not because of the natural proximity of their habitats.
All that is weird is painted on that stairway.
The rooms are full of costly furniture, old and antique,
just holding together. The walls are done in sudden
patches of yellow and black, and the color-scheme of the
ceilings is deliberately a mystifying one. And then suddenly the large studio on the roof, in which Bob is working
away at the most unusual hours, leaving occasionally a
gathering of friends at the dinner-table, in the midst of the
most hilarious or serious conversation, to go up to his
studio and daub a few brushes here and there, on one of
the numerous huge decorative canvases at which he is
working simultaneously.
And there is no telling what Bob might say or do.
Garbed in a pair of loose denims, over which hangs an
ample Russian blouse buttoned securely at the neck, with
a sash around it, a pair of loose babouches on his feet, he
sits for hours on his heels upon the couch, apparently
oblivious to all that is going on about him. But suddenly
something strikes. He jumps up. He slips away into his
work-room or to his bed to sleep.
I do not want to say that visitors are welcome. But
they are very frequently welcome when there is one of
Chanler's exhibitions of his screens on the lower floor of
the building. And if one should be so favored as to be
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AMERICAN QUARTER: GREENWICH VILLAGE
invited for one of his evenings, one may be certain of
meeting what is most distinguished in the world of art
and letters.
And now that we have jumped about in such a hasty way
through the American quarter, I must apologize for having
treated it in so intimate a manner. For it may be very
unbecoming in a comparative stranger. But it is done in
love. I know of no other quarter on this continent where 
I would rather live and labor than this oneCSo much of
what has been done stimulates one to work. The Village
presents itself like an unusual romance. A romance of
action. Come into being because of recurring pestilences
in another part of the city. Come into being where there
had been lakes and fields and woods, only yesterday.
Yet there is nothing of newness, no odor of fresh varnish and no polish, to assail one's nostrils and eye. No
shrill cries in an unfamiliar language. It is all mellowed 
by time, and saved from industrial invasion by the nature
of its very soil.
Greenwich Village. I love it!


i8i




CHAPTER VIII


THE GIPSY QUARTERS
EORGE BORROW, relating his wanderings with
the Gipsies, makes them speak frequently of the
"affairs of Egypt," when they want to refer to
intimate things relating to the essentials of their life. He
makes his Gipsies consider Egypt their original home, gives
the impression that they still have secret ties to the land
of the Pharaohs, and thereby confirms the original error
which gave to the Gipsies their name, from the corruption
of the word "Egyptian." Had he made the Gipsies speak
of the affairs of the Balkans instead of the affairs of Egypt,
he would have been nearer the truth. For of the total
number of Gipsies living to-day, more than three quarters
live in the Balkans, the greater part in Rumania and
Hungary. That is why in New York the Gipsies quarter
themselves chiefly among the Balkan peoples. The Rumanian Gipsies live in the Rumanian quarter, the Polish
Gipsies in the Polish quarters, the Hungarian in the Hungarian quarters, with a continual migration from  one
country to another, from one quarter to another, which
frequently is marked off only by an intermediate street or
by the width of the sidewalk. And yet there is a great difference in the character and language of those Gipsies.
Only the older ones understand the Calo of the Balkans,
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THE GIPSY QUARTERS
which is the speech of the European Gipsy. The younger
ones, especially those who have learned English, are fast
forgetting their original tongue, much to the annoyance of
the older ones, who denounce them constantly as traitors
to,the fold.
tTo speak of Gipsy quarters is, however, a bit dangerous,
for there are Gipsy quarters only in the winter. Spring
sees them off, departing as suddenly as they arrived, 
leaving no trace behind them other than a few disappointed
old women whose cures they have undertaken, a few
grieved maidens to whom they have promised love-potions
which they have never given, and a few superstitious men
who have been in the habit of going to them regularly to
have their fortunes read and advice given on how to con183




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
found their enemies. For it is the delusion of every Balkan
man or woman, including the Poles and the Russians, that
some enemy, a horde of enemies, in league with the evil
one, is continually dodging their steps, undoing what they
have done or attempted to do. And even the white plague,
which so frequently overtakes the Balkan younger element
in the narrow, unsanitary quarters in which they live in
the city, transported from high mountains to dark cellars,
is attributed more to sorcery than to lack of air and proper
nourishment and to work under unendurable conditions.
The Gipsy promises to confound the Satana, the Dracu,
the Strigoi, or whatever name the evil one carries in a
Balkan tongue.
But go they must, as soon as spring comes. And their
departure is as sudden as it is unobserved. The curtained
empty stores in which they have lived along the streets are
suddenly discovered in the morning uncurtained. The big
downy beds in which they rolled themselves for the night,
the only furniture except trunks and bundles in a Gipsy's
house, are removed as quietly as only feathered downs can
be moved. When the neighborhood wakens in the morning
the Gipsies are gone. Gone to haunt the roads, to weave
baskets from the rear end of a wagon to which a lean nag
is harnessed. Gone to tell fortunes to the villagers and
farmers while the men are dealing in automobiles. Since
the horse has gone out of fashion the Gipsies have become
itinerant automobile dealers. Forever moving onward,
though in circles, westward, trading, the Ford that was
ridden in the morning becomes a Rolls-Royce in the evening, and will again be a Ford the following day, leaving
I84




THE GIPSY QUARTERS
the difference, by no means negligible, in the pockets of
the children of the Ganges River. And clever as they have
been at horse dealing, they are still cleverer at buying or
selling a car.
In October I had gone to visit my Gipsy friends who
should have come in from the west at about that time.
There was no trace of them anywhere. Although they
had come to the city in September, they had returned to
the road, feeling that there were yet three months of good
weather ahead of them. And when a Gipsy can be outdoors he is never to be got indoors. When I returned
again, three months later, Fourth Street between Avenue
A and the East River, Third Street, Second Street, First
Street, the heart of the Balkan quarters in New York, were
full of them. Not an empty store which had formerly
housed a butcher or a grocer but had been taken by them.
The windows were curtained off to the top with Turkish
patterned gauzes and calicoes; and a beautiful dusky
maiden, with her black tresses hanging loosely over her
shoulders, and her golden necklaces and bracelets dangling
from her neck and arms, was standing outside awaiting
her lover from the other street. An old woman, loaded
down by the numerous dresses she wore, one on top of the
other, and a wolfskin fur coat on top of all, was walking
about, followed by a number of impudent gamins, on her
way to gossip with friends who had just come from some
other part of the country, to learn the tidings of the road.
Big, tall Mathei, fully six feet four inches high, proportionately broad and weighing about three hundred pounds,
whom I had known ever since I was a child, had frequently
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


encamped within sight of my home on the Danube. Here
he received me with open arms. He had news for me from
the other side. But first of all he wanted to show me his
new wife. Fully thirty years younger than he is, a beautiful Brazilian Gipsy whom he had married in Mexico and
for whom he had paid eight thousand dollars in gold. And
so proud was he of her he had weighted her down with
jewels and silks. Of course marrying a Brazilian Gipsy
had ruled him out of his clan. But he was in love. He
expected them to come to their senses., His own family
had already forgiven.
The long store, which had once been a butcher's place,
was carpeted. Even the walls were hung with thick Oriental rugs, some two inches thick, of all colors and hues.
The back half of the store had been curtained off to serve
as a bedroom and dining-room. A huge, billowy down
mattress was lying on the floor. A coal-stove, red-hot,
stood in the center. Two fighting-cocks, which had never
left the side of the lady, were peaceably cackling to each
other.
Mathei stretched out on his back and asked his wife to
dance to the rhythm he was beating with his palms. It
was indeed a great delight to him; for no Gipsies dance as
well as the Brazilians and the Spanish do, and Mathei was
eager to show her off. I had not been there long when his
son came in, with his wife, and his daughter with her husband; and also two of his former wives made their appearance. We were a gay company that evening.
"This is a good country," Mathei told me, "except for
one thing. Why is the wine so expensive?"
i86




THE GIPSY QUARTERS


When I told him about the prohibition laws he opened
his eyes wide. He had never heard of such a thing. He
had thought that because of certain taxes imposed upon
the wine-and this idea has been current among all the
Gipsies-the good juice had become more expensive.
Across the street from Mathei lived Lupu, a Rumanian
Gipsy, the chief of
the Rumanian clntan                        ) 
in New York. His 
home, as befits a
chief and as if he  i
were still on the
road, was a larger                s an blde 
one than that of 
any other Gipsy in
the neighborhood.
It had   formerly 
been a tailor shop.
It was larger and
more luxuriously furnished than any other home. By that
I mean to say that there were more down beds and thicker
layers of carpets, both on the floors and on the walls. A
great number of silver trinkets, bells and bracelets, and a
considerable number of weapons, swords and blades from
Damascus and Teheran, Yataghans from Turkey, Spanish
florets, Greek sabers, and muskets and carbines and flintlocks from all countries and all times decorated the walls.
A young Gipsy fiddler was sitting near him, ready to play
at command. For Lupu had only reluctantly come over
here during the late Balkan War, and was pining away,
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longing for the more familiar stretches of roads and rivers
that he had known for years. And so he kept a young
fiddler to play him home songs, to smother his homesickness.
"But look, Lupu," I said to him, "you are making more
money here, I am certain. You are warm in winter. You
are not molested. Why should you be so morose?"
"I am a Gipsy chief, supposedly without a home or a
country," the roamer and rover answered. "But when the
summer is over do I return to Galatz or Braila, next to my
own people, to hear the language that I have always heard,
and dance to the tunes I have always danced to, and listen
to the people talk about the great deeds of my father or
forefathers, or what? No, I come to live in a street populated with people who are themselves strangers here. And
my children, you will see them soon. My grandchildren
are taken to schools where they kill them so as to teach
them to read a few words in a book which they will forget
anyhow." And after a few moments' silence he added:
"But what is worse, what is imuch 'worse, is that there is
no joy in our trading. It is not money only." Rising to
his feet, he yelled at the top of his voice: "I am a horsetrader! We have been horse-traders for hundreds of
years, and there are no horses to trade with here! And I
hate the boiling, smoking, horseless things people run
around in, which we buy and sell!"
"Why don't you return home?" I asked him. "You have
enough money. There will be no difficulty."
Lupu sighed deeply. And then he told me another secret.
"The women won't go. Every one of our women is
i88




THE GIPSY QUARTERS


>    >?g


making three and four times the amount her man is making. You thought that because people go to school there
would not be any fortune-telling, ha? If I told you that
my wife is making sixty dollars a day telling fortunes, and
that the older they are the more money they make, would
you believe me? And women do not care to leave a place
where they make money. To them money is everything.
If we were to listen to them we should be living in the city
here all the time."
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As we were speaking an automobile stopped in front of
the house, and two well-dressed ladies came in timidly.
Had they understood Lupu's glance as he welcomed them
and asked them to go beyond the curtained part of the
store, they might have hesitated. I heard low murmurs,
the broken singsong of the old Gipsy woman who was
telling them things in a mixture of French, English, and
German. Sighs, gasps, and the clinking of money. I
smelled a little incense mixed with sulphur, and heard talk
of a black cat at midnight. The whole thing lasted less
than five minutes, and the two ladies rushed out with
flushed faces and bent shoulders. Lupu's wife came out
to greet me, literally licking her chops.
"Cate? How much?" Lupu asked, without turning his
head.
"Dece; ten," and she turned her back proudly.
The old chief pulled out his watch, his old Turkish watch
which he wound with a key, and pointed with his fingers
on the hands. "In less than five minutes, and she only
tells me half of what she got."
Another woman followed these two. She was from the
neighborhood. She carried a little baby in her arms which
seemed to be wasted with some disease. She was behind
the curtain. A Hungarian. I heard Hungarian words in
the conversation. She remained there for a few minutes.
Lupu did not trouble to ask how much that one had given.
Then suddenly he leaned back, closed his eyes, and asked
the young Gipsy boy to play.
A few minutes later twenty or more Gipsies came in, for
in that store lived the whole of Lupu's clan, which virtually
190




THE GIPSY QUARTERS
formed four families; and the youngsters who did go to
school looked pale and emaciated, indeed so pale you could
hardly have distinguished them from the other boys of the
neighborhood.
But only the older men took it so to heart. The younger
element did not seem to care much where they lived, as
long as they could have their loves and their drinks and
their dances and their music-as long as they make so
much money themselves, and their wives always making
more.
The women-folk of the coppersmiths and kettle-makers
are visited in the daytime by the musicians, whose work is
only at night. The musicians, better dressed than the other
men of the tribe, in fancy shoes and red neckties, with
waxed and oiled hair sleekly combed, carrying their fiddles
under their coats, begin their visits from about noon. And
there is music in every coppersmith Gipsy household while
the man is away, interrupted only by the arrival of some
superstitious hunter of fortune-telling; very few of the
Gipsy women find it necessary to go abroad to hunt for
customers.
At night when the Gipsy musicians have gone each their
way to play at weddings, some of the more fortunate ones
to cabarets and restaurants, the coppersmith clan is walking
around entertaining the wives of the musicians until the
small hours of the morning, entertaining them with songs
and tales and dances and interminable quarrels and talks.
Arranging marriage matches is the chief occupation of the
coppersmiths and kettle-makers. And it is no small matter
to arrange such a match, considering the love of bargaining
I9I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
of the Gipsies. The mother of the young man transacts
the business with the father of the young girl. She generally begins by offering for the bride a mere pittance, a
thousand dollars in gold, whereupon the father of the girl
takes umbrage, as if it were an insult to his daughter, and
he hurls threats that he will kill them all for offending
him so.
"Does anybody know something about my daughter that
I do not know? Has she misbehaved? Is she sickly? Has
her mother ever been ill? And have not my children all
lived to be big and strong?" And he points out four
stalwart, husky sons with their offspring.
The tumult grows until the people in the neighborhood,
thinking the Gipsies are about to kill one another, call the
police. The patrol-wagon appears. The neighborhood is
abroad and curious. A hundred bronzed vociferating men
and women suddenly rise like ghosts from everywhere and
make their way into the store. "It is notheeng, just talk."
They pacify the policemen.
After such an initial scandal the mother raises her offer
with five hundred dollars. Meanwhile, hand in hand, the
youngsters, whose fate they are settling, make the rounds
of the moving pictures; visit friends, in absolute certainty
that within a day or two the affair will be settled satisfactorily; for the mother would be proud to pay a considerable
sum for a bride for her son. Or, as one of them told me
when on a visit with Miss Fillmore and Mrs. Champenois:
"You pay six thousand dollars and get a big, nice healthy
girl. You pay three thousand and you don't get a big, nice
girl. And a big, nice healthy girl gives birth to big, nice
192




THE GIPSY QUARTERS
healthy children. And the not nice, big healthy girl does
not give birth to big healthy children. And they cost much
money for doctor and everything. And then when their
papa wants to marry them nobody gives much money for
them. It is cheap to pay much money at the beginning."
Of course, nothing is ever said about the bride's dowry
-equal if not surpassing the amount paid for her-in silks
and jewels and down beds.
They showed me a pretty girl, asking me whether I
would not myself be willing to offer even more than six
thousand dollars for her. This manner of mating is the
cause of the Gipsies' survival. The mating is that of the
careful stock-breeder.
A Gipsy wedding in a hall on St. Mark's Place, or in
another hall in the neighborhood, is something never to be
forgotten when once seen. Such a wedding lasts at least
three days. It generally begins on Friday and lasts over
Sunday, with four bands of music succeeding one another.
The women come to the wedding arrayed in the most gorgeous costumes-in silks and brocades from all the ends of
the earth, and jades and rubies and diamonds studded in
silver belts and in bracelets hanging and dangling on the
brown bare arms and from the red sashes that hold
together on the hips the two halves of the ample, colored
skirts they wear.
And the men, the older ones especially, wear their own
national costumes, the white shirt hanging over the sash,
and the wide trousers embroidered at the seams tucked
into the high patent-leather boots, and tall, beribboned
astrakhan caps on their heads. And they dance and yell
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


and sing and drink in a continual swaying motion, changing
rhythms and tempos with sudden interruptions for solo
dances and solo songs. The older men and women, always
anxious to show the younger ones that they are still alive,
t
execute the most intricate steps, to the great admiration of
the circle of onlookers, who stand with backs bent deeply
over them in a circle, clapping their hands and yelling their
"Ohe! Ohe! Ohe!"
At midnight of the second wedding night the bride
dances. The dance usually begins in a slow walk, but it
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THE GIPSY QUARTERS
ends an hour later in a terrifically furious step, in which
all those present finally join in a frantic hysteria of limbs,
until the bride swoons in the arms of the groom, who himself, not having danced a step, is the only one capable of
taking care of her. And he carries her away to his home
while the others still dance on.
The wedding festival still continues. The mother and
father of the bride are conducted home by part of the
guests, who remain with them to continue the festival.
And the mother weeps and cries. She has lost her child
and berates her husband for having sold her to an unworthy man. The mother and father of the groom have
to be brought home, and part of the guests remain with
them to continue the festival. And then the nearest relatives are brought home, marching through the streets with
the musicians at the head of them, singing softly so as not
to disturb the sleepers. Such is a Gipsy wedding in New
York-or in Damascus, or in the Carpathian Mountains.
The Gipsies live unmolested in New York, until something happens in the neighborhood. But when the police
find no clue to some crime, suspicion' is immediately
directed toward these mysterious strangers. A number of
them are called to the police station, harassed, questioned;
and the usual wind-up of such an affair is an order compelling them to leave the neighborhood within twenty-four
hours, without the slightest consideration of the hardships
it may entail upon them. The Gipsies here are without any
protection. No voice is ever raised to defend them. They
are also the prey of numerous welfare societies. The Prevention of Cruelty to Children comes to bother them, comI95




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
pelling them to send their children to school, or to dress
them in such manner as befits future American citizens,
which these children will never be. The truant-officer of
the adjoining school is a continual trouble to them. For
after he is once inscribed and enrolled, the young Gipsy
danchuck thinks that he has done his duty and is likely
never to appear again until forced to do so. When Lupu
or Stan or Vladislav finds himself haled before the judge,
the whole clan appears with him, and they cry and weep
and gesticulate in a half-dozen tongues to make themselves
understood. And the father is fined and ordered to punish
his son for truancy. One might as well ask the seal to
punish her young for diving.
On First Street, below First Avenue, live the Russian
Gipsies, headed by Mishka, who is chief violinist of the
tribe. Mishka, met on one of the principal streets of the
city, would never be taken for a Gipsy. He is most immaculately dressed. And although swarthy, with a small
ear-ring hanging in his left ear, his peculiarities would be
taken as the eccentricities of an artist rather than as the
characteristics of a race. He speaks French and German
fluently, is suave, and has the best of manners. He has
played at the Hermitage in Paris and has made his fame
on Piccadilly. In Moscow and in Petrograd he was one of
the most favored leaders of Gipsy bands in the midnight
cabarets. His gifts from his admirers are many. It has
taken him a long time to make his peculiar art of playing
valuable in New York. But so many of the Russian aristocracy arrived here that numerous Russian inns and cabarets sprang into existence on upper Broadway. The
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THE GIPSY


QUARTERS
a\\\


democratic American is paying for the privilege of being
waited upon by a Russian nobleman who serves caviar at
two dollars and a half a sandwich and tea at fifty cents a
glass. Mishka plays in one of these places to give atmosI97




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
~phere. Two or three hundred dollars a week is as nothing
to him. In a good mood he buys a few thousand dollars'
worth of jewels for his wife, to subdue her anger when he
has been too long away from her; for many are the temptations put in his way. As at home, the Russians who can
afford it are anything but niggardly, and their women are
very charming.
But when his work is over Mishka returns to his gadzhika and his danchucks, a half-dozen of them, ranging
from ten years down, in a basement store which had once
been a coal shop down on First Street. He takes off his
Tuxedo and his immaculate white shirt and collar, and
dons a Russian blouse, and is at home. He had once, in an
attempt to become a regular citizen, moved into one of the
apartment-houses of the neighborhood, dressing his wife
and his children American fashion and giving himself out
as a Russian. He had even bought furniture on the instalment plan from a dealer on Avenue A, with stiff missionwood chairs and rockers and regulation sideboard and
brass beds. But before a month was over he had returned
to the basement. His quarters had been too much like a
house, while the basement is much more like a subterranean
tent.
I expect Mishka to make several such attempts in the
near future. His American friends, musicians, urge him
to become an American. Mishka himself urges his children to go to school, and has indeed made his oldest, a girl
of ten, teach him to read and write. It is the beginning
of the end of the Mishka clan. I suspect and am afraid
that his playing will greatly deteriorate, once he is cut off
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THE GIPSY QUARTERS
from his habits, which have been the habits of his ancestors. He already speaks of marrying his daughter to an
American boy. The girl herself is trying to subdue the
colors of her dress and is ashamed of being known as a
Gipsy by her schoolmates. Indeed, the whole Gipsydom of
Russian musicians on First Street has been tainted by
Americanism. These Gipsies are being mentioned to the
other Gipsies of the neighborhood as an example by wellmeaning ladies urging the welfare of the children, and by
the truant-officer. And because of that there has been a
good deal of friction between the Rumanian and Hun- i
garian Gipsies and the Russian Gipsies in New York. The )
outside world knows nothing about that.
There is not a thing that happens to be against the
Balkan tzigan, but it is immediately imputed to the intrigues of the Russian ones. As it is, the Gipsies of one
nationality have none too much friendship for the Gipsies
of another, in spite of Borrow's contention that they form
a secret society the world over. It is indeed a rare thing
when a Hungarian Gipsy woman marries a Rumanian
Gipsy man, or vice versa; and it is still a rarer occasion
when a Brazilian Gipsy or a Spanish Gipsy is permitted to
enter the clan. A white man or a white woman will be
much easier welcomed than a Gipsy of another nationality.
On Third Street, below Avenue A and down to the East
River, are housed the Brazilian Gipsies. There was some
commotion not long ago when, after a fire in one of the
houses, in which Cordoba and his family lived, a mother
bear and two little cubs were suddenly seen dragged out
into the street. The Cordobas had brought the trio into
I99




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


their home while the neighborhood was asleep. Every stitch
of clothes the whole family possessed went up in flames.
But the bear and the cubs were saved, much to the later annoyance of the Gipsies, who suddenly found themselves in
Dutch with a hundred laws and regulations. The firemen
had no sooner gone than the Gipsy family returned to the
store, boarded up the broken windows, and began to moan.
But it did not take very long before the other Brazilian
Gipsies of the neighborhood had rented another store for
them and fitted them out. For the wealth of one Gipsy is the
wealth of the tribe.
The Brazilian Gipsies are less colorful than the other
i ones. They sing less than either the Hungarian, Russian,
or Rumanian Gipsies do. And they are not as given to
fortune-telling, are not as skilful at it, as their brothers of
the skin are. Their doors are not as open to strangers.
You can open the door of almost any Gipsy family and be
received hospitably after wishing them good morning or
good evening. They will offer to show you their costumes
and their bric-a-brac, and let you finger the jewelry that
hangs on their necks and from their arms. But the Brazilian Gipsy, like the Spaniard, living under curtained windows, will only open a crack of the door, peer at you, ask
you what you want, shake his head, and close the door
before you have answered. They are neither as wealthy
nor as large-handed as the other Gipsies and are suspected,
by the Rumanians especially, of all sorts of evil things.
Indeed, I have been assured that neither cat nor dog is safe
in their vicinity, and that they eat even other things. But
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THE GIPSY QUARTERS
this is another Gipsy peculiarity, of accusing one another
and thus confusing everything.
On Fifth and Sixth Streets and on Ninth Street live the
Hungarian Gipsies. Tall, slender, curly-headed, with long, i
black, waxed mustaches, musicians all of them, they stroll
about like the lords of creation, with utter contempt for
their wives and women-folk of the tribe. The men make
their quarters apart from the women's quarters, very much
in the manner of the Mohammedans, who separate their
harems from the living space.
You can easily recognize a Hungarian Gipsy's home.
The curtains are much lower, and the people have even
taken to living in apartment-houses. Should you pass the
street slowly and listen, you will perceive the curious fiery
sound emitted by the cymbalom, their favorite musical instrument. Furious waves of music, made so familiar to
the cultivated ear through Liszt's Hungarian rhapsodies
and Brahms's Hungarian dances, will let you know that
you are in front of a Hungarian Gipsy's home. You may,
if you feel like it, go in and wish them good morning. No
pretext is needed. They are accustomed to visitors. You
will be asked to allow them to tell your fortune, and before
you know it you will be separated from some of your
money, and, seated comfortably on a low divan, you will
be smoking a cigarette while the lady of the house is urging
her daughter to play for you something on the cymbalom.
After she has played, there may be another girl in the
family who can sing, and you will be asked to listen to her
singing. When she has finished singing and you have
201




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THE GIPSY QUARTERS
given her something, another one may suddenly begin to
turn somersaults and do all sorts of gymnastics for you.
You will seldom see any male member of the family. If
they are at home, they will not even deign to rise and wish
you welcome or look at you. And if they should happen
to come in while you are there, they will pierce you through
with their small black eyes, a question or two will be asked,
and woe to the one suspected of having looked too tenderly
at any of the women of the household.
The men congregate in innumerable Hungarian restaurants of the neighborhood, restaurants and Weinstuben,
where there is great talk of this and that great musician.
When the Hungarian cymbalist, Yanosh Barti, who has
played for years at the Capitol Theater, died recently, there
was almost a riot because of the disputes between the other
musicians as to whether he was a greater cymbalom player
than another one still living. It is strange, but the pusta
children who have for centuries lived in the deserts ofi
Hungary, so isolated, so within themselves, are adapting
themselves most readily to city conditions. I have seldomi
heard talk among them of a desire to return home.
And so through the winter these nomadic races, here in
great numbers since the late war, have dotted the lower
East Side streets, the Balkans of New York, with their
winter homes, thus helping the other inhabitants to feel
more at home. Indeed, were it understood, those who are
so anxious to Americanize southeastern European people
would welcome the Gipsies among them, if it were for
nothing else but because they give that touch so necessary
to the hundred thousand people living, pining, and longing
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for their homes. They can endure Anglo-Saxon civilization much easier with the presence of their Gipsies about
them. They can forget, when it is necessary to forget,
that they are not at home. The dash of color, the dash of
song they bring, is like the special condiment needed in
order to make food palatable. There would be no festivities among the Rumanians and Hungarians and Poles, or
the Russians, if it were not for the Gipsies. It would be
impossible for them to have any festivity, christening, or
marriage (the first frequently before the last) while jazz
was played or rag songs were danced, such music being
not only meaningless to them but insufferably cruel to their
ears.
There are about thirty thousand Gipsies roaming over the
United States at present. Of that some twenty thousand
are natives, in Louisiana and New Mexico. The other ten
thousand are almost evenly distributed between the Russian, Polish, Hungarian, and Rumanian Gipsies. In the
winter, between the months of October and April, about
four thousand of them live in New York. Five hundred
or so of the men are occupied playing nightly at cabarets
and at the weddings of their co-nationals. Others are in
continual demand in the neighborhood show-houses and
vaudevilles as dancers and performers. The rest of them
are fortune-telling to fortune-hunters.
They have neither church nor any other religious institutions. Each tribe has a different religion from the others.
They have no literature and care for none. And when I
lately read to them what celebrated gipsologists had said
about Gipsies, there was great merriment among them all.
204




THE GIPSY QUARTERS
And yet, impossible as it sounds, it seems to me that
most of them who have come here will be absorbed; but in
the following manner: The Rumanian Gipsies will intermarry with the Rumanian people living here, the Russians
with the Russian, and so forth. By the time these nationalities through intermarriage absorb one another, there
will be little left of the original Gipsy blood. Such things
have already happened.
We went down one day to buy some costumes for a
theatrical production. Most of the Gipsies refused to sell.
But one family with which I am fairly well acquainted
was easily persuaded to take gold in exchange for gorgeously patterned, ample, blood-red, canary-yellow, and
field-green silken dresses. The bargain concluded, we were
still short a wedding dress for the second act. After much
palaver, the old lady consented to show us her wedding
dress, which she has kept these fifty years. It brought
forth gasps and cries of delight from Miss Mary Fowler
and Mrs. Jeanne Cassel. Gossamer spun and woven by
fairy hands in the shadow of a golden evening. But she
would not hear of selling it, the old lady. I entreated and
begged. No, it was hers. She had refused even to include
it in the dowry for her daughter. After many hours, and
when I had explained that we should be compelled to show
a Gipsy bride in an unbefitting dress, she draped it on one
of the ladies. Tears came into her eyes as she looked at
her. "Even as I looked in that myself." And then she suddenly exclaimed: "Take it as a gift. But I will not sell."
We made to leave, afraid she might change her mind.
At the door she stopped Miss Fowler. I trembled. The
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old woman's face became entreating. Her lips and eyes
had that curious shrewd smile I know so well.
"Cross your palm with silver, and I will tell your
fortune."
And she who had so magnificently given was beggingswindling-out of habit.


It is east of Third Avenue above Twentieth Street. You
will find the place easily enough in daytime. Horses are
tied out on the street, while a peculiar kind of people line
the sidewalk, some flourishing long-handled whips over
their heads, others with their riding-crops under their arms
or sticking out of their leggings.
In good days, early in the spring, the block resembles a
206




THE GIPSY QUARTERS
horse-fair in a far-off country-in any far-off country of
the world. For this is the peculiarity of the business.
Horsemen are the same the world over. McTurk of Dublin, Ciorcani the Gipsy of the Hungarian plains, Mr. Sire
of New York, and Mahbub Ali of India in Kipling's
"Kim" are one and the same person. And where horses
are sold the same methods are applied, the same language
is used in different tongues, and the environment changes
to suit the men who fill the circle.
"This heah hawse is lame. The right foh leg drags,"
says the would-be buyer.
"Lame nothing. He just favors that leg," answers the
dealer.
"Lame" is eliminated from the language of the seller.
A lame leg is a "favored" leg.
A horse is never older than thirteen years, because after
that his age can no longer be read in the age-worn teeth.
And when it comes to price, a horse is worth what you
can get.
Inside one of the half-cement, half-brick buildings the
auction is going on. The auctioneer is standing on a bench,
the buyers in a wide circle. A horse, tagged and numbered, is held in place by a young hostler, who hangs on
the short halter with all his weight to show off the spirit
of the animal. If it is a plow-horse, he stands loosely by
to impress people with its meekness, kindness, and docility;
for a runner or a trotter he has different tactics. A really
good boy is worth his weight in gold.
There is old Tom, a horse-dealing Gipsy. Everybody
knows Tom.
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I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
But he never even lifts his head when a pedigreed horse
is offered for sale. He never hears the introduction of the
auctioneer when a "blood" is brought out. He does not
care to know what the dam or sire was, and he does not
want to listen to the tale of records set on the track by
brothers, half-brothers, sisters, and half-sisters of the
horse in question.
"Them are horses for them that know nuthin' about
horse-flesh and ain't horsemen at all," is Tom-As-Is's
dictum. "It's for amatchures. That knowin' for sure all
about the animal is disgustin'. Listen to him!"
The auctioneer was reciting, refreshing his memory
from written notes: "Dam retired from track with two-ten
record. Sire with two-four. Brother now in training for
big Futurity. Winner of-"
"Do you hear him? Come out of here. I ain't in the
market for no machines. It's horse-flesh I buy. And it's
up to my eye, to my experience, to my horsemanship to
know all about a horse when I see it. The rest is gamble,
excitement. What's a man in the business for if not for
that? Why buy it if you know all it can do?"
A magnificent young colt with a long pedigree was put
up for sale. Its sensitive head was kept erect on a thin,
long neck. The red nostrils spurted fire, and the taut veins
on the buttocks and legs were quivering with excitement.
"Tom," I said, "what do you say to this fellow?"
"It's all in the pedigree; I ain't got nothing to say."
"Could I make something out of him?"
"Well, it's in the pedigree. Figure the record of the
sire and dam. If you '11 keep him well and train him well
208




THE GIPSY QUARTERS
you '11 get a fair average of the two. Nothing to get
excited about." And Tom left me.
The young colt was sold for a very small sum. There
were no "amatchures" at the sale.
Then, toward the end, No. 64 was brought out, a young
colt, part Arab, part mustang, and with a dash of thoroughbred and some other breed thrown in. There was no
pedigree, and the auctioneer called out: "As is-sold with
no guarantee."
Tom was outside the stable, but the sound of "As is"
brought him running to the circle. Instantly he was at one
of the legs and felt it knowingly and slowly from the hips
down to the hoofs. When the operation was over Tom
saw three other men, each busy feeling a leg.
He had to wait for his turn on the other legs. What a
quartet of horse-dealers! How much alike they looked to
one another! Finally they were given a chance to buy a
horse on their own personal knowledge. Then each tried
the horse for its wind and kept his observation to himself.
"Nice young colt, two years old, as is. What am I
bid for him? How much to start with?" chanted the
auctioneer.
"Twenty," said Tom-As-Is.
"Twenty, twenty, twenty, who gives twenty-five?
Twenty-five I 've got. Who gives thirty, thirty, thirty?
Thirty I've got. Who gives forty? Forty..."
Tom bid higher and higher. The others kept raising
the price. At the end the non-pedigreed, non-guaranteed
horse sold for three times the amount the pure-bred colt
had brought.
209




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"It's not knowing what goes into the making of him that
makes us expect something extra," explained Tom, as he
led the awkward creature to his stable. "He mebbe won't
make more than a tram-car horse, and mebbe he '11 break
records! Who knows? But in them pedigreed things it's
machine-like. I 'm a horseman, I am."
A horseman he is, Tom. Of the same tribe as El Zorab
in Arabia, Mahbub in India, Ciorcani on the pusta of the
Magyar land, and Mehemet Ali in the swamps of the
Dobrudja.


210




CHAPTER IX


AFRICA
U       NTIL ten years ago Harlem was a district of New
York, a suburban section within the city, inhabited
by second-generation Germans and German Jews.
To-day it is a city in itself. Negro Town. The heart and
the pulse of the colored population-of Greater New York.
Harlem cannot hold the whote colored population of New
York. Neither can the older negro district, the Fiftyninth Street section. Neither would Brooklyn. There are
obstructions and objections and restrictions everywhere
against them. The center of the colored people is in Harlem. Indeed it is the center, the intellectual center, of the
colored population of the United States.
There are between three and four hundred thousand
colored people in Greater New York. In the last census
there were not one tenth that many. But Chicago rioted
after St. Louis had gone on a "nigger spree." Atlanta,
Georgia, had its dance. Lynchings, burnings, persecutions, are the main reason why colored folk have been
flocking to New York, where a "nigger slaughter" is not
so frequent an occurrence.
All shades and all sizes. Woolly-haired, immense, halflumbering Africans as black as pitch. Brown-colored,
bronzed men and women, mahogany blonds, down through
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
all nuances, and the almost white negro, straight-haired
and blue-eyed, whom nobody suspects.
Not all white men of Europe are of the same race. Of
the same blood. Of the same faith. Not all negroes are
alike, although most of their ancestors have been ravished
from Africa. Since their arrival in this country there have
been many intermixtures into their blood. I have seen perfectly black negroes of long Spanish faces, with the cruel
penetrating eyes of the Moor and the elegant gait of
Iberians. I have met red-haired negroes with a wistful
Irish smile. I have friends of a lighter shade, from New
Orleans, where they have so thoroughly mixed with the
French they are hardly to be distinguished, with all the
love of color and softness of one race and the precision of
mind and clarity of the other. The Italians have mixed
with the negroes, and so have the Slavs and the English
and the Mexicans and the Indians.
Of these mixtures the ones with Indian blood are the
finest. The women especially-of skin like golden bronze
dyed in deep-red blood. The big gala eyes swim in clearwhite pools, and the hair is like shavings of ebony; lustrous
and rich, plaited down over trim and beautiful necks. And
there are Jewish negroes, Abyssinian Jews squat and longbearded, hook-nosed Falashas, real Jews, who because of
their color are compelled to live among people of an alien
faith instead of among their own coreligionists.
Four-h-tibred thousand negroes in New York. There
never has been suc 'aanum                  onepla
either on this continent or on any other continent. Every
twelfth person in Greater New York is a negro or has
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AFRICA
negro blood. Four out of five negroes have white blood in
them. And they arjne _the better for it. The besttEh
race has achieved was achieved by pure-blooded Africans.
They have their own life, their own dreams. More isolated
in their social relations than any other single group, their
dreams and ideals may be sectional but they are their own.
Thicker walls separate them from any other population.
Not only of color. A thousand and one aversions. A
thousand and one superstitions. A thousand and one traditions. We have been taught the negro is a different sort
of an animal. Because of his color. Because of his particular odor. Because of the coarseness of the grain of
his skin. Because of his speech. Because of his taste for
certain foods. Each of our major senses has been prejudiced against him. And yet... Four out of five negroes
have white blood. There is at least as much white blood
in the American negro race as there is black. And that is
so not because of black immorality but because of white
immorality and the inhumanity of our ancestors. The
whiter a negro the weaker he is physically. The pure
blacks are giants. When slave-dealers went to Africa they
selected the strongest specimens for work and breeding.
Only the strongest survived transportation on a slave-ship.
And yet almost everything we have of true native art in
this country is of negro origin-folk-lore, the spirituals,
jazz, the dance, and some of our best poetry. The negroes
brought that in their souls from Africa. The origin of
native American art is African.
Some of the greatest art the world has ever possessed
has grown out of slavery and oppression. Greece in her
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imperial days, Rome in her strength, Egypt in her glorious
period, have had their art produced only by slaves, by those
who suffered and endured. Those who had comfort and
leisure enjoyed what the others produced without appreciating its value. Had it not been for the great suffering in
Russia I doubt whether any of the arts which the Muscovite empire has produced would have flourished. Pushkin
was a negro. Shevchenko a slave. Any one who could
remain with dry eyes and calm heart during the singing
of spirituals by negroes should be avoided for callousness.
Any white man who could gaze into negro eyes without
horror for the wrong done them during centuries should
be... condemned to read the prophet Isaiah's fifth
chapter for the rest of his life, mornings and evenings.
Four hundred thousand negroes in one city. It has not
increased immorality. It has not increased crime. They
have their own proportion of vice and their due percentage
of criminals, neither more nor less than any other single
group in this city. They have their gambling-dens and
cabarets and houses of prostitution and corrupt politicians
and swindlers and saints and institutions and churches and
artists and novelists and musicians, exploiters and exploited, and bankers. Not one quality, not a single vice of
modern civilization is missing. They are as a matter of
fact living as separately from any other group as any other
group lives separately from them. The pity of it! For
so much lightness, so much gaiety, so much naive merriment is lost. Nowhere in the city does one hear so much
frank laughter as in the Harlem or the Brooklyn negro
sections. Nobody can laugh as engagingly as a negro. It
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AFRICA


is one of the first things that strikes a visitor that New
York is a laughless city. Somehow one leaves his ability
to laugh frankly at the outskirts of the city. But there is
laughter in Harlem, in the Brooklyn negro quarter in Bensonhurst, on Fifty-ninth Street, and even in the narrow
Carimine Street and Minetta Lane where the congestion is
such one is able to cut the air with a knife. There is
laughter and song and dance.
A friend of mine recently said to me: "Harlem! The
old Harlem is dead. I lived there all my life until not long
ago, when I was squeezed out by the negro population
invading the old section. All the Gemiitlichkeit of it is
gone. Gone are the comfortable Weinstuben, where one
could smoke his pipe and peacefully drink his glass of Rhine
wine. Gone is the old Liedertafel and the hundred and one
social organizations, and the Turnvereine and the singingclubs, where one could pass the evening peacefully. They
have all moved elsewhere, and the new places don't have
the atmosphere of the old ones. Gone the old restaurants
where one could have his Knackwurst und Sauerkraut,
served by a golden-haired, white-skinned, blue-eyed Margaretchen. Gone the agreeable homes where the rows and
rows of long-stemmed meerschaum pipes hanging from
the wall gave to every home that manly quality so dear
to the Teuton race. It used to be so pleasant to pass a
Harlem street on a summer evening. The young ladies
were accompanying their Lieder with the twanging of
the soft zither, and the stirring robust melodies from the
Lutheran churches used to fill the air on a Sunday. It
is all gone now."
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It is all gone. But in my recent long perigrinations
through the Harlem streets I have failed to see the little
notice under the "To Let" signs, "No Jews need apply,"
or the other little notices in German, "Keine Juden, und
keine Hunde." An American city with such signs on doors
-was a shame. The absence of them largely compensates
for the absence of the other things my friend so much
regretted.
At I38th and I39th Streets, between Seventh and
Eighth Avenues, are two rows of houses that were
designed by Stanford White. Built in pre-negro days,
they had been the pride of the neighborhood, houses of
fairly well-to-do white people until not very long ago. In
my eagerness to see what the negroes had done to Harlem
I visited these streets again. They were still there, the
houses, and, although inhabited every one of them by
negroes, still as beautiful, still as tasteful, still as clean.
The little bits of color in the curtains, the flower assortment on the sills and in the cement urns of the broad sidewalks, made them more agreeable than ever.
The story of the passing of those houses into negro
hands is the story of negro Harlem. Below the surface
of that story is the story of the negro migration from the
south. When the Fifty-ninth Street district around Seventh
and Eighth Avenues was no longer able to hold the negroes
of the city, even after they had been sardine-packed, Harlem was in one of her periodical real-estate slumps. The
old-fashioned railroad flats, mostly dark and cold and uniformly built, were being vacated steadily for the better
houses built in the Bronx and elsewhere. There was not
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a house but had several empty apartments. But the owners
would not rent to negroes.
In his eagerness to cover his carrying expenses, one of
the shoe-string landlords rented an apartment in the middle
of the block to a mulatto family. By the end of the month
the rest of the tenants living in that house had vacated
their apartments. By the end of the following month the
whole house was occupied by negroes. They had been living packed four and five families in one apartment in the
Fifty-ninth Street negro section before that. Tenants of
houses adjoining, to right and left and across the street,
began to abandon the block. Before winter that whole
block was a negro block. And as the negroes were not in
a position to pay rents as high as the whites who had abandoned them, the houses were up for sale very soon. They
passed into the hands of negro owners and of such white
owners as did not object to having negro tenants, expecting
to increase their rents as soon as conditions permitted. In
this respect the negro owner has, like Emperor Jones,
learned a thing or two from the white landlord.
The white population fled as if in dread of a contagious
disease. Block after block was deserted by the white tenants. Negro realtors, seeing their chance, infiltrated in
other blocks by buying a house and going in to live themselves. No one refused to sell. Dollars were dollars.
Some of the strongest objectors to negroes sold their
houses. It was enough that one negro family should come
to live in a house for the whole block to be abandoned to
them. And because of this invasion I38th and I39th
Streets, and Seventh and Eighth Avenues, though
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distant from the steady biting in of the infiltering colored
population, were being steadily abandoned. White people
vacated in advance of the invasion. The beautiful houses
designed by Stanford White stood empty for a long time,
until the bank owning the mortgages, which had been
allowed to become defaulted, decided to tear them all down
and sell the ground. The houses were a useless burden and
a loss on their hands. They could then have been bought
for five or six thousand dollars apiece, although they had
cost fully five times that amount to build. Upon the advice
of Mr. Jacques Nail, a negro student realtor, the houses,
instead of being torn down, were sold on small payments to negro tenants. The invasion, which had till then
only been from the south to the north, began to run from
the north to the south, until at present hardly a house in
that section of Harlem, between I20th Street and I4oth
Street, and between Lenox and Amsterdam Avenues, is
not inhabited by colored people. Churches, banks, stores,
theaters, the power to grant political offices, municipal
offices, everything has passed into the hands of negroes.
A city in itself, brown, black town, Harlem. And the
negroes have not left Harlem as they found it. A visit
to Harlem would help dispel the idea that "niggers" are
shiftless-when they have an incentive for their worksomething more than corn and sow-belly. But it will also
teach how prejudice might, because of enforced congestion,
cause one of the most serious holocausts this or any other
city has ever experienced. As it is, the infant death-rate
is just keeping pace with the birth-rate among the negroes
of Harlem.
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The beautiful Abyssinian Baptist Church on I38th
Street has the Rev. Dr. Powell as pastor. It was designed
by a negro architect, built by a negro contractor, with
negro labor from and moneys collected from negroes in
the city. Not a thing within the church, but it has been
done by negro hands. The pastor, a tall, colored man,
with a thunderous voice and big curly head of hair, looks
very much like the picture of Alexandre Dumas, who was
himself of negro blood. I am yet to listen to a better choir
than the one directed by the choir-leader of that church.
I am yet to listen to a better church organist than the colored woman treading the pedals and combining the stops
of the magnificently voiced organ of that church. This
church, like most other negro churches, is really more than
a church. It is a social center. At a service on a Sunday the pastor comments upon the political events that
have taken place during the week, and sways the audience
to his view by his thunderous oratory. He speaks as
much of earthly events as he praises the Lord. Not a
thing that has happened in the world escapes him; and he
is not afraid to denounce the things he does not agree
with.
At one of the recent services Dr. Powell announced the
church was going to have classes for instruction in sex
conducted by capable physicians. Children of all ages were
urged to come, and there were also classes for the parents.
As far as I know it is the first time that such a course has
ever been undertaken by a church. Dr. Powell does not
hold that ignorance is bliss in all matters. "Why dodge
the sex question when the living are a testimony to its
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existence?" he thundered. "It is because of ignorance that
so many diseases have spread."
There are numerous courses and classes within that
church. It has an employment bureau, sewing-classes,
cooking-classes, a gymnasium; and the Rev. Dr. Powell
showed me with great pride his home. "Furnished very
much as the best homes on Riverside Drive, so that a
colored girl coming here looking for employment in one
of the better homes might, by helping to take care
of my apartment, learn how to work and earn her wages
elsewhere," he explained. "The Southern negro girl
on coming here must be helped to become a capable
worker."
At the revival meetings, while hymns and spirituals were
sung, the old folks "got religion." The women, in shrill,
piercing voices, screamed out: "Yea, Lord! Yea, Lord!
Yea, Lord!" while the droning voices of the multitude
moaned and wailed. Voices break out, self-denunciatory
and praying for the Lord to come to their aid and save
them and protect them against the evil spirit that is within.
The whole congregation joins in prayer, only to be interrupted by another rousing voice citing a whole chapter
from the Bible and commenting upon it. Rising to his
feet, another man is so moved that he completely loses control of the tongue he has been using, and passes on to an
incomprehensible gibberish, into a language and tongue he
himself no longer understands, a subconscious language if
one may say so, which has been stirred from centuries past,
beyond the time of other days, like under-enharmonics of
life-the base of all emotions and reactions. Really, these
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people have religion. They go to church not as an obligatory call, a duty, a formality. It is part of them.
I saw a young white boy of splendid physique and beautiful blond hair and blue eyes distributing literature to the
folks between hymns. "Surely," I asked Walter White,
-who was with me, "this young boy is not colored."
"He is," Walter, who is himself blond and blue-eyed
and fair-skinned, answered me. "Only one drop of colored blood makes a white man a negro, but nine tenths of
white blood in a colored man do not make him a white
man. It has been so decreed. See how white he is.
Should he live among white people and should they find
out he is of negro ancestry they would draw away from
him as if he were the worst kind of criminal."
At another time, on coming to services at the same
church, in company with Miss Rebecca West, the English
novelist, we saw a number of white women and white men
in the church who could unsuspectingly pass anywhere as
white people. At St. Philip's Church, on I35th Street, in
the Bible class of the Rev. Mr. Bishop, who himself looks
more like a patrician Italian than a negro (this church was
also designed, built, and constructed by negro labor), I
saw a beautiful, golden-haired, blue-eyed girl. She was
as fair to behold as any golden beauty I have ever seen.
"And is she a negress?" I asked the Rev. Mr. Bishop.
"Of course she is," he answered in the most matter-offact tone.
"But golden-haired?" I questioned, and passed on to
other matters.
And then I understood a good many other things. I
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understood why there are so many supposedly white women
married to colored men in the negro quarters! Why there
are so many white men married to colored women in the
negro quarters! I remembered a girl friend, whose desk
had been next to mine on a local newspaper, whom everybody had condemned because she had married a colored
man and gone to live among colored people. I remembered
the case of a man whose wife, seemingly white, gave birth
to a colored child, and the woman, rather than confess her
race, preferred to be divorced on the ground of infidelity.
She wanted to free herself of the negro Ghetto, free herself of persecution and restrictions. And I also remembered another case where, in spite of the opprobrium of
all who knew him, a friend of mine took his blond wife and
negro child abroad, for he was the only one who knew; the
wife had confessed her race to him. And I was told of
another man who had crossed the line and married into a
white family, but who committed suicide when his first
child was born, not because his wife had withdrawn her
love but because he had hoped to free his offspring from
the opprobrium.
But there are many more negroes, men and women, who
have successfully crossed the line, many more than we care
to know or to admit. And, oh! the tragedies caused by
nature's playful and wilful ways with these people. A
blond child will be born to two perfectly matched negroes,
a black child to two perfectly matched blonds.
There are a hundred little churches housed in apartment
ground floors, with little window-pane pictures of the
saints pasted on the panes of the windows and gold-lettered
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wooden signs on the wall. Some of them have the most
fantastic names-Eureka Church, Oasis Church, and the
like. And services are announced in the quaintest possible language, in removable enameled letters. The reason
for these many small churches is to be found in what follows. A colored man after having lived in New York for a
little time returns home, South, on a visit. Going to church
on Sunday the brother is asked by the preacher to step up
to the front and to tell to his brethren about the great city.
The visiting brother is well dressed, looks prosperous and
happy. He generally draws such a glorious picture of the
opportunities, the tolerance and the economic conditions
here that the whole community, including minister, doctor, and undertaker, follows him to the city within a week
or two. The hardships they encounter could only be braved
and vanquished by laughing, gay-hearted folk. Any other
kind would succumb.
Within the last year close to five hundred thousand
negroes have migrated from the South. It is because of
this that housing conditions in Harlem and in other negro
quarters are appalling. Really no one would dare publish
the result of investigations on the density of the population
in some of the Harlem districts, or the Brooklyn districts
for that matter. The danger of the colored invasion once
past, because these houses had passed into colored hands,
rents were raised until they are to-day, relatively speaking,
probably the highest in the city. Apartments for which
white people had paid a few years ago forty dollars a
month are now rented for a hundred dollars or more. Families have doubled up, and tripled up, to pay the exorbitant
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rents from the wages obtained in such occupations as are
open to the negroes. One must not forget that only a very\
few occupations are within their reach. Trade-unions have\
long refused them membership. Whenever they have won 
such privileges, it was only for fear lest they be used as
strike-breakers during an industrial war. As it is, many
trades have barred them from the possibility of earning a
living.
There is greater privacy in the low dives and cabarets,
in the streets, in the dark hallways, in the numerous saloons
which flourish in spite of white prohibition, than in the
homes. Because of high rents less than a hundred colored
children graduate yearly from the high schools of the city.
They must work. There would be starvation in many a
home of negroes if child-labor laws should be strictly enforced. High rents caused by segregation are the cause
of the black immorality and lawlessness and of the blind
pigs leaning on the walls of the police stations. The white
messenger who collects the protection money has his drinks
served in his own cup which he carries in his pocket, and
complains of black immorality! Most of the expensive
dives in Harlem are supported by white customers, who
complain of black immorality. If the blacks should do to
the whites what the whites do to the blacks for insults to
women there would be a hundred lynchings daily in New
York.
Chris Matthews, formerly one of Harvard's greatest
athletes, related to me the other day on his visit from Boston how for a year he had been refused by his team-mates
permission to eat at the same training-table with them.
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In Annapolis they had drained the water from the pool after he had taken his swim, in spite of the fact that he had
been instrumental in winning the championship for his
team. I have listened for hours to tales of riots and lynchings, as told by Miller and Lyles, the co-authors of "Shuffle
Along" and "Runnin' Wild," and to the tales of Walter
White and Wendell Johnson; but the tale of the lynching of
Matthews' soul seems to me the most tragic one. Though
his body still lives, they have killed him.
And in spite of that, and in spite of all the misery they
have endured, what joy and gaiety and merriment the
negroes are capable of! What full-throated laughter, what
spontaneous giggling, in which every limb and the whole
body takes part in an expression of joy or merriment!
Heinrich Heine in one of his essays said that the dance is
the song of the limbs. The colored people have made laughter the dance of the inner voices.
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There are some six weekly newspapers edited and pub- 
lished by colored people for colored people in the city, not i
to speak of several magazines of more serious import. The
professional men of all walks meet and know one another
thoroughly. There are numerous lodges and groups and
societies where they come to discuss things. Like the intellectuals in other districts, they also have their coffeehouses, where they stay till the wee hours of the morning
talking about this and that.
At the Abyssinian Jewish Synagogue the black-bearded,
dusky-faced men affirm that Moses, Jesus, and Solomon,
and David were Ethiopians like themselves. They point
to numerous passages in the Bible, interpreting them this
way and that to confirm their views and opinions. They sit
day after day, night after night, discussing the Old Testament, which they have at their finger-tips, in the old
Hebrew, With that curious separatist spirit so marked in
the Orient, the few hundred Abyssinian Jews are split into
a hundred factions, because of the interpretation of a verse
in the Bible. They are the butt of the ridicule of the other
negroes, who take their religious argumentation but lightly.
Yet these people come to dispute religion even in the Christian churches. Their propaganda fervor holds perhaps the
explanation why the Jews are so disliked by Gentiles. The
apostles must have been as insistent propagandists. And
those who finally accepted the creed continued to dislike
them for their methods. How little color has to do with
the marked characteristics of a race or a nation! In their
studiousness, their sad humor, and their lack of ability to
laugh as loudly and as frankly as others, they show them227




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selves to be much more Hebrews than the white Hebrews
are. And when I asked one of them what he would really
wish his condition in New York to be he said, "To live
among the other Jews." They resent the epithet "negro,"
and their inability to mingle with their white brethren of
the same religion makes them bitter against their privileged
coreligionists. And one of them told me, "There is no
chance of any of us ever crossing the line; for there is no
white blood in us."
And his wife stood up in her enormous corpulence and
added, "And there shall not be."
To which her husband replied, "Except if a white coreligionist marries into our fold."
They are very poor, for their children also are forced
into poorly paid professions because of their color. Most
handicrafts are closed to them. The negro is not persecuted
in New York. He is segregated and tolerated. Only the
poorest-paid work is open to him whose skin is not white.
One night I was sitting at a table with two negroes and
their wives at one of the "protected" cabarets of the town.
There were about a hundred people in the establishment,
but I was the only man in street-clothes. They were all immaculately dressed. The women were resplendent in
gorgeous gowns. Rivers of diamonds were displayed shining brightly in the subdued lights of the place. They
danced, frantically, joyously, with the most sensuous abandon of body and spirit, to the jazz played by a gyrating
band, the musicians actually dancing on the platform while
they played. The drinks were unusually expensive, and
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though because of their profession, which I suspected, the
visitors should have known better, the only difference in
the wine, in spite of the different prices, was the color
and the shape of the bottle in which it was served.
My male companions at the table did not wait long to
strike up friendship. A tall, corpulent man leaned over to
me and questioned gently:
"Your name, please."
I told him. Whereupon he rose and ceremoniously introduced me to the rest of the company. He eyed with displeasure the bottle in which my wine was served, for it
was not of the highest priced. It shamed his table. The
other tables topped one another in the costliness of the
drinks that were ordered. He asked me politely to consent
to partake of his wine. When I had consented he spilled
my wine in the brass bowl and put the empty container
under the table out of sight. As the waiter did not appear
quickly enough to suit him, Mr. Smith raised his eyebrows
and said:
"Is it not remawrkable ho' these ma-an servants are procrastinating?"
"They are procrastinating!" the other assented, happy
to mouth so high-sounding a word. "Yes, sir, they is procrastinating; yes, sir!"
While the music played and the dancing women exhibited
their diamond-studded garters through the slit in their
gowns, and the phosphorescent white combs in their hair
were gleaming, he inquired of my profession. And then he
spoke of his.
"The other gentleman, Mr. Jones, and I is partners. I's
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a sci'ntist and di'tishon and chemist. A sci'ntist, that's
what I is, a di'tishion. There are plenty of learned folk in
Harlem, sir."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, that's what I is. We two, my partner and me, is
going to change the color of our race and make it happy.
We are going to make 'em white, so they can live everywhere and go everywhere and be even the President of the
United States. The only trouble with the colored race is
that it ain't white. Not that I says we is inferior! No, sir!
Only when you are in Rome you've got to be like Romans,
as Lincoln said. So we will make 'em white."
"Is that so?"
"All this straightening out hair business, permanent
wave, is not the thing; ain't near the real thing. The hair
is like tassel on corn. To change it you must change the
seed. It is not sci'ntific. I am a di'tishion. I believe in
doing things fundamentally."
Suddenly he raised his voice and looked to the people
about him. People crowded our table now, though the
music played.
"Why am the Northern people blond? Why am they
blond, I asks." And his large belly shook like jelly while
his black eyes rolled furiously in the white pools. "I say
they am blond because they eats fish; cold-blooded animals
they eat. And because of that they have fair skin and
blond hair. Color comes from within, and not from outside. That is sci'ntific. But you cannot change the whole
colored race into a white race at once. Burbank he ain't
done changing the nature of fruit by paintin' it. You 've
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got to do it sci'ntifically. And through the mothers
especially. None of the hair-culture is the real business,
although it does come in in my scheme, for religious purposes. And so when a woman has got sense enough to come
to me I look at her and study the grain of her face. Then
if she is very black I prescribe a diet of fish with a little
vegetables three times a day. And I give her the right kind
of face-powder. And it's the face-powder I's interested
in with my partner here."
Mr. Jones puffed at his cigar and bowed in acknowledgment.
"Still, the business is idealistic, it is. But there ain't
no reason in the world why ideals should be losing propositions! No, siree! And if a woman of lighter shade comes
up I give her a diet of two-times-a-day fish and a little more
vegetables three times a day. And I give her the right kind
of face-powder, a little lighter. For it's the face powder
I's interested in with my partner here. And the right kind
of face-powder. And if a woman whiter than that comes
she gets fish only once a day and the use of a different
kind of face-powder. And I knows face-powder because
I's been interested in face-powder all my life. There are
eight hundred and forty-nine different kinds of facepowder to choose from. And I selects the right kind after
studying the grain of the face and the hands. I's a
di'tishion and a sci'ntist, a chemist."
"And then you think that will straighten out a woman's
hair?" I asked.
"I ain't interfering with another end of my business;
that is hair-culture. No, siree! But do you knows the
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Bible? Do youse know the Bible? I asks." He waxed more
enthusiastic as he continued. "Do you remember how
Jacob got them striped sheep from his father-in-law Laban?
He fooled him by putting the half-peeled branches from the
trees in front of the water-well, where the ewes used to
come to drink. And so most of the sheep were born flecked
because the ewes looked at them. Well, do you remember it?"
I nodded.
"Well, that am exactly how I do the things. Nothing like
the Bible for an honest man. Study the Bible for ideas.
It's all in there, in the good book. The good book. There
ain't no gold enough to pay for it. I loves it. I do. I got
in my house the most expensive Bible there is. Gold bound
and everything. I have a woman eat fish and give her the
proper shade of face-powder, and she '11 be looking into
the mirror at herself a dozen times a day. Women is that
fallacious, vain, and perspicacious. And watch her offspring. That is sci'ntific. Like Laban's lambs got striped,
her offspring is gwine to be whiter.... It's in the
Bible, sir. If you believe in the Bible, you can't dispute this
here fact, or you is a heathen. For I's a sci'ntist and
di'tishion and benefactor and a student."
I told him he was wonderful, whereupon a dozen more
gentlemen and ladies, evidently already the clients of the
firm of Smith & Jones, crowded our table. And my friend
affirmed to them that I had said it was wonderful.
"And this gentleman knows, for he is a celebrated sci'ntist himself, and a student of the Bible."
Who will ever imitate the nice jollity and naivete of the
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man? The music played, and the couples danced, and as they
passed by the women patted his cheek assuring him that he
was wonderful. And they were getting such tender and
sweet glances in return! Even his own wife, who was with
him, in a fit of amorous tenderness could not hold her arms
away from his neck or her lips away from his. And it was
not drunkenness that had done it, not the wine in the bottle.
A little later I questioned the man as to the status of certain white and colored women who came and went. Too
delicate to say in the presence of his wife and the other
persons what he thought they were, yet unwilling to leave
me in error, he closed his eyes for a little second, and then
explained:
"Them is the kind of women who permit a man to assume with them marital relations without legal obligations."
What a perfect Gilbert & Sullivan line! What fine, delicate phrasing!
There are a hundred, a thousand, different charlatans of
his kind in Harlem, who want to make the colored people
happy by making them look like whites. Every other house
on the avenue holds a practitioner of some sort. The colored people are easily separated from their money. They
are naive and confident. Not only all the sciences but also
all the superstitions flourish in like manner. There are a
horde of representatives of schools of medicine I have never
heard of. Podopractors, manopractors, pedipractors-doctors all of them.
In the anteroom of the famous place of Barron Wilkins,
which is practically a spiritual continuation of the old
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Marshall place, so famed in days gone by, Marshall's place
which was the origin of all cabaret life in New York City
-in the anteroom of Barron Wilkins's a group of colored
men discuss intensely sociology, housing conditions, medicine, psychology. Big, powerful Wilkins, whose pull with
police and politicians is greater than that of any of the
other four hundred thousand negroes in the city, sits and
listens intently to the discussion. There is a tender, loving
gaze in his eyes as he watches every one having his say. He
seldom says anything, but how he reads down to the very
soul of the man who is talking, analyzing the wisdom and
sincerity of what is uttered! His entrance, while the conclave is sitting, is like that of some governor or other high
political person. There is power vested in him. He comes
in, six feet three in his stockings, proportionately broad
and stout, with a loud call of "Good evening, gentlemen!"
Every one rises to his feet. "Be seated." And uncovering
his gray head, he nods as he occupies his chair.
Wilkins's place on I34th Street is a club. Only members
are admitted. It opens on week-days at about eleven o'clock
P. M., officially, but the place really never gets started
before one o'clock at night. It is frequented by white men,
with only a sprinkling of negroes, although it is known as
a colored man's cabaret. Bons viveurs from all the.strata
of society, financiers, lawyers, and theatrical people, with
their women or in search of them, are dancing to the negro
jazz band, while expensive food and drinks are being
served at the tables, and the thick smoke of cigars and perfumed cigarettes hovers low over the white-haired heads
of the males and the wavy hair of the females.
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do much service in this luxuriously fitted-out cabaret. But
what charm! What exoticism! One easily forgets that all
Harlem is not like it! Harlem, the Harlem of the poor,
overcrowded, underfed, with children crippled with rickets
and scurvy.
Wilkins's has undergone several changes in the last
years until it has chameleoned to its present form. It is no
longer the happy-go-lucky place of the time when it was
partly owned by Jack Johnson, he with the big laugh and
flashing teeth. Somehow one feels that the loose ends have
been pulled together by a more expert hand in affairs than
Jack's. Jack's fingers were wide open; gold just flowed between them. In its present form Wilkins's is the rich man's
black and white cabaret. Southern gentlemen coming to
the city, who cannot very well get on without negro society,
are the first to look it up; and they learn to know after an
experience or two that they must be on their guard. No
affront or insult to the colored race would be suffered by
any one of Wilkins's associates.
Another well-known cabaret is the Nest, one of the owners of which is part Italian and part negro. It has the reputation of having the best dance band in town. Its clientele
is more evenly divided between blacks and whites. The
white attendance outnumbers the black only on a Saturday
or Sunday night. It is also a very luxurious and expensively fitted-out place. It is Broadway's next.
There are any number of other cabarets, some with very
sinister names, like the Bucket of Blood, where the "goingson" seem to be put on to attract the rubberneck looking for
extraordinary sensations. And there are any number of
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"genuine" places 'way below Lenox Avenue frequented by
Harlem's population of below par, bootleggers, prostitutes,
pickpockets, gangsters, and all that the Bowery once held of
the white man. No one seems to bother much about them.
Wine, whisky, and narcotics are sold freely. The police are
in on everything. I once saw a Southern gentleman punch
a negro who had offered a white powder to a white woman.
The gentleman did not resent the traffic. He was himself
an addict. He resented the commerce between a black
man and a white woman. He resented the familiarity.
Even the degenerating dope had not softened the Southerner's contempt for the negro. That accident explained
why so many negroes leave the South yearly.
The advent of Marcus Garvey, who styled himself the
Emperor of the African race a few years ago, has had
very much to do with the factionalization of Harlem. The
full-blooded negro was made to feel, through Garvey's
propaganda, that he was better than his brother of lighter
skin. The blacker the greater the pride. And a thousand
and one disputes have been going on since Marcus Garvey's
advent. Undoubtedly this negro Moses started out as a
saint with high ideals, with great love in his heart. His desire to take his people out of this country and lead them
back to Africa had a solid emotional background. It was
unfortunate that he should have become involved in the
financial intricacies which ultimately led him to jail. He
was a picturesque and imposing figure with a sad and eloquent voice and magnetic gestures. Somewhat of a poseur,
yet-genuine. There are any number of people to this day
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in Harlem who still believe he was honest and who cannot
be convinced that he ever swung aside a single penny which
they gave him. They bought shares in the different enterprises that he started; and the Black Star Line, so much
scoffed at when its lone vessel was confiscated by the prohibition agents for carrying whisky, is still something of
which they dream. "Garvey was jailed," they say, "because
he is colored." They will tell you big interests were behind
his persecution. He was a black genius of organization and
therefore dangerous. Some even spoke of him as the
Gandhi of the negroes-a Gandhi nipped in the bud.
Marcus Garvey's influence is still strong in Harlem. It
has worked havoc in the relations between the West Indian
negro and the native negro. This antagonism breaks out
in all fields. It is of frequent occurrence that a West Indian ruins another negro in business. They boycott one another's stores, restaurants, and dancing-places. There is
no peace between the West Indian negro and the rest of the
population. They neither associate nor intermarry, and
seldom if ever belong to the same society, lodge, or congregation. It also so happens that the West Indian negroes
are of more astute commercial make-up than the other
negroes. Most of them have become quite wealthy in a
very short time. They are not as happy-go-lucky as the
other negroes. They save and invest their moneys in sound
ventures, and do not part with their gold for hair-culture
salves and the like. They are seldom as profoundly stirred
in their emotions as the others are. They take religion
more casually. They don't dance as well. And one of my
colored friends said, "They are the Jews of the colored
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race"; by which he evidently meant to say, the business
men of the people. They are quite satisfied to stay black,
are proud of their race. There is less white blood in them
than in the native negro.
A most interesting little man is Mr. Roach, the owner
of the Renaissance Dancing Hall. A wealthy man and
influential in the community is this Mr. Roach. He confessed to me he had once had literary ambitions, and had
drawn his inspiration by being a cook for Mr. Irving Bacheller. Later on he became a servant to a Miss Watkins
whose writings he admired. But it availed him naught. He
had great difficulty. Write as he would, imitating as closely
as possible either of his two masters, his stuff did not sell.
In despair he became a valet to Mr. Wilton Lackaye, the
actor, whereupon he promptly had better luck by selling a
moving-picture scenario for sixty-five dollars. This made
him think about pictures. To-day he owns a picture theater,
has invested in a colored production company, and is the
proprietor of several buildings and dancing halls. Had
any of his stories been accepted he would to-day be a publisher.
A little below the Renaissance, on Lenox Avenue, is the
Lafayette Theater, once the home of the Ethiopian Players, of which Charles Gilpin, now of national fame, was
once a prominent member. The Ethiopian Players have
produced a number of negro actors who have won national
fame. They have staged Shaksperian plays, plays by Shaw,
Oscar Wilde, Ibsen, and plays by local authors, mostly on
negro subjects.
There are a number of very remarkable dramatic art
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readers who from time to time are called to read before
the many cultural organizations of the district. At present,
the Ethiopian Players having been disbanded, the
Lafayette Theater is a vaudeville house, in which mixed
acts are being staged. It is one of the most popular
houses of the neighborhood, and plans are again on foot
for the Lafayette Players to start in a new series of
productions.
Among interesting Harlem figures are men like Dr. Dubois, the editor of "The Crisis," and James Weldon Johnson, the poet, whose commemoration of the fiftieth
anniversary of the emancipation of the negro was published
in the "New York Times" in I9I3. It was one of the most
widely discussed poems of the year. His poem,. "The
Young Warrior," set to music by H. T. Burleigh, almost
became the national hymn of Italy during the World War.
Mr. Johnson has published several books of poetry of his
own, and is the editor of "The Book of American Negro
Poetry," published by Harcourt, Brace & Co. Walter F.
White, my companion during my Harlem days, is a novelist and one of the best known figures in Harlem. Welcomed
everywhere, known everywhere, a fluent talker and fiery
orator, as ready with tears in his eyes as he is with a smile
on his lips, he knows Harlem and knows his people. He
is, for this and many other reasons, one of the most valuable assets of the negro race. He has investigated almost
every riot and lynching for the past ten years; and should
one want a nightmare, without going to the trouble of eating Welsh rabbit, and meet with Walter White, he can
have it. 1/{ -'.
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Claude McKay, the author of "Harlem Shadows,"
though a Jamaica negro, is one of the most pampered poets
of Harlem. Young, handsome, and fiery, with undeniable
talent, he is loved by everybody, and even his escapades
are being recounted with great gusto. McKay is now in
Russia, the guest of the Soviet Republic. Another interesting figure was Mrs. Lillie C. Walker, who became both
famous and wealthy from her hair-straightening process.
Branches of her parlor are now in operation all over the
country, and her bottled preparation is selling in almost
every drug store. Mrs. Walker, who in her lifetime made
several million dollars through her invention, and from
shrewd real-estate investments, was also a speaker and a
singer and one of the most race-conscious negroes in the
country. When she died she left her estate to her daughter, who, a most handsome Amazon, as though hewn out of
dark bronze, stands fully six feet in her stockings. She is
living in great luxury in a palace she has had designed and
built for herself by a negro architect, in Irvington, New
York, surrounded by all the luxuries of life and by social
secretaries. A well-traveled and cultured woman, she, too,
is a very proud negro. Her father having been killed in
a riot, she is anything but passive on the subject. Rising
from her chair as she talked to me, she looked more like
an African empress than the offspring of a former slave.
Speaking about negroes whose relatives and parents have
been killed either in riots or in lynchings, her frame
trembled, her lips quivered, and her eyes filled. She looked
like an avenging Nemesis. But white Irvington objects
to her living there. She is as isolated as if she lived on an
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island a thousand miles from a shore... except
when her own people come to visit with her.
In general, what one feels very distinctly in Harlem is
that it is composed practically of two elements: those
whose ambition it is to "cross the line" or have their offspring cross the line, to live with the whites as whites; and
another much better element who refuse to live with whites
under false pretenses, who want to live as negroes, raceconscious, who hope by their achievements to compel the
white people surrounding them to recognize them as their
equals. And they insist that their best men have been fullblooded negroes. To them the great number of people now
invading Harlem and New York is very agreeable. They
have them all together. They can hold meetings with
larger crowds. They can lecture to them. They can make
them race-conscious and with their help agitate for such
legislation as is favorable to the race.
At a meeting in a church, when their greatest woman
orator, Mary Burrows, spoke, they raised a young fortune
in ten- and twenty-dollar bills for propaganda work. She
made it quite plain that the negro was no longer going to
submit as he has done heretofore.
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"America must awaken or she will find herself weighted
down with a millstone on the neck that will drag her to the
lowest depths," she thundered, speaking about anti-lynching bills.
People like her and the crowd of the Association for the
Advancement of Colored People are laboring for the education of the negro by making his life more complete, by
pointing out to him values in literature, by making him
conscious of a poetry all his own, a theater all his own, encouraging sculpture and painting and higher education;
building a new edifice on an old foundation, by pointing out
the great arts that flourished in Africa in olden times and
down to the time their ancestors were ravished from the
coasts of Africa and brought as slaves here. Native music
and dance are almost entirely of negro origin. A visit to
musical comedies such as "Shuffle Along" and "Runnin'
Wild," which have been tremendous hits on Broadway and
in most of the principal cities of the country, proves their
contention. These comedies have been written, staged, and
executed from first to last by negroes, and have a quality
all their own. The tunes and dances are both intoxicating
and infectious. Not one risque or obscene joke. And yet
the woman dancers have been forced into tights by our
censors, while the white dancers in revues and follies romp
bare-limbed in other theaters. And when a man like H. O.
Tanner, the painter, becomes famous, the negroes get angry
because he is referred to as an American painter, and not
as a negro, which he is.
At the moment of writing I am informed that negro
realtors have bought two blocks of real estate formerly
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belonging to the Astor estate, on i I6th Street below Lenox
Avenue. That will relieve in part Harlem's congestion of
population. What will soon happen can be readily foreseen. Within a short year the blocks between the newly
acquired property and 125th Street will be vacated by the
white population and become part of negrodom. One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, the Broadway of Harlem,
has till now resisted all invasion, but its days are numbered. Every group section in this city has its own amusement center, its own Main Street; I25th Street is the natural Main Street of Harlem.
How prejudice against negroes has been melted in New
York is perhaps best illustrated by the recent enormous success of the singer Roland Hayes. For years and years this
great artist sought an opportunity to show his ability and
his great art. It was refused to him only because of his
color. Managers raised their brows. No white public
would come to hear a negro singer, they said. In despair
Hayes went to England, where in less than a year after
his arrival he had been summoned to sing before the king.
When he returned to New York on a visit to his parents in
1923, he found quite a different attitude. His success was
overwhelming. I counted four white persons out of every
five in the audience at some of his concerts. And although
he sang very beautifully in several languages, he never
reached such heights or depths as when singing the simple
spirituals of his own race. Even those who had come to
scoff remained to praise and admire, and looked at one
another somewhat ashamed of themselves.
Daily hundreds of negroes arrive in New York from
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every Southern State. It is pathetic to see the eagerness
with which the other negroes, poor and overcrowded as
they live, extend to them their hospitality. Yet hundreds
find themselves on the street. The Harlem Forum, where
many are taken care of out of charity, is overcrowded
nightly with shivering, ragged, hungry creatures, who look
as though they have just escaped from hell. There is no
f way to stop the invasion. There is no way to enlarge the
i houses in which negroes live. Space inclosed by walls is
rigid. Segregation breeds immorality, criminality, disease, and increases mortality, One twelfth of the population of a city cannot harmlessly be restricted to live in one
fortieth of its area, and be excluded from most decent
means of earning its livelihood. Prostitution, bootlegging,
and charlatanism are rampant on every corner. The saloons
are wide open. So are gambling-dens and dope joints. I
have been accosted by boys under twelve who offered to sell
me gin, while the policeman on the corner twirled his club
and looked aside. I have been winked at by women from
windows and doorways of houses before which children
played dice. Rents are high. Wages are small. Tradeunions are adverse. And yet... Harlem goes earlier
to work than any other district. Street-cleaners, dishwashers, chauffeurs, elevator men, and home-sleeping servant-girls have to be early at work. And at night ten thousand men, exceedingly well dressed and looking more prosperous than the others, go to their employment; for that
many are nightly employed in cabarets and dance-halls as
musicians.
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And yet...watch them in the street-cars, subways, and elevated trains. They laugh and giggle. The
eyes sparkle and the white teeth flash; recounting last
night's dance, last night's party, last night's meeting, last
night's affair at the church. Never do they call one another
by Christian names. It is always "mister," "missis." And
when one of them recently gave me his visiting card it
read:
MR. ELEAZAR GODSON
Chief Indoor Aviator
etc., etc.
I puzzled long before I discovered "Indoor Aviator" meant
elevator man, and that "Of. Hygienist Bureau" meant
Street Cleaning Department.
If another such displacement of negroes from the south
to the north should take place in I924 as took place in I923,
when close to five hundred thousand abandoned their home
States, the day is not far off when there shall be a negro
population of a million in the city. Their political power
is already a considerable one. Political machinery is at
work to swing it this way and that, in exchange for winkedat privileged liberties and favors. Whether the negroes in
New York can be permanently segregated in one particular
quarter is very problematical.
And one of them bitterly remarked to me the other day:
"They sing our songs, the whites do. They dance to the
music we make. They dance our dances. And the bullets
made no difference when they killed us in the war, whether
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we were white or black. And yet when it comes to renting
us an apartment they turn up their noses. As soon as I get
enough money I shall go to live in France where they don't
discriminate against us."


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CHAPTER X


IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES
S    UPPOSE you want to go from Africa, in Harlem, to
the Balkan countries. One might very profitably do
the trip on foot and thus hurriedly pass by many remarkable buildings, chief of which, if one would take the
westward road, is the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, one
of the most imposing buildings in the country. From the
Amsterdam Avenue side, at night especially, it awes one
with its massiveness and power. The circle of its squat
dome against the sky makes it look much more like a giant
center of a mosque than a Christian church. With the moon
over it, the grayness of its facade of stone, back of the imposing wide steps, is a never-to-be-forgotten sight. The adjoining buildings, belonging to the cathedral, detached
though they are, seem like fledglings of some giant bird
ready to crawl under its wings, so airy is the whole structure in spite of its enormous size. Looked at from the back,
from Columbus Avenue, the edifice loses none of its magnificence as it slopes down the hill.
A little further down are the college buildings with their
portals ornate and Florentine, suggesting entrances to inner villas and palaces; they are built very much in the
sugar-candy style so dear to Florentine architects of a
few centuries ago. Passing street by street on foot, one
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catches glimpses of the Hudson River, silvery and shimmering. From a distance through the narrow streets one
gets the feeling he is looking through one of these oldfashioned stereoscopes, so fixed is the sight because of the
tall, styleless buildings that slope down from Amsterdam
Avenue to Riverside Drive. There is a sweet smell of burning wood that comes from across the river early in the
spring, when the bushes are being burned in Edgewater or
Hackensack. And in the summer the houses, partly hidden
by the green growth on top of the Palisades, are like toys
in a fairy-land. At night the glimmer of the lights on the
boats passing on the blue waters, the spread of an occasional white sail fluttering in the wind or lying flabby in
the calm, the myriads of lights across the river advertising
this and that, enhance the fairy illusion.
From this side of the town you would want to take the
bus that goes along the river to Seventy-second Street, and
then swings eastward to Broadway, going through part of
the western town to Fifty-seventh Street. You will have
more than a glimpse of the Fifty-ninth Street circle, with
an entrance to Central Park on the eastern side, and on
the western side a row of theatrical buildings, gorgeously
illuminated with lamps of all colors in an attempt to compete with the lower part of Broadway and to hold that
part of the population there for its commerce as well as
for its pleasure.
The bus swings then into Fifty-seventh Street, passing
by Carnegie Hall. And if it is not late and it is the right
season you will see thousands of people waiting outside for
the opening of the gates and doors, within which this or
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IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES
that celebrated musician is to play within the next half-hour
or so. Young men and young women in their street-clothes,
just from work, though tired, stand in line for hours, waiting for the moment when they can buy the cheaper tickets
which will permit them to enjoy music from the upper
galleries. For to the population of New York, the French,
German, Russian, Jewish, and Balkan populations, music
is much more of a necessity than a luxury. A good many
of these working-men and working-girls, earning their
meager salaries in factory or sweat-shop or by clerking in
stores, spend more for concerts and serious dramatic presentations than they do for clothes, and many of them would
forego half a dozen breakfasts in the morning so as to
have the price of a ticket for a concert. By listening to
music of composers of their own countries they compensate
themselves for the loss of other joys and of more intimate
pleasures they had in their own homes.
But the bus goes on. You are on Fifth Avenue before
you have had time to look around and observe a little more.
You are being rushed through Fifth Avenue without many
stops except one at Forty-second Street to let the traffic
pass from the west to the east or from the east to the west.
Another stop at Fourteenth Street for the same purpose,
and then, instead of going to the end of the bus-line at
Washington Square and passing through the arch on the
site of which was once the public gallows, stop at Eighth
Street and walk eastward. You may see again a large
crowd, at the doors of the Cooper Union Institute; in fact,
very frequently a larger crowd than around Carnegie Hall.
The crowd is composed not only of those who are eager to
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listen to some celebrated speaker or to some one who has
just returned from Europe and brings tidings from home
for the people of his nationality; it is also composed of a
good many people who have nothing else to do and are
eager, during a cold rainy night, to spend a few hours indoors. And as you pass around to get into St. Mark's
Place you will also see a number of dejected-looking
creatures, men and women, sitting on the benches in the
little square which surrounds the statue of Peter Cooper.
There are several cafes on this part of St. Mark's Place.
There is one to the right side, which is the professional
waiters' cafe, to which the waiters come to be served in
turn after they have finished serving other people. It is
interesting to know that the waiters come here not for the
coffee and cake or the tea or any of the other things they
consume, but for the privilege of finding a scapegoat for
all they have had to endure during the day or night. If you
have made during the day a reproach to your waiter, and
a good many have done likewise, you may be sure that he
will take it out at the end of the day on the waiters serving
him in this coffee-house of his. Go in for a few minutes,
if you have nothing else to do, and you will see a man in
street-clothes (so happy are they to get rid of their professional habits that they get into street-clothes as soon as
they are through working) calling down a waiter, reproaching him for the manner in which he served him, returning
the knives or the forks, or looking carefully at the napkin,
the plate, or sniffing at the food that was brought to him,
doing exactly what others had done to him during the day.
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IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES
It is a little inversion of the scriptural dictum. "Do unto
others what is done to you," seems to be the waiters' credo.
At your left hand is a dancing-hall, the Arlington. Most
of the Polish weddings in the neighborhood are celebrated
there. You might be just in time to see one, and see most
of the guests come in their national costumes. And if you
care to have a glimpse inside you will see them dance the
mazurka as you have never seen it danced before. The
women are in high boots and white skirts embroidered with
yellow and green, and sleeveless cassocks of red and blue,
with white silken head-gear hanging from the forehead to
the back of the shoulders. The men wear their beribboned
small hats and are also in high riding-boots. They stamp
the floor, laughing wildly, while the women take their dance
very seriously. It is not always advisable to remain very
long in such a place, for weddings do not always end happily. There might suddenly appear a slighted young man
or a slighted young woman, and the festivities may end
at the police station-if not worse.
Go down a little further, to 31 St. Mark's Place; look
close down. There is a curiously painted sign on which is
written "The Tub," right over the basement. And right
and left of the entrance artistically done signs announce
that this is the conclave of democratic students of the arts
and drama and sociology. The place opens early in the
evening for a few hours, and all the tramps in the vicinity
are served a hot dish, a cup of coffee, and a piece of bread,
for a maximum sum of five cents for those who have the
price, and food is given free as long as it lasts to those who
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don't. The man who runs the Tub is Ledoux, who under
the name of Zero won national fame a few years ago, during the unemployment succeeding the war, by auctioning
off able-bodied white and black men and women in Boston
and New York, so as to avoid their starving. It is very
probable that you will meet Ledoux if you stay a little while
in the place and talk with those sitting on the benches at the
long white-pine table. You will find, much to your surprise, extremely intelligent men discussing calmly or passionately questions of weight and importance. They plunge
into abstract discussions of art to forget the misery facing
them, for the Tub attracts only what is known as the "intellectual tramp."
The place closes at about ten o'clock at night, and reopens after midnight for a very short time to let in those
who have not succeeded in finding shelter for the night
elsewhere. They sleep on the bare floor, propping their
heads on their elbows and covering themselves with their
coats. They will get another cup of coffee in the morning,
and, if there happens to be one among them skilful with the
razor, they will be shaved and made presentable to find
work during the day. Should one find work he will, as
soon as he gets his pay, return such an amount of money
as he thinks he has cost the Tub; so that the place may go
on without seeking support from charitable organizations.
Most of the tramps are strongly opposed to any dealings
with institutionalized charity.
Around the corner of St. Mark's Place is an open
area, with St. Mark's Church on it. The old church has
recently been painted over and made to look very much like
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IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES
some medieval French church. It is surrounded by different
groups of statuary, the work and the gift of George Gray
Barnard. Within one of these thick walls is the grave of
Peter Stuyvesant, former governor of New Amsterdam.
All the territory down to the East River was once his
Bouwerie. Old Stuyvesant, irascible and ill-tempered, was
very strongly opposed to the Jews when they appeared
in the city during his governorship. What irony of fate
that his Bouwerie should now be the stronghold of the
Jews and of people of so many tongues! Peter Stuyvesant
disliked all other non-Dutchmen quite as much as he disliked the Jews. What irony of fate that the square around
his church should be one in which political compaigns are
carried on all through the year in a half-dozen languages,
from soap-boxes and the rears of trucks!
Looking down Second Avenue from Stuyvesant Square,
one is struck by the innumerable electric lights flashing
from both sides. It is the East Side's Fifth Avenue, or,
better still, the East Side's Broadway. There are several
theaters, foreign-language theaters, numerous vaudeville
houses and moving-picture homes. A little upward is the
old Royal Coffee-house, with its piazza on the sidewalk,
which makes one forget that he is elsewhere than in Budapest, Vienna, or Bucharest. Within the inclosure of the
piazza are a number of small tables, around which sit the
intellectuals of a half a dozen nationalities discussing, over
their tea or coffee, or while they eat watermelon, the respective arts and literatures and musical news of the day.
They have their set tables. Each one of them appears as
regularly at his table as if he had to punch a time-clock.
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First of all appear the actors, to have their evening meal
and chat before performing on the stage. The German
actors playing in the Irvington Theater, the Yiddish actors
of the neighborhood, the Hungarian dramatists and mu

sicians and painters, and the newspaper men of all these
nationalities, as well as the Russians, have their tables and
hours. And they all tMlk loudly in a Babel of tongues. And
though each of them is wearing European or American
clothes, the shape of the cut of their beards and the cast of
their heads and features emphasize each one's nationality.
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IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES
For here indeed congregate the brains of foreign New
York. On the walls are posters and announcements of
balls, concerts, and performances in a dozen languages.
Across the street is the Russian Bear. Until not very
long ago this place was one of the last of the residential
places that had held out in spite of the foreign invasion
moving from the east westward. But it, too, has succumbed. The middle walls between rooms have been pierced
through to make a large, narrow hall, at the end of which
a mezzanine platform has been built. The walls have been
painted with that Byzantine touch so dear to the Russians.
In the center of the hall stands the Balalaika orchestra,
playing those curious instruments strongly resembling the
ukulele and producing a sound midway between a guitar
and a banjo. The musicians play Russian music for the
visitors, and on occasion there is a singer or two, dressed
in Gipsy costume, singing the Russian Gipsy songs of
which no real Muscovite can ever hear the last.
What one feels most is the non-professionalism of the
whole place. Neither the owner nor the musicians nor the
waiters seem to be caterers to the public by profession.
And upon inquiry one finds out that they are not. They are
mostly noblemen and noblewomen of the old Russian
regime, who after finding refuge in this country are now
trying to make both ends meet. And since they knew so
well how to be served by others, they have found it comparatively easy to adapt themselves to the menial work
they are doing. It is interesting to see how servile and
docile these former noblemen and noblewomen can be.
They smile quite broadly and bow very low at a liberal
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tip. As they rarely speak English, one has to order his
food in the Russian language, which is written on the bill
of fare in Latin characters; and if you have not succeeded
after the first trial, just put your finger on the name of
the food you have chosen. The strangely sounding name,
which makes you anticipate some strangely composed dish,
may disappoint you. Quite ordinary boiled beef and cabbage may appear at the table when you thought of something more exotic than that. But the tea is excellent. And
the kvass, a beverage made of stale corn-bread, is still
better. There are many, many very handsome women
smoking cigarettes very gracefully and sipping tea with
as great an abandon as if it were champagne. The atmosphere is a very pleasant and intimate one. Leon Trotzky
and John Reed used to be frequent visitors at the Bear.
On Ninth Street between Second and Third Avenues
is the Slovene Church, the Greek Orthodox Church, where
the priest in long beard and velvet calpac, a silk hat without the rim, on his head, preaches his sermon in the old
Slovene language. A little further along Second Street is
the old Marble Cemetery, which stretches almost half a
block. Some of the earliest notables of New York are
buried there. It is still kept by caretakers, and through
the iron fence one can see the floral tributes brought by
descendants of the old New Yorkers on the graves of
their ancestors.
In the blaze of light along Second Avenue are numerous
restaurants and coffee-houses, with their inscriptions,
"Rumanian Coffee-house" and "Rumanian Restaurant."
Here one is in the heart of the Rumanian district. It has
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IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES


this in particular: it is not like the main street of any other
town in Rumania. It strongly resembles in its atmosphere
and assortment the principal street of Bucharest, the avenue in which the king's palace stands-beautiful gowns
in the large windows of the shops and jewelry stores,
beauty-parlors, pastry-shops, and coffee-houses, all so
gaudy and loud. Most of these places are, as in Rumania,
not kept by Rumanians, but are chiefly in the hands of
Jews of all origins, Greek, Hungarian, and German. For
in Bucharest also, the capital of Rumania, all business
is practically in the hands of the same nationalities as
have them in their hands here. They are merely catering
to Rumanian tastes. One can realize more than ever why
Bucharest is called Little Paris or the Paris of the Balkans.
If you happen to be in doubt as to what language to use
on going into any of these restaurants, every one of which
seems to be presided over by a pupil of Lucullus, talkFrench and you will certainly be understood.
As if to remind one of the fact that we are in New York
is the iron gate between two tall houses, leading through
an alley into a back yard, where is an older branch of the
Marble Cemetery. You can obtain permission to enter by
applying to the caretaker in charge. It is between Second
and Third Streets. Almost leaning on it are a movingpicture house and one of the Jewish theaters of the neighborhood. And while the throngs of extremely well dressed
people are walking back and forth, making their daily
promenades, just as if they were in the old country, music
produced by all sorts of instruments is heard from a dozen
different places, and singing, also. It mingles with the
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raucous tones of some radio loud-speaker or of the dozen
and one stores selling phonographs and player-pianos. And
if you can resist the blaze of light from the People's
Theater, announcing some new musical comedy or the
presentation of a Rumanian play by Rumanian players
next door to the Winter Garden, do so, and go into Houston Street. There is an old church adjoining these theaters.
It used to be the pride of the neighborhood. The illuminated cross on the top looks at night as if it were floating
in the air. Walk eastward toward the river, and between
Second and First Avenues there is a restaurant to which
all Rumanians flock. Within it the owner is playing the
cymbalom, that curious old instrument so dear to the Rumanian Gipsies. He is as good on it as anybody has ever
been; indeed, he is the Kreisler of the cymbalom. No matter what hour of the night you might drop in there, you
will have to struggle to find a chair to sit upon. For although the noise of the waiters and the guests is deafening,
the neighborhood comes there more to listen to the man's
playing than to eat. And his playing has been heard of in
other quarters than the Rumanian one. Most of the journalists on American papers come down when they can
spare the time and can afford it. Eugene O'Neill, the playwright, drops in from time to time. John Dos Passos,
Heifetz, the violinist, and Toscha Seidel and Mischa Elman, and others of the musical and literary professions.
But those who want to dine in a more quiet fashion, and
still crave the pleasure of eating food prepared in their
own style, go to Broome Street, to the Rumanian Casino,
where the owner's attention to every guest is one of the
260




IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES
chief delights. You will be struck especially with the number of restaurants and the smell of exotic foods in that district, for all Rumanians are good eaters and drinkers. 
They are of lighter temperament than any of the other
people in the Balkans, more given to laughter and song
and dance, the men as well as the women. They do not
carry the Weltschmerz on their shoulders like their neighbors two blocks away, the Russians and Bulgarians and
Serbs. Although you will hardly find one illiterate among
them, their chief concern is not about books and philosophies when they meet of an evening. They spend their
money more easily than any other people and are indeed,
because of that, here as well as at home, the butt of ridicule
and the object of exploitation by all the other peoples.
The Carnegie Library on Rivington Street has one of
the finest assortments of Rumanian books. Indeed, it is
almost a complete library of Rumanian literature. Origi-?nally it was collected by Mr. Sebastian Liberty. Adjoining
the library is the Rivington Street Settlement-house, the
first settlement on the East Side. It is from this center
that have gone out, after their experiences in the neighborhood, people like William English Walling and J. G.
Phelps Stokes, and Anna Strunsky, and Rose Pastor 
Stokes, and Joseph Freeman, and a number of others. Jack
London has lectured several times in that neighborhood.
I remember meeting him on his return from the RussoJapanese War. To make his visits from door to door
easier, he became the agent of a photographer selling lapel
picture-buttons, which were then so much in vogue. We
lay down side by side one night on a bare floor in the house
261. J




AROUNVD THIE WORLD JINV1rYR,.I-           N
I
I
IN 
ll-,,


- llt:tl,    is


262




IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES
of a friend whose only bed was occupied by himself and
wife, and talked to the wee hours of the morning. Many
other notables have lectured in the settlement. And there
are quite a few notables who have emerged from there.
The settlement is still going on, only in a different direction,
catering much more to those who have already Americanized themselves than to those who are to be Americanized.
Further below, under the elevated railroad, dark in the
day and bleak at night, are hundreds of stores selling imported cheeses and dried fish and smoked meats from Rumania. Food shops adjoin quilt factories, dressmaking
shops, second-hand furniture stores, antique brass shops.
They lean one against the other in a bewildering sort of
fashion, thrown pell-mell with no care for the sort of wares
that are within.
Orchard Street with its sordid push-cart business, with
stores littered with everything on God's earth, with the
cry and yell of the itinerant merchant, with phonographs
sold from push-carts and player-pianos sold in the middle
of the street, heckling, bargaining, cursing, swearing, is
always swarming with people. The moment the push-carts
are brought forth early in the morning till the time the
acetylene lights, smoking black over their white flames, are
completely burned out, the street is black with people. How
any one can wear luxurious silk intimate garments that
have been bought of a push-cart, how any one can bedeck
herself with jewelry bought there, is more than I can
understand.
Above all this sordidness of the street are the homes of
the people. One would be surprised, on entering any home
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of the middle class, to see the luxury and comfort to be
found there, the outside is so ugly and repellant, and the
inside has been made so agreeable. Proud and strong physically, the Rumanian men and women, the Jews as well as
the Gentiles, furnish a smaller percentage of applicants
-  for charity than any other nationality in the city. Outwardly, especially in their business, they are not as ready
to adopt American methods as the other people are. Yet
on the other hand, with that peculiar ability which is theirs,
they learn the language of the country much more rapidly
than the others, while still keeping an eye on the culture
that they have brought from home.
There are several cultural institutions and clubs, to
which well-known Rumanian writers are invited from
Europe to come and lecture. And at these Sezatores very
much in the old fashion, sittings in which some one tells
a tale, there is a thread that ties to home. One would be
surprised to know that the Jews who left Rumania because of political persecutions should still have so much love
for their country, should still be so anxious to keep in
touch with its literature, its art, its politics. But then a
good deal of the Rumanian literature was produced by
Jews, and the same thing could be said of all the other arts
in Rumania. The Rumanian Jews here point with pride
to what they have produced and given to this country. Professor Solomon Schechter, deceased a few years ago, was
the head of the theological seminary and one of the most
celebrated biblical scholars of the world. They have at
present several professors at Columbia University, the
Rumanian poet Leon Ferraru, and Felix Vexler; and there
264




IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES


are a good many other professors at Johns Hopkins University and other universities of the country. How isolated the Rumanian Jews are from the Jews of other nations can be seen by the fact that they have their own
synagogue, their own burial-ground, their own charitable
institutions, their own homes for old people, not to speak
of their own newspapers. As if to emphasize the fact that
this is a Rumanian quarter, one can on Forsyth Street see
the numerous Greek coffee-houses where the Greeks living
in the Rumanian quarter congregate. And over a former
saloon on Forsyth Street is an old Turkish coffee-house,
where the Turkish dancers are doing their stunt just as if
that part of the town were the well-known Cetatzrina, the
Turkish quarter in Braila on the Danube.
And the Bulgars, who at home sell that cooling drink 
brewed from bran and millet, are doing the same thing
here, selling braga to those who still have a taste for it
after many years away from home.
In former years the Rumanian quarter did not extend
as far up town as it does now. The uptown region was
inhabited by the Hungarians, with the Bulgars below
them. Indeed, during the period of the war when the
Hungarians invaded Rumania, the Rumanian quarter
shrank in the same proportion as Rumania had after the
invasion of the enemy. But the Peace of Versailles and
the interpretation of it by Rumania after the war, whereby
the Rumanians retook the old territory which had once
belonged to them, affected the Rumanian quarter here as
well. The Rumanian population, which had meanwhile
grown, expanded further into Hungarian territory. Res265




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
taurants and coffee-houses, as well as other businesses
which had been till then known as the Hungarian this and
that, suddenly became, by virtue of the occupation of new
territory by the Rumanians in their own country, Rumanian
restaurants and coffee-houses and this and that. Many of
these inhabitants became, by virtue of the change at home,
Rumanian subjects, instead of Hungarian subjects as they
had been. And like the withdrawal, so has the expansion
not been without conflict. They invaded with a vengeance,
they expanded with a fury, knowing full well their enemies
were beaten into submission. All through the war this had
been taking place in all the other quarters of the town. The
Bulgars had invaded the Serbian territory and were expelled afterward. And the Germans had gone as near to
the heart of the French district as they had gone to Paris,
only to be pushed back later. Even the occupation of the
Ruhr by the French has had its counterpart in this city.
The French went as far into the German territory as they
possibly could, and many a German bakery became a
French boulangerie overnight.
In the side streets of the Rumanian quarter live the Rumanian Gipsies. The men fare forth early in the evening,
repairing to the different Rumanian restaurants to play
their music, while the women go out to ply their trade of
fortune-telling and basket-selling. And they, too, expanded
into what was formerly Hungarian territory after the
Peace of Versailles. Those of the Rumanians who have
lived here a long time have indeed spread all over the city.
There is a distinctively Rumanian quarter over on Seventh
Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Most of the people liv266




IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES


ing in that district are Transylvanian Rumanians, who
were formerly subjects of Hungary. It is because of their
supposed martyrdom and because they have remained
faithful to their own nationality through all the vicissitudes of a thousand years that they consider themselves
superior to the other Rumanians. It is they who are the
heart and soul of the intellectual movement among the
Rumanians all over the country. They are not as easygoing or light-hearted as their brothers from across the
Carpathians. Of peasant origin, they are a more calculating and slow-going clan than the Rumanians of the old
kingdom.
There is another Rumanian district up in the Bronx, at
Washington Avenue and I75th Street. It is composed of
Rumanian Jews, and Pindo-Rumanians, Macedonian Rumanians. Such Rumanians have for centuries and centuries
lived in the lower Balkans among the Bulgarians and Serbs,
Albanians, Greeks and Turks. During the last war their
nationality was claimed by ethnologists in each one of these
nations. But their language, with all the mixture that has
been superposed on top of it, is Rumanian, or, better said,
it is the old Latin dialect which the soldiers of Trajan
brought to the banks of the Danube after vanquishing
Decebal, the king of the Dacs.
There are any number of small Rumanian settlements
here and there. The younger element, acclimatized, take
part in the politics of the country, and political careers in
America are a very strong attraction to them. They have
at present a number of assemblymen and aldermen. The
liberal professions are thronged. They have a large quota
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


of lawyers, physicians, dentists, teachers, and college professors. There are in New York two daily papers printed
in Rumanian, as well as several literary magazines. There
are some thirty thousand people of Rumanian origin living
in New York. According to the census there are over a
hundred thousand of them all over the country, with large
centers in Chicago and Detroit, Cleveland and Minneapolis,
and Pittsburg, working in steel-mills and mines. Among
the well-known figures of Rumanian origin are David
Belasco, the Schildkrauts, father and son, Jacob Adler, the
painter, Paleologue and Papini, musicians like Max Rosen
and Alma Gluck, and a number of writers and newspaper
men.
Further down toward the East River, between Avenue
B and Avenue C, on Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth
Streets, live three other peoples of Balkan extraction and
propensities. On Third and Fourth Streets live the Bulgars. There were a good many more than there are to-day,
but, as many of them came here without their families, they
were compelled to return to their homes after the outbreak
of the war. And even those who remained here for a little
while afterward dispersed to other districts, or perhaps
other cities, because of the enmity between them and the
Serbs, who lived across the street a little further east and
north. Those animosities have many times reached the
knife-point, with the people, during the war, mostly siding
with the Serbs, whose nationals fought on the side of the'
Allies. But the Bulgars did not lack in support; for the
population of the region is still partly German, the Ger268




IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES


mans not having been completely ousted from their erstwhile stronghold on the lower East Side.
Another people living in the neighborhood are the Montenegrins, who are to be distinguished from the Bulgarians
or the Serbs by their tremendous size and width of shoulders, as well as by that peculiar lopsided gait so peculiar
to mountaineers. The Montenegrins had still more difficulties than either of the other two nations during the war.
As will be remembered, the little kingdom of Montenegro
was the first one that went over to the side of the Central
Powers, after much less than a battle with the enemy.
They were friendly with neither the Serbs nor the Bulgars,
and were hated cordially by the peoples on both sides.
There used to be restaurants which fed the two nationalities together, one of them not being enough to support
the business. And as their national foods are alike, it was
quite feasible. Little racial differences were buried at the
common table in similar tastes-broiled lamb, cooked
whole wheat, and yoghurt. One used to see "MontenegrinBulgarian Restaurant" or "Montenegrin-Serbian Restaurant" in the window-panes. But to-day, on passing one of
the streets, one can see how half of the hyphenated sign
has been scratched off.
There is in that part of the city a heterodox mixture./
There are also Poles and Hungarians and Slavs and
Croatians and Macedonians, laggers in the great migration further northward. It is curious that the migration
of the people in New York should repeat, even though on
a small scale, the order and method of migration into
269




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


Europe of the Indo-European races. For all through the
Balkan countries one can see the descendants of those who
lagged behind during the great Indo-European and IndoSlavic migrations westward and eastward. And strange
as it may seem, though they are living close together, with
their children going to
the same school, and most
of them   belonging  to
IPLOYMIEN>            the same denomination,
Anamely the Greek Orthocnin;ed t edox Church, there is no
social relation  between
them  even  among   thee
youngsters. There is no'
intermarriage, each one
in the eyes of the other
being of an even lower
social and racial degree
than the negroes.  The
Ish  nevr  t hw    little bullet heads of the
Macedonians  or  Montenegrins would never be
convinced that there is any race equal to their own,
either in intelligence or in bravery. Even to this day every
house of a Macedonian is adorned with a picture of Alexander of Macedon, and with pictures of other heroes of
ancient days.
I shall never forget how I incurred the enmity of my
friend Redout on Fourth Street, in whose restaurant I
had eaten almost twice a day for months, because he had
270




IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES


seen me walk side by side with a Montenegrin. Not that
he disliked that particular Montenegrin or because he was
a special enemy of his. But it was enough for any of his
friends to walk side by side with a Montenegrin to lose
caste with a Macedonian. I had been invited to the wedding of Redout's daughter, and had been promised a national costume for that occasion. Every one was supposed
to come in national costume. But a few days before the
wedding I was very brusquely told that the arrangement
would not be carried out, that they would not dishonor a
national Macedonian costume by permitting it to be worn
by any one who had walked side by side with a Montenegrin.
Neither the Bulgars nor the Serbs nor the Macedonians
nor the Montenegrins are permanently here. Some have
been so minded when they first arrived, but have later
changed their minds, waiting only until they have enough
money, with perhaps a little over traveling-expenses, to
return to their plains and their mountains. There are very
few families of lower Balkan people here. Where there is
one family, like the Stoumboffs on Third Street, the house
is always too small to contain those who come to visit, to
feast their eyes, as they say, on a woman's form, and rejoice their hearts with the sound of a woman's voice.
No better census could be taken of either of these nationalities than at one of the rare weddings. Practically
every one belonging to the nation whose daughter or son
is being wedded will be present, and they will each one vie
with the other as to who will make costlier gifts to the
bride and groom. And like the old traditional greeting
271




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


of the Jews on the Day of Atonement, "That we meet next
year in Jerusalem," so is the wish expressed by every guest
that they meet next year in Cettinje or Sophia, or wherever
their home may be.
Mr. Pupin, the Serb inventor and professor at Columbia, whose book attracted so much attention when it appeared, will never know what pride and jealousy he has
stirred up among the people of his own country and its
enemies. In his isolated Americanism he does not realize
what he means to his people.
All of these houses on Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth
Streets, in which the Balkan people live, are of the oldest
in this part of the city, with no fire-escapes and no conveniences of any kind, with walls almost falling by themselves and dark hallways and dark bedrooms. And the
little light that would come in is obstructed by the rear
houses-sun-leeches.
The restaurants are all on the basement floors, and the
simple fare is served mostly in earthen dishes decorated
with crude colored flowers of these people's own make and
importation. Here and there a wooden spoon of the kind
that is boiled in oil for hardening its fiber makes its appearance on a table. It is seldom that any of these people
can speak more than a few words of the English language.
They are mostly small tradesmen of the kind that masquerade as Persians. Like the Armenians and other
Orientals, they peddle at night among the tables of the
restaurants with rugs and laces and things of that kind.
Some of them are occupied doing small carpentry work;
others work in the adjoining sweat-shops and factories,
272




IN THE BALKAN COUNTRIES


which occupy both sides of Delancey Street from the corner of Forsyth Street down to the bridge. Gradually the
strongest of them are being fed by the adjoining labor
agencies to the steel-mills and coal-mines of Pennsylvania,
especially when there happens to be a strike. Ignorant of
the language of the country, desolate and sad, lonely, isolated, they are easy prey for strike-breaking agencies. They
neither have newspapers in their own language nor are
they of sufficient numbers to make it worth while for any
one institution to keep them informed of things happening
in the country. They are largely left to themselves, and
such information as they can pick up from neighbors misinforms more than informs. I have seen many a one plodding over the Croatian newspaper "Narodny List," or the
Jugo-Slavic, trying to understand what was in it, in the
belief that these were American newspapers.
What a relief to come out suddenly from these hopeless
streets, which reek with the stench of all the kitchens and
sewers and the garbage piled up high on the sidewalk and
the suffocating odors floating from the barges on the East
River that carry away the dirt and waste of the city! What
a relief when suddenly coming into Tompkins Square, with
the wide acres that were once dangerous salt marshes, and
the big, inviting houses all about the square. Children of
the neighborhood play together in the sand or within the
wire-inclosed fences, rough-housing one another, jumping
over one another, but rubbing shoulders nevertheless, and
learning to appreciate each other's qualities between two
vigorous punches and a dozen curses. Immigrants without children are not an asset to America.... There
273




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
should be a law about that... concerning landlords
especially. There should be a law inflicting severe punishment on those who refuse to let their houses to people with
children.
To the west, on Tenth Street, rises the big old annex of
St. Mark's in the Bouwerie, in which the Leonardo da
Vinci School is housed. Across from it is the Boys' Club.
Further down are the Tompkins Square Settlement and the
several day nurseries where tots with queerly shaped heads
are crying in one and the same language for the arrival
of their mothers. For really, if there is any hope at all for
these people, it is in the squares and in the parks-playing
in the sand or hoisting themselves on the bars of the gymnastic apparatus. The square is now being more and more
taken possession of by the Poles, who are beginning to
crowd the neighborhood, ousting the Italians, forcing them
to move further northward. At night when the blondhaired Poles promenade on the alleys, arm in arm with
their high-cheekboned beaus, Tompkins Square is Warsaw, Crakow, or Lemberg.
But I have already traveled away from the Balkans.
There never will be peace there. There never will be peace
here among them until their blood shall have disappeared
among the other peoples of the neighborhood. Italians
who have still remained in what was once their stronghold
are intermarrying with them. In this respt the Italians,
by intermarrying with alfnost every nation in the city, are
doing the greatest service to America-absorbing small
tribal bloods.
274




CHAPTER XI


SPAIN
MANY, many years ago, I hurried through the
Balkans to Spain. Because of the urgency of
my being at Madrid on a certain day, I had no
leisure to stop anywhere en route. I saw the countries
between Rumania and Spain only through the windows of
the railroad-car and during very brief stops at railroadstations. There was a very brief stop in Bucharest, the
capital of Rumania. I had a glimpse of the illuminated
roof of the city lying several miles away from the railroadstation; an eyeful of the people who crowded the station,
peasants in their national garb, and women dressed in the
latest style of gowns just imported from Paris and crowned
with the most extravagant millinery from the modistes of
Vienna. And then there were miles and miles of low brick
houses. People going back and forth to their labors in the
fields or in the factories. Horse-carts. Oxen yoked to
low-wheeled trucks. Swift dream-like vistas of stations
and people rushed from us until we reached the frontier,
where customs inspectors came to give us the once over
before letting us pass the border. The locomotive shrieked,
the wheels of the cars ground the steel of the rails, bells
rang, people called to one another.
And yet I could have told instantly that we had passed
275




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


into another country, though only an arbitrary line divided
the two. And after many hours we halted on the border
of still another country. We entered Austria. We rolled
on and on, passing railroad-stations much trimmer and
cleaner in appearance than the ones we had left behind, and
people with more of their own characteristics and less of
the Parisian and the Viennese flutter. There was a short
stop at Vienna. The things I most clearly remember are
the excellent fat beer and the Leberwurst we had in the
dining-room of the railway station. I also remember the
brand of beautiful waitresses. It was entirely new to me
then. So cool and so clean-faced! The eyes so sparkling!
The carriage of the head so passionate! And yet I remained with the impression that they were cooler and
colder than any women I had seen. The men waiters were
extremely polite and thanked one a dozen times for the
smallest tip given them.
Another ride of many hours and we had passed through
Germany, hardly seeing it. For although it was early in
the spring a blizzard preceded and followed our train. We
were unable to outride it. We entered France several days
later and rushed through, post-haste, until we got to Paris,
where, although I had many hours to wait before the last
plunge to Madrid, I remained at the railroad-station,
unwilling to be distracted from the plan I had made,
knowing full well that were I to go out to see the city
Madrid would have to wait. There was so much attraction for the visitor at the Gare St.-Lazare that I was afraid
not to be able to resist the temptation if I so much as went
out a hundred feet into the street.
276




SPAIN
I was complimenting myself on my fortitude when the
train moved again. I arrived when due in Madrid.
I recalled all this as I traveled the other day from the
Balkan section in New York to the Spanish section. I
walked through the Rumanian section, a corner of the
Austro-Polish section, the Austrian, touched the German
section, edged the French one, and then arrived into Spain.
Which only means that I went from Fourth Street to
Eighth Street on foot, then walked along Second Avenue
to Twenty-third Street, and followed Twenty-third Street
to Seventh Avenue, the edge of the Spanish district. It
extends from there southward to Abingdon Square and
encompasses all that lies between Seventh and Eighth
Avenues.
A visitor in Spain is struck by the fact that he can see
very little of Spanish home life, except what he sees at
public exhibitions, theaters (which are very few), bullfights, and the market-places. And at that you can very
seldom get near enough, as near as you can get to other
people, when meeting them under similar circumstances.
Whether it is the dignity of the old Arab blood that still
flows in the Spaniards, or whether it is of more recent 
origin-a sort of grandeur from the days when they were,
if not the masters of Europe and the world, at least in line
to be so-I do not know. But as the Arab can withdraw
within his tent, the Spaniard withdraws within his cloak.
The women hide their faces, and the men have a peculiar
somberness in their eyes that shades them as a veil, a veil
which, though invisible, can seldom be pierced. Except
the face of the Indian I know of no more enigmatic face
277




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


than the face of the
^   ~Spanish    man    o r
woman. For though
they have lived for so'
many      centuries  in'
M.  V'$a i,,^   Europe, the African
i, influence is still there.
r i~ d ^  You can see that in
A-~fli,P.     ^ it^^h       the architecture in
*          i            ' k  I^  i i Spain, in  Granada
wl and in Seville and
_ ^                 neib- Madrid and Barcedifferent cities, they
same.   Architecture
will tell. The Spaniards were more than
neighbors and enemies with the Moors,
And so in New
York, although there
are   some   twenty
thousand Sanish-rhabitrnts, and although there are considerably more than twice as many of Spanish origin from
the Central Americas continually in the city, one seldom
sees them, one seldom notices the eir activity. Except at
rare presentations of some Spanish company at a theater,
278




SPAIN


one seldom hears of their theatrical activities; and in spite
of their great ability and propensity for dancing one seldom
sees' any of that done in public. There are no Spanish
dancing-halls in New York. There are no Spanish cabarets.
It seems to me that the Spanish are more reticent in this
country than they are even at home. For the Spaniard
still feels, because of Columbus's discovery, that this territory has been ravished from him. He still smarts under
the blow of the Anglo-Saxon uperiority!which has taken
from him most of his possessions in the Americas. He still
turns up his nose at the upstarts who have robbed him of
what was his. Tireis no forgetting with him. The days
when Spanish gold was the currency of America are still
in his mind. The emblem of a country is on its coin.
The Spanish stores and restaurants and societies are all
behind curtains. Walk through Fourteenth or Sixteenth
or any of the streets in the central Spanish quarter, and
you will see how unobtrusive they are, how insolently
modest in a country where modesty is a crime. A little
sign in a window, black letters on a white background, a
little tablet on a wall. When you go in you meet people
who seem to accept your visit as a great honor conferred
upon them, which they return with great dignity. And
they are discreet and quiet and self-possessed. Everything
within doors is absolutely Spanish. They take it for
granted when you enter a Spanish restaurant that you
speak Spanish, and will talk to you in no other language
even when they understand yours. They will serve you
quietly, discreetly. There is no loud clang of the cash279




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
register when you have paid. Though dignified, the
method of paying is also as discreet as if you were merely
returning the compliment of a gift instead of paying and
giving profit for what you have consumed. There is much
less smiling on the part of the patronesses or the waitresses
than there is in the French quarters. Merely looking at
you they think they have conferred a great favor upon you,
which is exactly the thought of every Spanish dona.
I once lived a year in the same house with four Spanish
families. At the end of the year, although I could recognize
the step of every one in the house, and knew from the touch
which of the family of Cienfuegos, all of them musicians,
was playing the piano, and would have identified even the
closing of a door two floors below me, I was never as much
as nodded to by any of the neighbors, let alone invited to
conversation.
Living in the Spanish quarter of the town is one of my
most agreeable memories. As the streets are very broad,
and the stoops project themselves outside over the sidewalks, it was very pleasant to listen at night to the lowsung serenades accompanied by expertly handled guitars,
when the young men visited their senoritas.
On Fourteenth Street in the Casa Sevilla, where most
of the better class of Spanish young men used to come for
their evening meals, there were some mysterious goings-on
in the upper rooms. It possibly was nothing extraordinary! But they were so mysterious! The dining-room
was entirely decorated in Spanish style. The odor and the
taste of the food, as well as the brownish long faces of the
visitors, completed the illusion of being in Spain instead
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of in New York. The owner of the place was an exceedingly stout sefiora of about fifty, who still affected her
national garb behind her counter. Having had dinner
with one of my friends one day there, we were served with
some of the poorest wine I have ever drunk. Feeling
rather communicative, the owner came over to our table
and wished us good evening. I complained to her about
the quality of the wine.
"It is what we get here for the guests," she replied.
And then after a pause she added, "For my friends and
myself I have a much better wine than that."
Whereupon I called out joyously, "Then in Heaven's
name consider me one of your friends."
"Do you want to be one of my friends?" the seiiora
repeated. "You shall drink of that wine instantly."
She withdrew behind the counter and emerged with a
very ancient-looking bottle of Marsala wine and an additional glass for herself. It did not take us long to finish
the bottle. My friend enthusiastically asked for another
one, which was brought to the table, the lady partaking
with us from this second bottle also. When I got up and
asked for my bill, the two bottles of wine were not included
on the check.
"See here," I said to the seiora, "these two bottles of
Marsala are not on my check. How much are they?"
Like a flash the seiiora stood up, her eyes flashing in
anger. She was atremble, in tremendous fury.
"Oh!" she shouted at me, "you do not want to be my
friend! This is why you offer to pay for the wine!"
I stuttered and blubbered all kinds of apologies, and
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
finally, humbling myself, I convinced her that I did no/
mean it in that way. We had to drink a third bottle of
Marsala and kiss her hand.
Doughty, in his remarkable "Travels through Arabia
Deserta," speaks of the wonderful hospitality of the
Bedouins and the other Arabs. Once you have broken
bread with them you are their guest. While you are in
their house or their tent they will defend you with their
lives even against their own brothers. But they will no?
hesitate to shoot you dead thirty paces away from their)
beyt. It is this wonderful sense of hospitality which makes
the Spaniard offer you everything that is in his house when
you cross the threshold; but watch out when you accept
too much!
The whole district, down to Abingdon Square, on Hudson Street, with trellised balconies on the low, red-brick
houses, and the Russian Tavern just across the street from
it, is more of the Old World than can possibly be imagined,
only a few blocks from Broadway and the busy thoroughfares of New York. The streets are a mosaic of trucks
and carts coming and going to the wharves on the Hudson
River. Flags of ships, masts, chimney-stacks, look at you
from every street-end westward. At night the windows of
the houses are not as brightly lit as in other streets. Kerosene-lamps are still in use, for not all the houses have been
piped for gas.
Not only are Spaniards living in this district, which
extends virtually from Abingdon Square to Twenty-third
Street, but there are the Portuguese in great number.
Guadeloupians, Cubans, Syrians; and there is a strong
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SPAIN
Irish contingent who lived here long before any of these
nationalities occupied the district. Catholic New York is
living in that part of the town. Five different kinds of
English are used here.


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A little further down Hudson Street is St. Luke's Chapel.
Built a century ago, with yellow-painted bricks, it looks
more like a small village church on a Main Street than a
wealthy church in a metropolis. Its additional wings, and
even the parish-houses adjoining it for the different activities that are being added as the community enlarges are
only afterthoughts. And then suddenly one runs into
mysterious Jane and Horatio Streets, half warehouses and
half residential, with a strong smell of dates and figs and
other dried fruits that lie in the warehouses of the neighborhood. In the spring of the year the odor of fermenting
St. John's bread is irresistible. When the dates and figs
heat and the odor mixes with the scent of Gilead coffee,
one gets sick for the Orient.
As if to keep up the architecture of the Spaniards, a
trucking-house built its establishment on Gansevoort Street
in the style associated with Granada and Seville. The
architect must have thought of that when he designed the
building. An artist really. There is the Old World
church-like school of San Bernard on Gansevoort Street
where Thirteenth Street crazily crosses Fourth Street.
Its projecting images of Ignatius, its architecture, though
it was built quite recently, are entirely out of keeping with
what surrounds it. This is another proof of the haphazard
conglomeration of what was once, as there is evidence in
other buildings, a very restricted residential neighborhood,
when Twenty-first Street was Love Lane, and when the
Post Road ran through from Abingdon Road, and the
whole neighborhood to Seventy-first Street, where was the
Kissing Bridge, was one of lanes and pleasant woods.
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The houses on Fourteenth Street between Seventh and
Eighth Avenues are built on very narrow strips of frontage land. And each one, even though of the same height
as the next one, is built in an individual style. There are
houses of red bricks with black-painted windows and
doors, and deep set-in sills over the round archway. And
between a red and a gray house there suddenly looms up a
yellow-painted stucco building, with narrow oblong windows and red-painted lucarnes between them. There is
the Casa Maria, of rough yellow stucco, with beautifully
lined windows and vaulted doors that are barred with
wrought-iron. The basement entrance is as mysterious as
the descent into one of the underground piazzas around
the Alhambra.
A little further is the projected front of wrought-iron of
the Guadalupe Church, as unlike anything on the opposite
sidewalk, which is still Anglo-Saxon, as if the two were in
absolutely different countries, with the middle of the street
as the frontier.
There is the building on the corner of Seventh Avenue,
with its ten floors of studded phosphorescence and blue
squares between the large windows. On the ground floor
is a Spanish bank, probably one of the most important in
the city. It also sells perfumery and has a book-store as
a side-line. All kinds of books in Spanish are to be had in
that store. The most courteous clerk in the world is trying
to help one; and so insistently does he explain every book,
telling one the story within the book as well as the biography of the writer, that one cannot leave without buying
from him. Never before has clerk in a book-store known
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


as much about books as the clerks in that store. It is from
them that I first learned all about Reuben Dario, the great
Central American poet, whose works have astounded and
astonished the Spanish world. It is from the clerks of
that store that I learned of the existence of a number of
other poets, Spanish all of them, who live in this country.
It was, indeed, a great surprise to me to know how much
of modern Spanish literature and poetry has been produced
by the half-caste of Indian and Spanish blood. Many a
passage was read to me aloud. Although I did not understand everything, the rhythm and the sound were as fascinating as an alternating mixture between a Spanish dance
and an Indian prayer.
On the opposite corner is the Metropolitan Temple, to
my mind the most beautiful symmetrical structure in the
city of New York. As one hungers before spring returns
for the sight of green fields, or as a man who has been
brought up near the sea hungers for the sight of salt water,
for the smell and the weight of it in his nostrils, so have I
hungered many a time while wandering through the city
for the sight of the lines of that building. Indeed, I have
loved it so much that I have never yet gone within, in fear
lest the inner structure should disturb the joy I have from
looking at the facade. Let the traveler be pardoned for
being so superficial and caring nothing more than for the
outward beauty of a thing. It is the best that we all can see.
How much this district is of the Old World can be seen
as soon as one passes Fifteenth Street and the huge barrack-like building of Street & Smith. The most decrepit
wooden shacks lean between huge buildings, for which not
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SPAIN
the slightest care has ever been taken that they should also
be beautiful; wooden shack after wooden shack, housing
stores of old clothing, in no way disguised to appear as
new, for there is great poverty in that part of the town,
toward the shore. Only the poorest live in that neighborhood, with here and there a sudden redeeming of the whole
district by some old house that has been renovated and
repainted to make it look as much like a Greenwich Village
house as was humanly possible. Were one, however, to
take a photograph of some of the wooden shacks, with
people living in them, on Seventeenth Street a little off
Seventh Avenue, no one who tried to locate the topography
of such a hovel would ever guess that it was in the heart of
the city of New York. They look very much like similar
things I have seen in the negro districts of the South, or
like the broken-down cabins of the side streets of Tia
Juana, just across the Californian border-line into Mexico.
There are any number of such ugly shacks all through the
neighborhood. Any number of junk-shops spread their
ugliness away over the sidewalk. Every sense is assaulted
and corroded. Children in rags shiver through the streets.
Most of the dependents of charity are housed in that
neighborhood.
But suddenly on Twenty-second Street and northward
one is in Spain again. The streets are broader, lighter.
It is a Spanish town. And across it, on Twenty-third
Street, beyond Ninth Avenue, the row of houses on the
northern side with the stout colonnades in front, set back
from the street, each house fenced in with iron railings,
with front gardens and large staircases, each house painted
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


\


\
I;\\9


''jj-,l


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SPAIN
in a different hue, tears one away from the whole swirl and
whirl of the city. One stops to listen for the sounds of
guitar music. One remains fixed in one place. A senorita
with a black lace hair-cover pinned on the comb of her hair
and a red-flowered shawl on the pale-blue background
wrapped about her bare shoulders appears from behind a
door; her red-heeled slippers accentuate the manner of her
walking, the movement of her hips under her wide skirts.
Spanish women cannot walk; they dance. Neither can they
speak well; they sing.
But one so seldom sees them. Harem-like, they are
living within doors shielded from the gaze of men, peering
only through half-closed shutters. This is due probably
to the love of semi-darkness of all people bred where the
sun is high and uncomfortable. Yet if you do want to see
them, if you insist on seeing them, wait for a balmy summer night when the sultriness in the air from the river
near-by and the strongly smelling acacia-trees after they
have bloomed drive our Spanish friends out to their
piazzas. There will be music-making somewhere. Through
the transparency of the gauze in the half-open windows
you will catch glimpses of young ladies snapping castanets, and you will hear the running rhythm of the heelbeat against the rattle of the castanets and the swing of
the melody. Spanish women give fair warning of their
-feelings when they dance. One must learn to interpret
that before going to Spain; it is more valuable than
knowing their tongue.
Do not inquire too closely who the senor is; so poetic, so
soulful. It might happen he is the baiber from around
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


the corner, the clerk from the bank, the waiter or the
rather stout, sleek importer, who comes to court more out
of habit than desire. A Spaniard goes a-courting as long
as he is able to stand on his feet. They are never out of
love-or hate. It is Spain's most valuable industry and
asset.
Of all the foreign-language newspapers in the city "La
Prensa," the Spanish daily, seems the best edited one. It
alone tries to interpret the rest of the American world to
its Spanish readers, with a sort of detachment no other
newspaper possesses. And though one hears recriminations against the language used in the foreign newspapers
of each nationality from its cultured element, who accuse
them of ruining the language by introducing Anglo-Saxonisms, I have yet to hear such reproach made against "La
Prensa."
A few years ago, when all America seemed to be at the
feet of Senior Blasco Ibanez, there was a great revival of
interest in everything Spanish in this city. It threatened
for a while to usurp the place hitherto held by the Russians. For a short while publishers vied with one another
in bringing out translations of many of the Spanish authors. Broadway, responding promptly to such interest,
produced several Spanish plays with great success. It
made the Spaniards of New York raise their heads with
pride. It redeemed them from the position to which they
had sunk after the Spanish-American War. But that interest seems to have waned again. The only benefit I can
see from it is that the Spaniards, never late to return a
compliment, got interested in American literature. Within
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SPAIN
the last few years more than thirty American authors have
been translated into Spanish, with Jack London's works
holding first place. The old vachero stories, the Spanish
tales, were also revived and very much read.


A strong sprinkling of Mexicans is living among the
Spaniards in the down-town district. A still greater contingent of them, with Brazilians and Cubans and other
Spanish Americans, are living in Fifty-ninth, Sixtieth, and
Sixty-first Streets, within a stone's-throw of Columbus
Circle. In the good old days most of the political plots
were hatched in the coffee-houses in that neighborhood.
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


The statue was a sort of meeting-place after midnight.
And even to-day one can presage a political change from
the mysterious whisperings and sudden departures of certain gentlemen, who seem to hold commutation-tickets between Chile, or Mexico City, or Havana, and New York.
Filibustering, intriguing, and revolutionizing have regularly been hatched there. When one inquires as to the
occupation of many of these well-dressed and strongly perfumed dusky gentlemen, one is answered with the raising
of an eyebrow. At best one gets the answer that so-andso is in the servicia diplomdtica. I know several hundred
who are thus employed. And there were several very
mysterious disappearances during the night President
Obregon's Government was recognized by the United
States. And there were other departures when de la
Huerta took the field against Obregon. There is talk of
oil and revolution from early morn to late at night. Oil,
oil, oil. It drips from everywhere. As if Mexico were
America's oil-can. Maybe it is so. People handle matters
rather carelessly on this continent.
A good deal of double-crossing is being done in this socalled political game. A good many sudden displacements
are effected. I was warned by a very good friend of mine
against a trip to Mexico because of the coming de la Huerta
uprising, fully twenty days before it had actually taken
place.
There is another contingent of Spanish people around
Ninety-third, Ninety-fourth, and Ninety-fifth Streets and
Broadway, mostly Cubans of the better class who have
come here to stay while their sons study at Columbia.
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SPAIN
And there is of course a still other Spanish district on the
lower East Side, hemmed in between the Greek and the
Syrian districts. But those are the families of stevedores,
with a mixture of Filipinos among them. And when a
Spaniard wants to speak of anything that is unspeakable,
when he wants to denote his contempt for anybody, he calls
him a Filipino.
Her birthplace is Santiago, Cuba. Her pitch-black hair
is coarse and thick and frames a round face of the warmth
and firmness of ivory.
And there is great art in the way the senorita uses her
eyes when she looks at a man. She needs no help from the
muscles of her face when she wants to express something
without the use of words. Her eyes are enough. She is
part Indian.
Do you know Viva? No? So much the better for you,
for your peace of mind, for the soundness of your sleep.
The man who knows Viva is drunk with the wine of her
voice, the cold glow and luster of her eyes, and the music
of her step.
I won't tell you exactly where she is to be seen. Tramp,
late at night, Twenty-third Street, all its length from the
East River to the Hudson. Eliminate all the noises of the
city as you go. Sift them as they assault your ears. Strain
them as a prospector strains the gold through the sieve.
And if you discover a guitar-twang or a vibrant low note
that swells as it goes deeper, stop. Stop-or, better still,
go on. Don't look up to see the silhouette on the transparent curtain. Hasten away.
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
Criton, Nicholas Criton, the Greek poet, was believed to
be the successful suitor. We used to sit for hours and
hours pretending to drink coffee and watching the lucky
one receive the senorita's glances. His eyes were like those
of a faithful dog, hungry for the master's attention.
And he was a lucky dog. Luckier than we were, each
one of us, sitting separately at little tables and making vain
efforts to appear unconcerned.
We hated one another. What did it matter that there
were three million other women in New York City? Were
we in New York at all? I think not. We were in Cuba.
Once Ben Benn, the painter, had brought Viva a newspaper-clipping about Cuba and had received an extra glance
from her. Forthwith each one of us brought her some
clipping daily. Frequently the food remained untouched.
We forgot to eat. We were in Cuba! And we were there
for her, for Viva!
She spoke a few words now and then to each of us. She
smiled occasionally... with her eyes only.... She
sings a little every night in her room over the restaurant
when the day's work is done. But only when she is alone.
And everybody who comes to the Cienfuegos during the
day promenades up and down the street as long as the
guitar-twang and the contralto voice are heard. Lovesongs, or dirges-who knows? Perfumed melodies, mysteriously passionate, the words by Ruben Dario or Jose
Silvio..
And then one day something happened. A big, blond
young fellow entered the restaurant of the Cienfuegos.
He was a stranger. He ordered some food and looked
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SPAIN
around leisurely as he ate. He evidently liked the food
and the place, because he returned the days following.
He usually spoke a few words to Viva, as he paid before
he left. A word of praise for the food, for the excellent
coffee. And Viva, Seniorita Viva, seemed to be much
pleased. He was so tall and fair. The intruder, the blondhaired, blue-eyed fellow, continued his visits regularly, and
Viva now looked in his direction more than the direction
of Criton.
Criton hoped and hoped and waited and waited. Then
one day, unable to live without her glance, he went to sit
near the blond fellow.
It was the first time I had ever seen Viva smile-with
her lips.
Criton and the blond fellow  became friends. The
Dutchman was also a poet. The Greek poet moved to the
same boarding-house the stranger lived in. They invariably come together for their meals. Late at night they
walk arm in arm before Seniorita Viva's window and share
the twang of her guitar and the sound of her voice., Criton and his friend are satisfied to share one glance
from the same woman they love.
And so we hate Criton.


295




CHAPTER XII


FRANCE
W ~HEN one says France one generally means
Paris, though to the initiated many the two
things are far from synonymous. Paris is as
different from the rest of France as if it were not its
capital but the capital of some other country; not only
because Paris is a cosmopolitan city, not only because it is
a city toward which stretch the necks of people from all
over the world, but because it represents the spirit of the
whole world as much as it does the spirit of France. Paris
is Paris. No comparisons are possible. Parisians are
Parisians, and neither Frenchmen nor Europeans. Parisians seldom, if ever, travel unless driven by absolute
necessity from their city. They are a part so closely bound
to the city that they cannot detach themselves from it.
They are certain to be disappointed wherever they go,
whatever they see.
The dislike of displacement, however, can be held against
all Frenchmen. Frenchmen are held back from travel by
strong love of traditions and dependence on them. Except
the Chinese, no other people is as given to ancestor-worship as the French. They are routiniers. What has been
done for centuries is the only right thing to be done.
Frenchmen live in houses, not because they are convenient,
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FRANCE
but because their great-grandfathers lived in them. Long
after the soil of a farm has become exhausted the farmers
continue to work it in the same old manner as their greatgrandfathers, because it has been done so for generations,
It is the one characteristic trait of the whole French nation,
though in many other things they are so different. The
Savoyard, the Basque, the Breton, the Norman, and Toulousian are men of vastly different bloods and races,
speaking dialects so different as almost to be different
languages-and many of them like the Breton and Provenqal are, indeed, different languages-although they are
conglomerated under the common name of "Frenchmen."
And so, if you travel from the Spanish district in New
York-from Twenty-third Street between Ninth and
Tenth Avenues, where is that beautiful row of columned
houses on the north side, rising like great pillars in the
mist that settles from the river early in the morning-you
will have the sensation of traveling, as you go toward
Fortieth Street, through the lower part of France. From
Andorra to Montauban and Limoges and Lyons, and then
to Paris. For on the way the low houses and the disorder
of heights and building-materials, and the names on the
signs, with a sprinkling of Greek Macedonians and the
beginning of another Italian quarter and a duplication of
a Greek quarter elsewhere, right about Thirty-seventh
Street, is very much like an imitation of Paris's outlying
districts. This is merely a general impression; the French
quarters in New York are really the Parisian quarters in
New York, although of the forty thousand French inhabitants there are hardly more than five or six thousand
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


Parisians here, but this matters not, for proportionately
they are in the same ratio as they are in Paris. And yet
they are the dominating element. The Parisian quarters
are near our Broadway, our white-light district, which not
only outdoes in light and noise the Boulevard des Italiens,
but absolutely outdistances in lighting brilliancy and noise
of streets anything Paris can ever hope to achieve.


There are many Frenchmen living further south, and
those who have been here for a longer period live as far
down as the Village. Around Eighth and Ninth Streets
there are old French families, and there are many more on
Thirteenth Street and Fifteenth Street west of Fifth
Avenue. Those are families who have been in this city for
over a hundred years, and the houses they live in are the
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FRANCE
same to which they had originally come and which they today own. These houses have a certain French fragrance
of style, and with that typical traditionalism of the French
they have not heeded the changes about them. The houses
are as picturesque as they ever were, with trellised balconies and vines creeping over the long windows and the
low doors.
As their center of the old French district, at the Brevoort Hotel, and at the Lafayette Hotel on University
Place, the older Frenchmen still gather for their aperitif
or mid-afternoon absinthe, even when such things are no
longer obtainable. One could easily have forgotten the
very existence of New York in either of these cafes before
prohibition came, seeing the men and women around the
small tables playing their bezigue while sipping the greenish drink from tall glasses and smoking their cigarettes
from long cigarette-holders. To this day the Brevoort
and the Lafayette are the rendezvous of the older French
colonists in this city, although the Village artists and
pseudo-artists have also made of them their general
rendezvous.
Not long ago in talking with M. Delut, at a dinner in
honor of Chaliapin, the great Russian singer, I remarked
that he was talking a very fluent English with a very
strong French accent. We chanced a little later to talk
French together, whereupon I discovered he used a good
many Anglicisms in his language, although his accent was
purely Parisian.
"You must have lived a long time in this city, M. Delut,"
I said.
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


"Indeed," he answered. "Forty-five years."
It did not seem to me that the round-faced, jovial man
was much older than that, indeed even that much, and so
I said:
"Then you must have come here as a child?"
"No, my father came here as a child," he answered. "I
was born in this city."
And it turned out that M. Delut had never been in
France. His family had come here during the revolutionary troubles of 1848, as a good many other families
did. There are indeed several thousand old French families that came here during that period. Evidences of that
can be found in almost any district, as well as in the many
French names in the liberal professions. And still most
of them cling, even to the third and fourth generation, to
French habits and French customs, which have been transmitted from parent to parent.
There are at least a dozen old signs of "Boulangerie
Franqaise" and "Boucherie Franqaise" through the Village, and many more French signs further up town, where
the boulangeries and the boucheries are very much like the
ones at home. But it is up toward Broadway, between
Fortieth and Fiftieth Streets, and along Sixth and Eighth
Avenues, that the French quarter, as it was, exists.
There are any number of the good old cafes chantants of
European origin, where a diseuse or a chanteuse in abbreviated skirts and old-fashioned decollete, looking more like
a circus-rider than a singer, is holding forth from a small
platform at the end of the hall, while the good bourgeois
who have come from long distances to their accustomed
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FRANCE


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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
tables, which they have held at certain days of the week
year after year, discuss their family affairs in a French
curiously corrupted with the few English words that they
know.
There are dozens of pensions de famille with stout and
marceled rubicund ladies surveying the work of the quietspoken waitresses from Cantal. For Cantal furnished
almost all the waiters of France. There one could have his
panade or his choux de Bruxelles served in exactly the
same manner as it is prepared in the sixty thousand restaurants of Paris. If one should search very well on
Forty-fifth Street there is a place where lapin au vin is
the great specialty of the house, where the pot, as in Anatole France's "Rotisserie," has never been taken off the
fire for the last thirty years.
There is not a single branch of industry in this city,
especially in those industries where great skill and neatness
are demanded, that does not employ one or more Frenchmen. The big bronze foundries, where statues and the
like are molded, employ French molders. The art jewelers
pride themselves when they have Frenchmen, and if all the
modistes and dressmakers announcing themselves with the
prefix "Madame" were French, the French population
would be six times its size in New York City.
There were several small French theaters in New York
City before the war, in feeble competition with the German
theater at Irving Place. The German theater was by far
the better, having a better repertoire and much better
actors than the French theaters of those days. But at the
beginning of the war Copeau with his theater Le Vieux
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FRANCE


Colombier came over here, and they were given the old
Garrick Theater by Otto Kahn, which was remodeled to
suit them, after the plans and drawings of Jouvet, who
was both an excellent actor and an architect. Never before
had New York seen such ensemble acting, never before
such perfection, such simplicity, or heard such diction.
The theatrical world will remember for ever and ever the
staging of "The Brothers Karamazov" on that little stage.
The stairway that led from the central room to the upper
room, where Jon commits suicide, was the most perfect
and impressive thing ever seen in any theater. But they
were a bit too austere and insisted on playing classics, the
Copeau Players. And the French colony here encouraged
them only meagerly. After two seasons in the city Copeau
and his players returned to their theater in Paris, very
much disgusted with the lack of support of the French
population here.
How much more can be done in this way was immediately proved by that unique artiste, Yvette Guilbert, the
diseuse. Season after season she filled the Maxine Elliott
Theater, although she was the only one on the stage from
beginning to end, reciting French poetry, mimicking and
singing as only she can sing the old French chansons. It
is not only the French colony who come, week after week
and month after month, but people from all our nationalities. It was, indeed, a great treat for any one interested
in the stage and for any one who wanted to learn French.
From time to time a French troupe does come over from
Paris to play, but like most other Latin people the French
are very bad propagandists, and very seldom has the best
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
come over here, in spite of the occasional and frequent
farewell visits of the late Mme. Sarah Bernhardt.
The Parisian district of New York begins at Thirtyninth Street and Sixth Avenue, right at the Metropolitan
Opera-house. In spite of the fact that the Metropolitan
is an Italian institution, although it is the national operahouse of the United States, even in the days when German
opera was the almost steady fare there, French was the
official language of the opera-house. From William J.
Guard, the press representative, the politest gentleman in
New York (from whose garb one can recognize whether
the performance that night is a gala performance or not,
for his silk hat and cutaway tell the tale), to the head of
the institution, French is the official language. And then,
as if Sixth Avenue and Broadway were the Boulevard des
Italiens, the streets running westward to the river, up to
Fifty-fourth Street, like the faubourg extending westward
from the celebrated Parisian boulevard, are Parisian quarters. And like the faubourg those streets change in char'acter with the distance from Broadway. The restaurants
and the pensions rarefy themselves toward Eighth Avenue.
The prices on the bills of fare go down and downward as
you go further west. And suddenly the streets, the hum
and the drum of Broadway diminished, begin to be the
quiet streets in which the families of Parisians are housed.
For except a few families that have been here for generations and that have already been absorbed to a certain
extent, most of the Parisian population of the city is a
commercial one, and includes, also, a good number of artisans who have come here to better their condition but who
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FRANCE
are largely a temporary population. The Parisian soon
begins to long back for his faubourgs and the little nooks
and corners of the Bois de Vincennes.
Parisian youngsters do not mix readily with the youngsters of other nationalities, not because of their superiority
complex, but because of great difference in interests. The
Parisian young boy is not half as much interested in baseball, football, and prize-fights as the American boy is or as
the son of the new immigrant of any other nationality
might become. Not considering our civilization superior
to theirs, the Parisians are not eager to imitate our customs
or adapt themselves to them. Jazz may have won a hold
on the boulevardiers of Paris because of its exotic quality,
but it has not taken hold of the simpler folk, who stick to
the minuet and the pavane and the polka and the waltz. A
visit to any celebration of the youngsters of the Church of
St. Vincent de Paul on Twenty-third Street would be
enough to convince one of that. The St. Vincent de Paul
has a branch of its church called Notre Dame de la Misericorde on Washington Square, where the same thing may
be observed at any of their celebrations. Not even proximity to the Village, with its pseudo-Latin-Quarter atmosphere, could accomplish that. And if any one should doubt
it he might visit the French Evangelical Church on West
Sixteenth Street. A good many of the old residents are
members of the congregation; indeed, some of the oldest
French settlers here occupy the pews. But they are as
French as if they had only come yesterday. The fact is,
many of this congregation have never even seen France.
How separated from the rest of the community the
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
Parisians live could also be seen in their daily and weekly
papers, the "Courier des Etats-Unis" and the "Gazette
Franco-Americaine,"   or  in
their magazine "La France,"
I lrZ l       t>which, though fully intended to
X\~ Ng       li; create a rapprochement between
\\  1       m\  the two nations, is very far
\  from attempting such a move,
\  even if it were at all necessary.
LA  0  ^ ~  These papers are interested
'i-4,,L~  ^  chiefly, like all good Frenchmen,
SL| i^^       in the things that directly concern them.   The Frenchman,
the Parisian especially, is noto- 
rious for his inability to learn
other languages or to concern
himself with interests of people
other than his own.
The enforcement of prohibition, such as it is, has hit the,  <^   French population very hard in
New   York City. I am    not
speaking of the commercial end
of it, though a good many,
probably one-quarter, of the
commercial houses in this country were importers of wines, liqueurs, and champagnes.
Such houses really had to adjust themselves by making
arrangements to import other goods or else be completely wiped out. But I am now speaking of the French306




FRANCE
men accustomed to have their wine at the table. To
them wine has always been part of their nutrition. The
absence of it has hit many of them so hard that they have
found it impossible to remain in this country in spite of
all their home-brews and substitutes. Accordingly they
have returned home. Because of that the old Gallic gaiety
and light-heartedness has been abated. One no longer
hears, on passing a French street, as much gay and light
laughter, as much gay and light song as one used to hear.
The many little family cafes to which the working-man,used to take his whole family on a Saturday afternoon or
a Sunday, for lunch or for dinner, to break up the monotony of his wife's housekeeping routine, are no longer.
They have been wiped out of existence; where they still
exist, the old gaiety is gone. Unable to drink the good
wine in perfect openness, between long discourses and
story-tellings and politenesses and laughter, the Frenchman has abandoned his cafes. These places are frequented
by such people as drink their wine as if it were medicine,
in sudden big gulps and by stealth. Drinking wine to a
Frenchman, apart from being a necessity, has also been a
sort of ritual. I know of a number of Parisians who have
moved out to the country, Where they potter away the long
evenings of the summer near the vines they have set, and
the evenings of the fall watching the little juice they can
press out of them. How wine-drinking is with the Frenchman a social affair can be seen from the number of guests
at such out-of-town homes on a Saturday or a Sunday.
The French district in New York has never been in any
Mray a fixed center; the French have not been numerous
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


enough to form a quarter of their own, and their occupations have been more varied than those of any other of
our foreign populations here. The two thousand or more
French theatrical people in this city, season after season,
live mostly in the hotels in the neighborhood of Broadway.


2^ -^"-.1


The commercial element, when not actually housed permanently here, lives further down toward Washington Square,
while the working class live here and there and everywhere,
getting together only at church affairs, labor meetings,
or on such occasions where something specifically French
is given. The Metropolitan Opera-house becomes a social
center when a French opera is performed. Half of the
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FRANCE


audience at a performance of "Louise," by Carpentier, is
Parisian.
In connection with this opera I remember a very amusing story. I was sitting with William Guard, the press
representative, and another friend of mine, in one of the
boxes, and watching the performance. In the box next
to mine were two ladies, both evidently from the newly
rich class. Though they took great pains to handle the
lorgnette it was quite evident they had not yet completely
mastered the manner of doing it. In the second act of
"Louise" is the celebrated dressmaking shop scene. In the
dressmaking shop where Louise works, together with
twenty other young ladies, the girls sing a good deal while
they work, many of them dancing snatches while the street
musicians are playing below the windows. There are
diversions caused by the apprentice girl, an extremely disturbing gamine, who is intriguing between the girls. The
whole scene is one in which a good deal of the spirit of the
French midinette, lively and care-free yet sentimental, is
displayed.
After the ovation to the singer, at the end of the act,
one of the ladies turned around and asked her neighbor,
seemingly her guest, what she thought of it. The lady
pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows, and with a gesture in
which she showed her disapproval of the waste of time and
inefficient manner in a French dressmaking shop, she said:
"No wonder French dresses are so expensive."
Speaking about the Metropolitan Opera-house I must
tell another amusing story, which will probably show that
there are more than two reasons why most people come to
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


the opera. They were playing "L'Amore de Tre Re." In
the second act the old man kills the faithless wife of his
son. After strangling her he carries her off stage on his
shoulder. There were two seats vacant at my right
throughout the first act. But at the beginning of the
second two ladies speaking German came to occupy them.
The music had hardly begun for the second act when the
two ladies began to snooze peacefully. They had been
asleep for only a moment when one of them woke up and
asked the other one: "Hat man ihr schon get6tet? Have
they killed her yet?"
The older one opened her eyes, peered at the stage, and
said: "Noch nicht. Not yet."
A little later they had both closed their eyes again, only
to open them after a moment and ask whether the murder
had been committed. As it had not been, and there was
still some time until the deed should be done, they again
closed their eyes.
I took pity on them a moment before the murder scene
was to be enacted, and, tapping my neighbor on the
shoulder, I said to her: "Jetzt geht's los. Now it is going
to happen." They watched the scene, bending over forward as far as possible so that not a single gesture or the
slightest movement should escape them. They were so
tense that I could not even hear them breathing. When
the deed was done they both sighed deeply and reclined on
their seats. Then the lady I had tapped on the shoulder
turned toward me, and, bowing deeply, she said: "Danke
sch6n. I thank you." They left at the end of the second
act.
3Io




FRANCE


I    I1^T\
J\ "!


'. <


tjt


11ic
1'


I'- I'


It is almost a practice with me, whenever I want to meet
a French friend I have not seen for a long time, to wait
until some specific French affair takes place. I am quite
certain to meet whom I desire any time Jacques Thibaud,
that most eloquent of all violinists, is playing, especially so
when the Chausson "Poeme" is included in the program.


3"




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
I know whom I will meet when Cortot, the pianist, plays.
Indeed, there is tout Paris when Yvette Guilbert is giving
one of her performances.
Except for the few homes of Frenchmen in lower New
York, there is no architectural distinction of any kind typically French in the French upper New York district. It
is not like the other districts, where the inhabitants have
created something that resembles as nearly as possible their
own habitat. The Parisians came to live in a district which
had already imitated their former home as closely as possible. I am speaking of the theatrical district. They have
not added anything to it architecturally.
In spite of that, their existence is strongly felt there,
not only because of the numerous cafes and restaurants,
but because there is something peculiarly theirs floating
about them. One could distinguish a Frenchwoman walking up or down the street anywhere on earth, not because
of her inimitable grace but because of an inimitable quality
which, quite apart from being beautiful or not, is hers.
The manner in which a Parisian woman can wear the most
common thing, and, by giving it a twist, a turn, creasing
it here and there with her finger-nail, make it look like a
gown a hundred times more expensive than it really is, is
too proverbial to need further discourse. There is a Parisian toss of the head and movement of the hand. And
there is the Parisian "Voila" no one can imitate; not even
a Frenchman from another part of France. All over the
city the influence of the Parisian is strongly felt; and they
have taken no pains for it. If it is true that every intelligent man has two countries, his own and France, it is also
312




FRANCE


true that every man has two languages, his own and
French. And those Parisians who have come to live here
have brought with them that spirit which has forever been
admired by the rest of the world.
I remember my friend Barnabatte, who had worked for
years as a cook in one of the large French restaurants here.
He had saved up a good deal of money, for both he and his
wife were working, and they were very thrifty people. I
used to meet Barnabatte frequently at the houses of other
friends of mine, especially at the homes of Planas and
Banville, two French engineers who have greatly contributed to the development of the automobile. Barnabatte
was a happy soul, gaily cutting into every conversation
with his loud Gascon laughter and his thick Gascon accent.
No matter what one said, Barnabatte was against it; and
his wife always seconded him with her eternal, "Mais oui.
Mais oui."
We may occasionally have disliked him for his eternal
interruptions, but we sorely missed him after he ceased to
come to any of these gatherings at the beginning of the
war. And there were those who thought that though he
was exempt from military service he might have returned
and offered to do such service as he was capable of. Having more time than the others, I was delegated to make
inquiries. Accordingly, after we had missed him for
about eight weeks I went up to his house to see him. I
found his wife alone in the living-room.
"Where is Edouard?" I inquired.
She put her finger on her lips to hush my voice.
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


"Good heavens! Is he ill?" I inquired. "Where is he?
I must see him."
She drew me to the opposite end of the room, and in
whispers she told me, "He is in the other room with his
teacher."
"Teacher?"
"He will presently be out," she assured me.
And at that very moment the door from the
/~    other room opened and a
gray-bearded  gentleman
in a long Prince Albert
h1     c coat, which had once been
black and was now green,
~\X\ ~  I  was taking his leave. M..\0 B9j '^  F      Barnabatte stood at the
door.
VA|                 "Bonjour, monsieur,"
the gray-bearded gentleman said.
"Bonjour," Barnabatte
answered, in a very unusual tone of voice.
It was not my Barnabatte at all. There would have been
a good deal more zeal near the "j" in "bonjour" if he had
pronounced it in his own way.
"Bonjour, camarade," he greeted me, with that slight
"h" before the "r" which is the privilege of every Parisian.
"What is all that?" I asked Barnabatte, on seeing the
disk phonograph on the table with a number of books.
"And why have we not seen you?"
314




FRANCE


"Oh, I have no time," he excused himself. "I am
studying to become chef."
"Studying to become chef?" I questioned.
"Mais oui! Mais oui!" Barnabatte assured me. "One
can never become chef, no matter how good he is at his
trade, with a Gascon accent."
He is chef to-day, having worked more than a year to
eradicate his southern French accent. But he has also lost
his good, thick, pleasant voice, and acquired a falsetto, this
being the only means to disguise his origin.
There is a cafe somewhere northwest of Forty-second
Street. For some reason or other to a certain group that
cafe is known as the River of Doubt.
Its clientele varies with the hour. Up to noon it is the
rendezvous of all the Parisians of New York. At the
noon-hour it becomes the eat-and-run place of the officegirls in the neighborhood. After two it is the rendezvous
of aspiring and superannuated theatrical folk; hopes and
dreams meet regrets and old successes.
At four the center-table is occupied by the eminent music
critics dropping in from  Eolian Hall for a cup of strong
black coffee; and Debussy, Strauss, Wagner, and the rest
are blown with the smoke from pipes, cigarettes, and thick
Havanas. And from then on to an hour after midnight
all the Americas, the rest of the world, and all professions
from the loftiest to the lowliest pass in review. Plans for
plays, symphonic themes, great novels, plots of revolution
and murder are hatched under that roof.
Alex and myself were discussing Merejkowski at one of
315




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
the little brown tables edging the brown wall decorated
with leopard-skins when Riviers, the French poet, entered
with a very Anglo-Saxon-looking young woman.
"My teacher of English," Riviers introduced her, and
the two sat down at the table back of us.
My discussion with Alex came to an end soon. We
agreed on almost everything. It is what has always worried me when I am with Alex. I can't find out whether I
agree with him, or he with me, or that we both agree.
"You have hands tres, tres, oh, yes, now I find-you
have hands very beautiful," I heard Riviers saying to the
teacher, and my eye caught the fact that he had taken one
of the girl's hands in his.
"No, you should have said, 'Your hands are very beautiful," explained the teacher.
"Your hands are very beautiful," repeated the poet;
"thanks, thanks!"
"What color are my eyes?" asked the teacher.
"Your yeux, non-eyes, eyes, are beautiful. Very bleu."
"No, no. Your eyes are a beautiful blue."
"Bien, blue, blue, blue!" repeated Riviers, trying to
memorize.
"Your beautiful hands very chaud, fire, burn; you know
-you know-"
"Ah! You want to say, 'Your beautiful warm hands
burn like fire.' Say it."
"That's it, that it, c'est qa," jubileed Riviers, and patted
the hand he held in his.
"Your hand is ice-cold," the teacher said. "You understand?"
316




FRANCE


"Understand, understand-my hand cold because your
beautiful hand is very warm."
"Bravo, bravo!" the teacher complimented. "You learn
so rapidly."
"You have very extraordinary tete, you know-"
"Head, you mean. Yes, but say it so, 'You have an
extraordinarily beautiful head.' "
"Yes, yes," and the young poet repeated the words of
his teacher with great enthusiasm.
"I will write une poeme-"
"A poem, a poem," corrected the young lady.
"Yes, I will write a poem to this beautiful head."
"Oh, you learn a new language very rapidly; you have a
gift for languages."
"You very fine. Always must I think of you. In six
months, maybe in one year, when I go away, I think of
you just the same. And I songe-you know what you
sleep and think-"
"Dream, dream, you mean."
"Yes, thanks; I dream we are very good friends."
"That was too long a sentence for you, Mr. Riviers."
"I love your voix, you know, you know-"
"Say, 'I love your voice.' "
"I love it; I love your voice," the poet repeated
rapturously.
An hour later they were still there. His vocabulary had
augmented marvelously. He spoke rapidly, and the lady
corrected fugitively, more as a matter of form or habit.
It was a torrent of love-words. Her face was as flushed
as his, and her blue eyes darkened to violet. People passed
317




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
by and looked at them as they held hands, their heads
almost touching. But they did not see. They were alone
amid the hundreds of people.  Riviers' cigarette had
burned by itself, untouched after the first whiff; the two
cups of coffee were cold.
Two hours later they were still there. The young
woman was talking to him, and as he did not understand
her good English she talked one mixed with French and
Italian and Latin and used all available means to make him
understand what she wanted.
"You see, you see, you no understand because I no talk
the Engleesh well," Riviers complained.
"You do, you do, Riviers. You do, my dear. You talk
English wonderfully. I understand everything."
"No, no. You very intelligent and you talk French very
well."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do. I understand everything."
"Ma fiancee," he introduced her to me several days
later.
"Well, well; now you will learn English rapidly,
Riviers," I laughed.
"Mais non, non; she speak the French parfaitement."
"I really don't know more than a few words," prptested
the English teacher.
"You do; you do; I know you do."
"You see his English has improved wonderfully in the
last few days; don't you think so?" the girl exclaimed as
she bowed herself away to a distant table.


318




CHAPTER XIII


GERMANY
IT is well, before one decides to visit a country, to know
something not only of its geographical position but
also of its history. Otherwise a good many things
one should see either completely escape him or are so misunderstood as to add to the world's already formidable
stock of misinformation.
The war has caused a good deal of it. Forgetting that
almost a sixth of the population of this country is of German extraction, we have gone on ranting, school-boy
fashion. The friends of the Germans exaggerated their
cultural value, and their enemies disparaged it, until either
nothing on God's earth of any value was ever done by a
German, or everything that was ever created by civilization
from the day of its beginning to the end of the war was
done only by Germans.
Now that our patriotic ardor has cooled off, there are a
few things that might be told. How many a son who has
been in Pershing's army is unable to look into his father's
eyes, when he remembers the battles in which he has taken
part against his father's people. The older German people
were expected to rise to the same degree of patriotism as
the people of the other populations in this city. Even if
they did not, one must concede to them far greater spir319




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


itual difficulties in the situation they were plunged into
by the war. A good many of them had to be like the sinner,
holier than anybody else, compelled as they were to wave
the flag three times as frequently and ten times as loudly
as the others. There is many a wife who finds living with
her husband well nigh impossible since his return from
across the water. She had brothers and uncles abroad who
have gone to their graves following the course they thought
was right. The wonder of it is that there were not during
the war many more conscientious objectors on the ground
of fear of fratricide and parricide. One must not forget
the stigma put on the Germans when the names and addresses of all the so-called "enemy aliens" were published
in the papers and are to this day obtainable in the public
libraries of the city; it is the ugliest thing that has resulted from the war hysteria. It is easier to forget victory
than defeat. Forgetting defeat frequently amounts to
knavishness, while forgetting victory always earns admiration for the victors. "Vae victis" is written in heavy
red letters in the history of the world.
There are a few facts in the development of the city of
New York which it may do no harm to know better. The
Germans were here virtually from the very beginning of the
city. Wolfgang Roma, a German, was the first one to lay
the foundation of what is to-day the port of New York.
Nicholas Meyer, a German-born gentleman, in I676, at a
time when any office-holder in New York was little more
than a pirate on the seas of public money, was one of the
most public-spirited mayors of the city. Christiansen Klef,
one of our first pioneers, although a theologian himself,
320




GERMANY
fought bitterly for religious freedom against all odds, odds
that the German founders of the Lutheran Church in New
York could not have overcome, if they had not been as
steadfast as they were in their belief in religious freedom.
Jacob Leisler, a native of Frankfort-on-the-Main, who
was elected temporary governor by the people of New
York, called the first congress of the American colonies.
A fearless defender of the people's rights against the
oppressions of the Government, he was brought to trial
for treason and hanged in I691, the first martyr of the
long struggle of the American people for liberty. Johann
Peter Zenger, the owner of the New York "Weekly Journal," which he founded in 1733, saw numbers of his paper
publicly burned by the hangman for his criticism of the
acts of the Government. Thrown into prison for his fight
for liberty, he was the man at whose trial the freedom of
the press was definitely established in America. Peter
Minuit, the first director-general of the New Netherlands
in I62I, was a German. He it was who closed the bargain
with the Indians by which he purchased Manhattan for
twenty-four dollars, instead of fighting and shedding blood
for the strip of land. The Astors emigrated here from
Germany; Rockefeller is of German ancestry; so, also,
are Wanamaker and Siegel. The man who built the Brooklyn Bridge, then probably the most brilliant feat of engineering on this side of the ocean, was Roebling, a German.
After designing the bridge he fell ill and could only watch
the construction of it through a telescope from a considerable distance.
And then came 1848, when after an unsuccessful revo321




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
lution in Germany the best minds, the most active ones,
were compelled to flee their country. Many of them came
here. One need but mention names like Carl Schurz, Siegel,
Ottendorfer, Kapp, Solger, and Dr. Jacobi, not to list a
hundred others of lesser importance but of equal quality
in every direction, to recall to mind the best men this city
has had.
With the forty-eighters and after them came the great
immigration from Germany. In the German festival of
May 8, 1848, when Frederick Havemeyer was mayor and
the German flag was flown from City Hall, fully sixty
thousand Germans participated. The Schiller festival in
1859 lasted five days. And when Lincoln's call for volunteers was heard, the German Turnverein poured volunteers
into the ranks of the army. Their elders who had battled
for the freedom of the people in 1848 in their own land
were the ones who, if they could not themselves go because
of age, stirred the younger ones to go. Look at the names
of the Civil War veterans.
Now, as to their cultural value. It is doubtful whether
we should have had such musical organizations as we have
in the city if it were not for the German love for music.
The Philharmonic Society was founded in 1842 by Germans. As early as I880 there were sixty Gesangsvereine
in the city of New York alone. In 1856 Karl Bergmann
produced "Fidelio," by Beethoven, with choruses trained
here. In I87o the Germans had their own Stadttheater,
which for those days, and even for this day, equaled the
best anywhere in the world. Leopold Damrosch and Anton
Seidl produced Wagner as early as I888. Most of the
322




GERMANY


I


1


I.


3


J


1


I /
l/gh


323




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
great orchestral and operatic conductors in this city have
been Germans-Alfred Hertz, Leopold Damrosch, and his
sons, Walter and Frank Damrosch. Francis Xavier Ahrens, the former leader of the People's Symphony Orchestra, has by himself done more to popularize orchestral
music than all the other musicians of this country combined.
P. A. Schnecker has written more church music of the
finest sort than any other man living to-day. What Grau
and Conried and Hammerstein did for opera in New York
and for music in general, only those closely connected
could tell.
Wherever the German lives he must have his Gesangsvereine, his Liedertafeln and his Turnvereine. When they
commemorated Wagner at the Hippodrome on December
27, I9I3, more than a thousand voices, three hundred of
them female, took part in the chorus. Mme. SchumannHeink was the soloist. George Gemunder, undoubtedly the
best violin-maker of the last century, whose violins will in
time be appreciated with those of the celebrated Italian
masters, lived in this city from I850 on.
One could go on and on, and never finish the list, of
what New York Germans have contributed toward the
aggrandizement of the city. The Guggenheims, Belmonts,
Strauses, Oelrichses, Eberhard Faber, the pencil manufacturer, the Frohmans, the Schiffs. They have contributed
as much as any single nation, if not more, to the construction of the elevateds and subways, to merchandising on a
large scale, to banking, and that most beneficial of all inst;tutions, the life-insurance companies.
324




GERMANY
At the time when they had Das Deutsche Theater on
Downing Street, with the highest artistic ambition, the
American stage was virtually non-existent but for a few
crudities and importations from abroad. The German
papers, the first of which, "Deutscher Freund," was
founded in I820, the "Staats-Zeitung," the "Volkszeitung,"
and the "Herold," have been examples of what newspapers
should be.
Our first flower-raisers-beginning with Jacob Sperry,
who had his garden on the Bowery not very long ago, before the Italians took over the profession-were all Germans. The Hessian, Schwerkopf, introduced strawberries
into this country. He was also one of the first horticulturists. And how careful and beautiful German workmanship
can be is exhibited by the piano-manufacturing houses of
Steinway, Knabe, Weber, Somer, Kranich & Bach, and
others too numerous to mention. One must not forget that
up to I880 virtually all the musicians of the city were
Germans. The same thing could be said of druggists and
physicians. To this day they are largely represented in the
city, with men like Dr. Herman Knopf of Columbia University, one of the greatest authorities on the eye and ear
in the world, and the famous Dr. Jacobi, who departed only
recently.
The kindergarten system in New York was established
by a German woman, Mme. Maria Kraus, and is still
largely continued on the lines she laid down. As early as
1843 Columbia University established a chair for the German language and literature, and there was a great effort
325




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


to make it compulsory in our public schools. Years later
Jacob H. Schiff endowed Cornell University with a hundred thousand dollars for a chair of German literature.
There are, including the Austrians, over a million German-speaking people in New York. Their quarter begins
somewhere on First Street, between Avenue A and Avenue
B, skirts Tompkins Square on the east side, and extends
northward, touching the Hungarian quarter at Fourteenth
Street. It spreads further east to Avenue B and C, and
sometimes to the very edge of the East River, up to Fiftyfirst Street at Beekman Place. From there, jumping over
a few streets, which are left to the Swedish population of
the city, it spreads northward and westward, sometimes
even crossing Fifth Avenue, then turning back toward
Lexington and Madison, and holding its course westward
to Eighty-sixth Street and Third Avenue. The tendency
of the German population is strongly to the north and timidly to the west, imitating the spread of the German Empire in Europe. And, as at home, the German population
here touches on the west side a corner of the French quarter, further north the Scandinavian, and on its east side the
Czecho-Slovak and Polish districts, not to speak of the
Hungarian district, which is almost continually on its eastern flank.
Unlike other nationalities, the Germans, except in the
Harlem district, which was taken over by the negroes, have
never completely abandoned a region in which they have
lived by moving westward or northward. Wherever the: Germans settled, early in the history of the city, down on
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GERMANY


the East Side toward Clinton and Norfolk Streets, at the
time Clinton Hall was the Astor Opera-house, they have
clung to that district and held on to it, spreading only as
they multiplied, without ever completely giving ground.
In witness of that are numerous. German churches which


still exist in the districts now largely occupied by Jews'
and other peoples. On Sunday morning hereditary members of the congregation come to sit in the same pews
where their grandfathers sat, whether they live fifteen
blocks away or fifty, in the German Catholic Church on
Second Street or the Lutheran Church on St. Mark's
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
Place. Other nationalities, in moving away, have given
over their churches, or whatever other social halls had
been in their possession, selling them at a profit to the new
arrivals who have taken their places, but not so the Germans. Even their Liedertafel places and Turnvereine and
Gesangsvereine are still where they originally were, in spite
of the fact that their members now live miles away. Neither
are the original German owners of houses willing to part
with the old buildings their forefathers first erected, or to
remodel them so as to make them more in keeping with the
buildings going up about them. One can still see rows of
houses on Thirteenth Street and Nineteenth Street, set
back from the sidewalk, with little flower-gardens in front
of them and vines creeping over the windows, while large
apartment-houses have gone up on both sides and in the
back, robbing the houses of the light that had been intended
for their windows. There is no doubt that these houses
would be eagerly snapped up by buyers at considerable
prices if the owners were willing to sell. But most of them
are not, and prefer holding on to their properties as of
old... as homes for themselves.
One of the examples of this German tenacity can be
seen on Fourth Street, between Second and Third Avenues, around the Beethoven Hall. Many, many years ago,
when the houses were far apart, that district was German.
Being near the Bowery, where all the amusement places
were, in that district were several Weinstuben and a few
German delicatessen stores. The generation which patronized these places is long since dead. The German colony has spread further north and northwest, but the Wein328




GERMANY


stuben still exist in spite of prohibition. The delicatessen
stores are still there. And Germans, probably the sons of
the original patrons, or the grandsons, come from wherever
they are for their little glass of cider and Gemiitlichkeit to
which they aff accustomed, at the same table, sitting on
the same chair, and looking at the same inane lithographs
with the same quaint inscriptions under them. How these
delicatessen stores live and exist is beyond any one's understanding. But they do. Frau Hausmann, who bought
pumpernickel and Klise-kdse for her mother fifty years
ago, is buying them now for her daughter or granddaughter, from the son or grandson of the man who used
to serve her when she was in knee frocks.
On Fifth Street, between Avenue A and Avenue B, is
my friend Werner, the violin-maker. He is a very old
man now, probably eighty years old. He came to this country around the fifties with his father. He is undoubtedly
one of the finest violin makers and repairers in this city.
Kneisel, Kreisler, Ysaye, Elman, and other great violinists
and cellists bring their violins to him for repair and conditioning before they leave for abroad or after their return.
And yet Werner's shop is no larger than it was when his
father opened it when they first arrived here from Germany. I dare say it will not be larger fifty years from
now, when his son will be as old as his father is now.
Father and son have been working now for two generations
together. Calmly, slowly, diligently, with the usual five
interruptions a day for their meals, which are brought
from the back of the store where the family is housed, and
with the glasses of beer that succeed one another at regular
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
intervals, father and son are at their bench until five in
the afternoon, when old Werner, undoing his leather apron,
calls out, "Feieramt; finished," and the day's work is done.
Should father happen to forget to call the day's end at the
exact minute, the son will continue working. Then, still
silently, each one lights his pipe. There is a Lehnstuhl
dragged out to the door, if the weather is warm, or placed
in the middle of the shop if it is cold; and the cronies from
the neighborhood, their long beards stained with tobaccojuice and smoke, gather in the place to discuss in rare and
quiet monosyllables the events of the day. Because of some
physical defect, Werner, Jr., did not serve in the army;
and his father, who has always been saddened because of
his son's short leg, has repeatedly told me how God has
been good to him. Old Werner, although he came here as
a little boy, can hardly talk English. It is of him that
people have said, "He considers the Americans stupid because they have not learned German in the sixty or more
years that he has been here."
Further up west on St. Mark's Place, between Second
and First Avenues, is the Lutheran Church. Those who
have the time and inclination to hear beautiful choir singing and magnificent organ accompaniment and directing
would do well to stay around the church after seven o'clock
some evening. I lived only a few doors away from the
church some years ago, and I found it impossible to do anything during those hours but listen to the strong and beautiful singing of the Lutheran hymns as it floated through the
open windows. I moved away from that district because
of the silly organ-playing at the same hour from a moving330




GERMANY


picture house on the corner. It maddened me, and as I
could not drown out the noise it was best for me to go.
All along on Avenue A and Avenue B are hundreds of
old Weinstuben and saloons and coffee-houses, which vegetate now. Further along, toward Tompkins Square, was
the old Heimath place, and next to it the Rathskeller. At
the Heimath, a spacious basement, gathered nightly around
the twenty or more pine tables all the homeless German
unemployed. Until twelve o'clock at night everybody was
served with a glass of wine and a large hunk of bread for
five cents. Exactly at midnight the proprietor, a big, stout
man, would yell out at the top of his voice as he extinguished the lamp, "Schlafen!" As if by some witchcraft
all the voices were hushed immediately, and those who did
not leave instantly went to sleep where they were. The
proprietor closed the front door and went to sleep in his
own room, which was in the back.
At the Rathskeller things were quite different, though
on the same order. Here all the young pseudo-intellectuals
gathered to discuss Heine and Goethe and Schiller and 
music. The Germans have never been much interested in 
the other arts. Literature and music have always been i
their forte. And many of them beguiled away their night's 
sleep while discussing things of greater importance than
mere physical rest. I have many a time heard wonderful
poetry recited by poets who have since become famous here
and abroad.
Both of these places were closed during the war, although several transformations were essayed to keep them
alive.
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


Westward on Second Avenue is the German Eye, Ear,
and Nose Hospital, which is one of the most celebrated in
the city and has done a great deal for the inhabitants of the
neighborhood. The poorer class have flocked to its dispensary, the hospital also helping to implant a respect and
love for everything German. The Bulgarians, Serbians,
Albanians, Rumanians, and
~ ffi\\\  ~ all the Balkan people living
in the neighborhood have
much more confidence in a
German doctor or a German druggist than they
have in a doctor of their
own nationalities. For centuries Germans have occu___:~~ 1pied similar capacities in
their own countries. Indeed, in parts of Rumania
a druggist is called a GerI- S -s ^ Sman whether he is German
or not.  And the word
"Artxt" is as common among the Albanians for "doctor"
as if it were a word of their own language. There is an
old story that tells how, when the old druggist in a Rumanian village died, the peasants took a German fiddler who
happened to be there and compelled him to become
their druggist and doctor in spite of his protests. Was
he not a German? Therefore he was a doctor and a
druggist.
Not far from the hospital is the Ottendorfer Library,
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GERMANY
where the books seem to be regarded more sacredly than
anywhere else. Old ladies, brought to the door by their
young daughters or granddaughters, are reading the old
German illustrated weeklies that come there. It is the most
complete German library in town, owning many old volumes
long out of print, which would be the pride and envy of
every collector.
Stories of German-American life have been many, but
the best of them were written by G. Stiirenburg and have
been gathered into a book after they had appeared through
several years in the "Staats-Zeitung."
On Fourteenth Street is the old Luchow's Beer Parlor
and Restaurant. In former years it was the center, and
the most fashionable of all the German places. It is still
frequented by the more cultivated element, because of old
associations, the excellence of its food, and the band that
plays for luncheon and dinner. How easy it is to forget
there the noise and hubbub of the city! How easy it is to
forget one is not in Miinchen, with the foaming big schooners brought by smiling and adept waiters, while the music
plays dances and songs that have long since been forgotten
elsewhere. It is, I am afraid, the only place in the city
where jazz is taboo and Straus is still king.
Further down, on Nineteenth Street, is the Graaf House,
the owner of which used to furnish for ten dollars apiece
barons and counts to ornament the dinner-table of such as
desired their company. In Graaf's eyes a baron or a count,
to be genuine, had only to have his pedigree with him to
prove his right to the title. He also had to look the part.
He had to know how to wear his monocle and his white
333




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
vest over his starched shirt-front. A good many of Graaf's
counts, he will tell you, who have been introduced by social
climbing mothers at a dinner-table, have married their
wealthy daughters. Mr. Graaf finances such affairs to the
end. I am told that he has also financed many French and
Italian counts in search of wealthy heiresses. But the business has gone down considerably of late, since the Russian
Revolution caused so many Russian princes and counts and
nobles to flee to America. Really these Russians have much
more style and dash, and know how to do the thing in much
better form, than the German barons and counts did it.
Accordingly a good many of the old German counts have
become waiters or valets to the newly rich, whom they instruct in good behavior.
And so the district meanders along, with German bands
playing around corners, and German stores selling old
zithers, and pastry-shops adjoining one another, up to
Fifty-first Street, where is the Kellnersheim, the home of
the old waiters. Then it swerves eastward toward Beekman Place, where suddenly there is a crisscrossing of narrow alleys paved with cobblestones, and houses facing this
way and that, set back into the lots, some of them projecting too far over sidewalks, with large brownstone stoops
and bay-windows twisting this way and the other. People
will show you the place where Nathan Hale was hanged,
and others will show you where Horace Traubel, Walt
Whitman's celebrated biographer, lived with his friend
Karsner for several years previous to his death.
Speaking of Traubel, who was a dear friend of mine for
many years, I must tell what happened at his funeral.
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GERMANY


Traubel was of mixed parentage, his father having been
a Jew. When he was brought here for his funeral his wife
decided to have it take place from the Community Church
on Thirty-fourth Street. Many of his friends protested,
telling Anne Montgomerie they were certain Horace
Traubel would not have wished it so. She overrode all the
objections.
The funeral was to take place at three o'clock. The
hearse had no sooner drawn up in front of the church when
some one came rushing out, calling, "Fire! Fire!" A moment later there was the clang and rush of the fire-engines.
The fire did a good deal of damage to the church, while
one of Traubel's friends, master of the situation because
of the bewilderment of the relatives, jumped up beside the
hearse-driver, and the whole procession rode to the People's
House on Fifteenth Street, from which the funeral actually took place.
One can see Blackwell's Island from Beekman Place, and
beyond it the loud signs and lights from the Brooklyn side
of the river, and sailing-boats and steamers and yachts
going up and down the river. It is the most intimate corner
of the city. It has remained as segregated and different
from the rest of its environment as an island in the midst
of the sea. It still is one of the quaintest places in the city.
But it has changed in character of late because it has been
discovered by the wealthy up-towners, who have, after
buying up several of the old houses, built their costlier residences where formerly were one- and two-family houses.
I am tempted to hope that the summer odors from the
slaughter-house not far off will drive them away in the
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
summer, and thus perhaps help restore the place to its
former slow, individual, village life.
There is a beautiful Gesangsverein in the neighborhood,
where most of the Bavarians in the city come to sing their
evenings away. They came for many years, and have returned again, after two years' absence during the war, to
the old place, only to find that it has lost a good deal of its
former charm because of the intrusion of the wealthier
class.
There used to be a beer-garden in the neighborhood,
which I am told had been there since I680 or I690, from
the time when the Kissing Bridge near-by was one of the
city's institutions. It has been swept away in the recent
remodeling of the quarter. Big ugly houses occupy the
spot where the Halle once stood. The gates and the doorways and the windows of the old building lay in a small
alley against the wall for years, with nobody to claim them
and nobody to take care of them. And the people respected
the theoretical property rights of some one who had forgotten all about these things. As long as the population was
strictly German no one touched them. But a southeastern
European group came to settle in the neighborhood.
Shortly afterward all the unclaimed things disappeared.
The wrought-iron gates and finely chiseled doorway found
their way to some junk-dealer's cart for the few pennies
that he paid. The Germans object to everybody else as
"foreigners."
Helferich's violin repair shop on East Eighty-sixth
Street, between Second and Third Avenues, was known as
the "old man's hospital" to the ten thousand or more pro336




GERMANY


fessional violinists, fiddlers, cellists, and contrabassists of
New York, scraping their way through life on gut strings.
When a stringed instrument became "cranky," when the
"walls" bulged or the "belly" cracked, when the "neck"
had to be shaved down or the bow repaired, the invalid
was brought to the old
man.   And if-(but he
very rarely found any too 
sick to remedy) the instrument was thrown on
the scrap-heap.
One left his violin or
cello with Helferich, said,
"Do what you can with
it," and went for his g lass  F
of wine or cider or white  i
beer in one of the Apfelweinstuben near-by, or                          i
for a real dinner in the
Heimath3, some   twenty
feet below  the  street,
where the tables were of
white pine, where the
buxomn waitresses had long eyelashes, and a primas from
Budapest with waxed mustache and oiled hair played the
latest and the oldest czardas.
And if the visitor had ever been in "Pest" or Vienna,
it did not require much generalship to invade a congenial
table in the Heimath and make of a trip to the "hospital"
a real holiday. You see, the men were from Vienna, the
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
women hailed from Budapest. One could drink, be merry,
and forget many things in such a company.
I suspect that Helferich's renown was due quite as much
to the location of his shop as to his workmanship. But as
to that, basta!
In his young days Helferich had been known as a great
violinist. Yellowed old programs and newspaper clippings
with frequent mention of his name hung framed in the
shop and attested to Helferich's great playing at courts
and palaces. But in an accident he lost two fingers of his
left hand, and his playing career was ruined.
So he learned to repair the instrument he played so well,
and came to New York. And in his shop he hung the fiddle
he had used, the one given him in Vienna by the Austrian
emperor. He hung it in a glass case on the wall over the
door which connected the shop with the living apartment
in the rear.
In due time he married and had two sons. The older one,
after finishing at the public school, was kept at home to
learn the trade and help his father. The younger one was
destined for higher things.
As Helferich's fame spread, he accumulated a good deal
of money. He never drank except when others paid. He
never smoked other cigars than those given him by his customers. But these kept his heart continually warm and
cheerful and the shop in thick clouds of smoke. And when
he was tired or dreamy, old Helferich would turn his chair
so as to face the rear wall and sit looking at the precious
Steiner that the old emperor had given him.
If a customer arrived when the old man was thus ab338




GERMANY


sorbed, Joseph, his son-"the young man," as he was called
-walked on tiptoes from his bench to receive him, and the
ensuing conversation was carried on in low whispers:
"Ssh —ssh-the old man has the blues."
Then one day came a telegram to old Helferich calling
him away to Cincinnati to the bedside of a dying sister.
He took his wife along with him.
"Take care of the shop, Joseph," were his parting words
to his son, with a nod toward the fiddle.
"Don't worry, father," the young man replied.
At the door the old man turned again to.give advice.
"Und if a fire there is, Gott behite, save the Steiner first,
Joseph. You are responsible for the violin."
"Don't worry, father."
But the following morning the violin had disappeared
from the glass case on the wall. Joseph was struck dumb.
His father's Steiner, the gift of the emperor, was stolen!
He would commit suicide. He would disappear. He could
not face the old man again.
When he quieted down a little later Joseph had an idea
and sat down to work. He worked the whole day and the
whole night and the day and night following. Before the
sun had risen on the third morning another violin, looking
very much like the Steiner, appeared in the place of the
stolen one.
That very night Helferich returned from Cincinnati.
"Mein sister is not sick at all. She neffer sent no telegram. Verdammt, verdammt!"
The following night old Helferich turned his chair to
look at the fiddle. At midnight he was still looking at it.
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
On his deathbed a few days later he asked for pen and
paper and wrote in his best hand in presence of witnesses:
To my wife and son Albert I give everything I possess, and to my
son Joseph I leave the Steiner on the wall.
FRANZ HELFERICH.
And to this day Joseph Helferich has a puzzled look
in his face.
"Do you think he knew?" he asked me the other night
in the Weinstube next to the shop.
And suddenly you are at the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge
over the East River and across to Astoria, where the
younger generation of Germans, as well as the younger
generations of other nationalities in the city, flee the
Ghettos that give them a hyphen. They desire to be known
only as Americans instead of German-Americans or
French-Americans or Jewish-Americans.
The German district stretches as far as Eighty-sixth
Street and Lexington Avenue. From there on it begins
to dwindle as it goes upward.
The beer-saloons in the German quarters in New York
have played a greater role than the saloons anywhere else.
They were not places where one drank oneself to insensibility. On the contrary, probably because of the great beerdrinking capacity of the Germans, drunkenness was a more
or less rare thing in them.
In the back of these saloons have been organized a good
many organizations which later on became an important
factor in the life of the community. Many Liedertafeln
were in the backs of saloons. A celebrated Mannerchor
met for many years back of a saloon in Harlem before
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GERMANY


that district was taken away from the Germans by the
negro population of the city. The socialist movement,
which was originally a German movement in New York,
was begun in back saloons. Indeed, it was so German that
I remember once at a meeting, when one of the speakers
got up and began to talk English, the rest of the visitors
were so much astonished that they howled their disapproval. It would have fared badly with the speaker had
not the chairman turned the tide by announcing that it was
indeed a very good sign when the English-speaking population began to join the movement.
Johann Most, the celebrated anarchist, held most of his
meetings with his people back of a saloon in Harlem, and
he even edited his paper, "Die Freiheit," from there. I remember him well. He was one of the most interesting
figures I have ever met. His knowledge of things historical
34I




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


was so tremendous and his memory so good that he could
discourse upon the history of the world at any period and
from every possible angle with the greatest ease and authority. In spite of a rather unpleasant appearance because of
the deformity of his face and the thickness of his tongue,
he was a most fiery orator. He did more leavening of
minds than converting to his theories.
There being no prospect of any considerable German
"immigration in the near future, with the second generation of the forty-eighters who brought German culture
to this country dying out, the German population is slowly
merging with the rest of the population. There is still great
ireluctance about intermarriage because the Germans consider so many races inferior to them, the inferiority of this
and that and the other race to the German one having been
insidiously taught for generations. And yet the eventual
absorption is bound to happen.
My neighbor Talhouse, familiarly called Henry, is a
first-generation American. His father, a forty-eighter,
left Germany practically with a rope on his neck, and, footing it to the nearest shore, embarked for America, where
he changed his name from Hochhaus to Talhouse. It is
said of the old man that he rose two hours earlier than he
had to every morning so as to hate Germany and the whole
of Europe two hours more every day. This hatred for
Europe was inherited by his son Henry, whose Americanism was merely hatred for the Old World.
In his delicatessen store Henry has propounded the
most drastic action against "them foreigners" and has even
risked his bread by rechristening Leberwurst into liver
342




GERMANY


sausage and refusing to serve sauerkraut unless it was
served under an American name.
At one time during the war a cardboard sign over the
counter announced, "No foreigners are served here." It
was the most effective custom-getter, that sign, until his
competitor, Hans Shiller, on the advice of his customers,
hung out a similar legend.
Well, Henry-fat, blond, blue-eyed, small-eared, lowbrowed, bow-legged-hated foreigners more than he loved
Americans, and said so. But his store was always clean,
his stuff fresh, and his prices reasonable. His opinions
were his opinions. And if he liked to utter them freely,
well, they did not weigh on the scales and did not increase
the price of ham or pumpernickel.
Elizabeth Talhouse was not allowed to play with foreign
children. Whenever she was seen coming home from school
with other children, the father put the question, "Are they
foreigners?"
{'I don't know, father."
"You don't know, hey! You don't know?"
Slap, slap.
Henry Talhouse would not have his daughter associate
with other than Americans. And so Elizabeth, blond and
pretty, grew into maidenhood and was sent to college.
While in college she met and fell in love with John Smith,
the son of Fire-eye Eagle, a Cherokee Indian chieftain.
John was tall, brown, and handsome and spoke very little
but very wisely. Except the noble dignity of his carriage,
there was no other outward difference between himself
and the handsomest young college man. When Elizabeth
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
came home from her college, Henry Talhouse exhibited
her to his customers. "Und she goes to college mit only
Americans. She vas trained not to have notting to do mit
furriners. Und ven she marries she vill marry a American, und her children will be third-generation Americans!
Understand that! Third!"
Back of the store, the partitioned-off home of the Talhouses, Elizabeth confided to her mother:
"He is handsome and big and strong, mother. I love
him so!" And she hugged and kissed her mother.
"Und what does he say, Lisby? Does he lof you?"
"Mummerl, mummerl; of course he does. He told me so."
"Und will he come to see you here?"
"I will write him to come. But we must not say anything to papa when he comes. It will be such a surprise
to him. Such a surprise."
It was on a Sunday afternoon that a tall, brown man
knocked at the store door of Talhouse. Henry looked
through the pane in the partition and announced to his
wife and daughter, "One of dem furriners who don't know
that delicatessen stores are closed on Sundays."
But the man knocked again. "Lisby, you go and tell him.
Und tell him that delicatessen stores open from five to six
on Sundays in America."
Henry Talhouse, startled, looked into the store, and what
he saw made him forget his English.
"Who is this man, Lisby?" he yelled. "And what, what
business comes he here, I ask!"
"But, father, quiet down. It was all a surprise for you.
This is John Smith, the man I am going to marry."
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GERMANY
"What? Donnerwetter! Marry this man? This man.
A furriner!"
"But, father, listen."
"Listen! My daughter, marry a furriner... Heraus,
heraus!"
"But, father, listen. He is a Cherokee; listen, a Cherokee."
"A Sherokee marry my daughter! My daughter will
marry an American."
"Who is not an American?" quietly asked John Smith,
as he approached the irate delicatessen dealer.
"You Sherokees..."
So John Smith, Fire-eye Eagle's son, shed his acquired
civilization and did a war-dance in good old Indian fashion
then and there.
Henry was looking on in mortal fear from behind the
pane of the barricaded door. The police had to quell the
riot in front of the store.
But now, two years since, Henry is proudly exhibiting
the picture of a little half-breed.
"The third generation. The real American. That comes
from bringing up children mit the right idear."


345




CHAPTER XIV


HUNGARY
F      ROM almost any street of the German quarter you
can enter the Hungarian one. For it runs parallel
with it from Tenth Street north. The Hungarian
district takes a bit of Second Avenue as its main street,
from Ninth Street to Eighteenth and Nineteenth Streets,
and then, extending eastward, it sinks below the lower
avenues, A and B, and with few interruptions runs along
in the same way to Sixtieth Street. There the Magyar district takes a short jump of about ten or twelve blocks where
the Czecho-Slovaks live. Skirting their territory, the Hungarian quarter continues from it to Eighty-sixth street,
always running parallel with the German district.
New York is the second largest Hungarian community
in the world, Budapest, the capital of Hungary, being the
first. There are between a hundred and forty and a hundred and fifty thousand Hungarians in New York, and
most of them live in the district alluded to. You can easily
follow their traces by the signs in the windows. Do not
expect the word "Hungarian" to appear very frequently.
The Hungarian seldom refers to himself as such; he prefers the word "Magyar." And though the world has occasionally spoken with horror of Attila and Arpad as Huns,
no Hungarian has ever looked upon Attila or Arpad with
346


*




HUNGARY


other eyes than those of admiration. And even the epithet
thrown at the man who brought them to Europe a thousand
years ago from Asia, "the Scourge of God," is not displeasing to Magyar ears. A Magyar respects force, respects
violence, respects anything that results from force and vio

lence. Indeed, one is no sooner in the presence of a group
of Magyars, at home in one of the cafes in their own
district, than one feels the air thick with passion, violent
and active. The Magyars are great lovers and good haters.
They are a race of hard workers and hard livers.
Long before the women of other nationalities had
thought of independence, the Hungarian woman had it.
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No one who has visited Budapest could have failed to notice
the freedom of carriage and of action of the Magyar
woman. A thousand years is only as yesterday in the psychology of a people. The Magyars invaded Europe with
their women, who rode side by side with the men and
fought side by side with them, hacking their way through
most of the countries they passed. The horde of Magyars
was not composed of men only. And their women knew no
tents. The heat of the ridden horse between saddle and
back served to cook the strips of meat underneath. Women
fighting side by side with men under such conditions are the
sort who have equal rights with their men, even if more
recent political conditions have not given them votes. A
Hungarian household is ruled by the woman. The Hungarian woman is an excellent business woman. There are
very few Hungarian women artists, painters, writers, or
musicians, but a good many of the cares elsewhere incumbent upon men are lifted from Hungarian husbands' shoulders and taken over by their wives. In New York, in the
restaurants and cafes and pastry-shops and in the embroidery business, in which a good many Hungarians are
engaged, or in any other business that they happen to be
in, the Hungarian woman is the actively engaged member
of the firm. The husband is frequently the ornament, the
official owner. The Hungarian woman recognizes rights
of her man aside from family life. The wife attends to
business while the husband, with waxed mustache and
sleek oiled hair, is taking a stroll or going visiting with
several of his friends at a cafe. There is no servility. The
women are capable masters because they are good servants.
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Many of the European countries adjacent to Hungary consider Hungary a breeding-place for servant-girls. Indeed,
in my own country, Rumania, although there has been a
long-standing enmity between the two peoples, I venture
to say that eighty per cent of the servant-girls are Hungarian women. They are being brought down in batches,
hundreds, by employment agencies. The children in most
households learn to speak a little Hungarian; for the
servant-girls never stay long enough anywhere to learn the
language of the country. As soon as they have accumulated
a little money from their wages they return home to spend
it in their own way, mostly as dowry for a husband.
A good many of these customs still prevail in the Hungarian district here among the more recently arrived immigrants, and will prevail subconsciously among them for
generations yet to come. The institution of dowry giving
is not one likely to die very soon among them. And yet nowhere is there as intense passion as among the Hungarians.
I have often wondered whether the music alone is Gipsy; I
have often wondered how much of Gipsy blood has been
infused in the Magyar by the children of the Ganges!
There is a certain nearness of race, also, the Magyars
being Asiatics as the Gipsies are. Indeed, there is even
great kinship of language. The "deep Calo," the secret
language of the Gipsy, contains a good many words like
the Magyar idiom.
The houses of the Hungarian district in New Yorki
are more or less of the modern tenement type. Outwardly,;
in structure, those houses do not differ from any other
houses anywhere. It is within that the homes are different
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from the homes of the people of other nationalities, although the rooms are littered with most of the good-fornothing furniture manufactured somewhere and sold on the
lower East Side on the instalment plan. Ah, those poor
chairs and tables, rickety and weak, slapped together in
any way, varnished and polished to look as if they were of
some use, and which are semblances of what they pretend
to be as long only as they stay in the parlor as ornamental
pieces! Superposed upon this ready-made comfort is the
Hungarian woman's own love for color and arrangement
of such kind as she has seen in her own home, across the
Carpathian Mountains, or on the borders of the Tisza
River.
But it is in the kitchens of these houses, spick and span,
with walls hung full of copper kettles and copper pots and
colored dishes, flowered and deep, with here and there a
piece of earthenware brought from home or sent by some
loving relative to the exiled ones, that one can notice the
X differences of national character. Love of good food,
spicy and tasty, is one of the characteristics of the Hungarians. At home the kitchen, which is generally also the
largest part, is the most important room. It is because of
love of food and drink that the kitchen is such an important institution in a Hungarian home.
There is scarcely a single industry or a single art in
which the Hungarians of the city are not engaged, yet
very few of their women work in factories or shops. There
are hardly more than one tenth of the Hungarian population of second generation in this city. I doubt if there are
that many. And yet they have already acclimatized them350




HUNGARY
selves to a certain degree and have taken root in all the
professions and industries. There are any number of carpenters and bricklayers and iron-workers, music teachers
(a profession in which they excel), with a considerable
number of waiters and a preponderant proportion of busi



ness people of all sorts. The embroidery business is almost
exclusively in their hands. There are more than four hundred Hungarian restaurants spread over the city, for the
35I




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savor of their food is now beginning to be appreciated
everywhere.
But given conditions as they are, it is not in their places
of business or in their homes that one can see the Hungarians at their national best. There is a restaurant and
wine-house at Eighty-first Street and Avenue A. A Gipsy
music band plays there during the dinner-hour and late
into the night. The walls are decorated by a man who was
until not long ago known as a sign-painter or something
of the sort. But after he had decorated the walls with
scenes from his native land, artistic New York flocked
evening after evening to look at them. Some of the panels
on the wall have the simplicity and beauty of El Greco's.
It is interesting to observe that the proprietor did not
appreciate the beauty of the paintings. They seemed to him
too crude. They were not the conventional things he had
been accustomed to see in the lithographs that had formerly been hung in the place. It was only after Alexander
Popini, the artist, had offered to buy the panels at three
times the price the proprietor had agreed to pay that the
artist got his money. Hung with vines over a latticework
ceiling, the white pine tables covered with red peasantish
spreads, with a band of Gipsy musicians at the end of the
hall and a few dancers always in national Hungarian costume, the place was a great attraction for those who were
homesick for their own land. Rigo, the celebrated Gipsy
violinist, used to play there nightly. But the sensational
Gipsy's performances have greatly contributed toward the
deterioration of the place. Broadway, having discovered it,
insisted on being there nightly after theater hours. Seizing
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upon the popularity that had been gained, the proprietor
increased his prices until the native element completely
abandoned it.
It was Alice's third visit to New York in one year. And
every time she had come from Jamestown she had been
disappointed that I did not take her to hear Costica, the
Hungarian Gipsy violinist.
She had heard of Costica's great adventure, how a princess, a real princess owning castles and palaces, had abandoned titled husband and children and eloped with a plain
Gipsy fiddler from one of the cafes on a Parisian boulevard.
The affair had been an international scandal. Several
sensational novels with the affair as a motif had colored it
and had given to the two principals a sort of heroic glamour
which they enjoyed, for they were both theatrical.
New York being the center of the world's vortex, all,
ultimately, are swerved here. And thus it happened that,
at the death of the princess, Costica, who had drunk and
gambled away the palaces and chateaux at Monte Carlo
and Cairo, Costica, the Gipsy, raked enough money together to come to New York to trade on his fame.
He bluffed through several concerts in New York. In
truth, one is forced to say that he was a very poor fiddler,
and people did not display satisfaction. The dear besilked
and beribboned children of fortune sat in their boxes and
wondered and admired... the princess who had had the
courage. And in the galleries the less beribboned children
of toil felt in the same way.
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Having bluffed through a few concerts, Costica drank
and gambled away his money again, and soon the best he
could get was a job as the fiddler at a restaurant famous
for its food and its Tokay.
News, sensational news, travels through unknown channels. In a month all the young girls from shops and schools,
and the less young ones living within a radius of a thousand
miles, knew that Costica played at such and such a place.
And those who had a chance to come to New York to see
him did so and are still doing so. The Hungarian restaurant has never had so many out-of-town guests. They come
in droves; excursions are arranged for the purpose.
But to return to Alice. It was the third time she had
asked me to take her to hear Costica. So, unable to refuse
a third and last time, I promised. Needless to say, Alice
was busy that day from early in the morning to the dinnerhour. She fussed enough with her toilette to make one
think she was preparing for the ambassador's ball. The
restaurant not being far from my home, we walked the
four blocks.
"You know," said Alice, "I am so excited, so upset.
Fancy, I shall hear Costica! I shall see him! Dear me, I
shall never forget it! You know, mother read the novel
about him. I was only ten years old then, but I stole
the book from the shelf and read it.... Oh! I am so
excited!"
I did not want to disillusion her. I hoped the illusion
could be kept up, for her sake.
We had reserved our table. Costica was at a table next
to ours. I greeted him as we entered but did not tell Alice
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who the man was. You see, Costica was eating his dinner,
and in an inartistic way, using his fingers where a fork
could have done perfect duty.
I gave Alice the seat overlooking the whole place. She
thought the restaurant had atmosphere, European atmosphere. I did not tell her that all the guests were out-oftowners, like herself, Anglo-Saxons, who had come to see
Costica as they go to see the pyramids-one of the sights
of the world, a Baedeker curiosity.
"It 's so exciting!"
The soup was taken away cold.
"When does he begin to play?"
"Soon."
The meat was taken away untouched.
"Why don't you eat, Alice?"
"I 'm not a bit hungry."
"Red, white?"
"Dear me, dear me, what's all the noise?"
"It's Costica getting ready to play."
Every one listened to him for a few minutes in silence.
Afterward three hundred men and women began to whisper remarks. And those whispers completely drowned the
sound of Costica's violin.
I watched Alice. Her eyes had grown to twice their
ordinary size. Yet in a few moments the muscles of her
face relaxed, a little too much, I thought, and a cynical line
dragged down the corners of her lips.
"I don't see why a princess should have left her husband,
children, palaces, and castles for that man," she finally said.
I did not answer.
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"You hear? Did you hear what I said?"
"I did, Alice."
"And-"
"I was wondering why a Gipsy should abandon a perfectly beautiful free nomad life for a princess, and that."
There is another place on Eighty-second Street which
was opened for the native element after the first one had
become a Broadway resort. While visitors at the newer
place are not frowned upon, they are not catered to as
eagerly as in the other place. The new one is plainly one
for Hungarian workers and their families. And there,
when the mood seizes them, the assembled audience sings
along with the musicians the Hungarian folk-songs. And
if a czardas is played, couples rise from the tables, and,
putting arms upon shoulders, facing one another, they perform their national dance until they fall exhausted to the
floor. I have seen the czardas performed at this restaurant
by thirty or more couples until absolute exhaustion came.
And while they were resting, a woman of about forty-five,
formerly a very celebrated singer in Budapest, with a
warm voice which was already cracked, sang such songs
\that the Magyars wept and screamed and writhed in pain.
It is the Hungarian's idea of a good time, to let down the
bars and free his starved passions. How ridiculous the
European clothing they wear, when they are so stirred.
How eager they seize upon anything in the place that has
color, even to the table-spread, to drape it around themselves.
There is Cato, beautiful Cato, who was brought here by
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her parents when a child. Her soul wandered aimlessly
because of her parents' desire to make her an American
girl. But she found herself after she had seen the czardas
danced and heard the Hungarian songs from which her
parents had kept her
in their desire to have
her   an  American. t     H
And so passionately
and beautifully does                   ['
she now   dance the 
czardas that at Gipsy
Land every one sits
breathless when she                      o
dances. It was difficult for Cato to speak 
English while in such 
a mood, although she
generally spoke English much more fluently than Hungarian. For though she
had never seen it, the music and the dance of her native
land made her long for it.
It is the great tragedy of the first generations of all immigrants in this country, whether born here or brought
here as young children, that there is always something
between them and life. Their parents never cease to speak
of their homeland. And there is this new land of the
youngsters in which they are strangers, in which they feel
it is only the language of the country they are using and
that the spirit of it is far from there. It is this longing
which when expressed becomes great art. Most of the
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modern art in America has been produced by first-generation immigrants.
Another great center of the Hungarians is the Hunf garian Workers' Home, the pride and the strength of the
organized industrials of the Magyars living in the city.
The Hungarian Workers' Home on Eighty-first Street
is not only the official center of union locals. It has, also,
a valuable cultural and educational background. It has a
dramatic organization which gives plays by Ibsen, Bj6rnson, Shaw, and Shakspere, wonderfully directed and beautifully acted. It is from the Hungarian Workers' Home
that word about the Hungarian playwright Molnar was
first breathed. Since then the American stage has had
occasion to see many of the plays of the Oscar Wilde of the
Magyars. Works like "Liliom," "The Swan," "Lunzi,"
are gems in the world's dramatic literature. And Molnar
is not alone among the great dramatists of Hungary.
There is Lajos Biro, and Vajda, whose play, "Fata Morgana," created such a sensation only last winter. At the
Hungarian Workers' Home there are weekly concerts of
considerable importance, and exhibitions of paintings, and
lectures on arts and literature, as well as courses in English. There is no similar institution in the whole city, and
it is one of the most frequented places of the district.
Among Hungarian artists living here are men like Hugo
Gellert, whose strong pencil has caught with great charm
the life of the laborer of the city; Willy Pogany, one of
the most famous of portraitists and illustrators, is one of
the most sought-after painters. His work for the stage has
made him famous the world over. But best of all are his
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HUNGARY
illustrations to "Gulliver's Travels," which surpass anything done before., Essentially, as a painter and a colorist,
Willy Pogany harks back to Hungarian traditions. One
could unmistakably recognize his nationality by looking at
any one of his paintings. They have the flavor of Tokay
wine and Gipsy song.
There has been something of a constellation of young
Hungarian violinists who have made their appearance in
New York and over the country within the last few years,
chief of whom are Munkacsy, the son of the great Hun:
garian painter, Dulci Kerekiarto, and a number of others.
Hungarian music needs no introduction here. The Liszt
Hungarian Rhapsodies and the Brahms Hungarian Dances,
really Hungarian Gipsy music, have already given a taste
of what Hungarian music is like.
Since the war there has been a great exodus of Hungarians back to their homeland; for a good many, having
saved considerable amounts during the war, were anxious
to go home and see their people. Many of them have remained there, caught between the different strifes that
have rent their homeland. A good many of them were desirous to wait out until things should become quiet, impossible as it is for them, because of the immigration
quota, to bring their relatives and friends here with them.
Intellectuals who were living here before have also returned
home. Many of them have played a considerable role in
the readjustment process of Hungary, a readjustment of
which a good many things are better left unsaid. The
bloody pogroms against Jews in the principal cities of
Magyarland rivaled quite successfully the pogroms of old
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
Russia. It has always been a mystery to me why we have
heard in American papers so little of what happened there!
I have never understood the reason for that silence.
There are a great number of Jews of Hungarian origin
living in this city, and most of them live in the Hungarian


district among their Christian brethren. The Hungarian
Jews, though there are among them some who are strictly
orthodox, are much more liberal than the Jews of other
nations. There have been mixed marriages in Hungary
for the last hundred years. Even the type of the Hungarian
Jews is totally different from the type of any other Jews.
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Neither do they speak Yiddish, the language spoken by
almost all the Jews except the Spanish ones. The Hungarian Jews here have their separate synagogues, not because their rites of worship are very different from the
others, but because of their clannishness, and because of
their feeling of superiority, by reason of the fact that they
had political equality in Hungary long before the Jews of
other countries were so privileged.
Among the principal Hungarian churches are the Roman
Catholic Church of St. Stephen of Hungary, on Fourteenth Street, and the Fourteenth Street Presbyterian
Church. The First Magyar Presbyterian Church on Sixteenth Street is led by the Rev. Michael Kozma. Many
Hungarians attend these Presbyterian churches because
of their similarity in doctrine to the Protestant churches
of Hungary, and the Presbyterian Magyar Mission operates a settlement-house on East II6th Street. There is
also the Hungarian Reformed Church on Sixty-ninth
Street and the First Hungarian Baptist Church, led by the
Rev. W. Dulitz, who also has charge of a mission in Brooklyn.
There are three Hungarian daily newspapers in the city.
The "Amerikai Magyar Nepszava" is edited by Geza D.
Berko, who also edits the "Berko Kepes Ujsazga" ("Illustrated News"). There is also the "Szabadsag" ("Liberty"),
and the socialist "Elore," edited by Charles Varga, which
for the last two years has been gotten out cooperatively by
its employees, who also manage the shop where the paper
is printed. There is also the "Amerikai Magyarsag," a
semi-weekly edited by Lorand Simay; and the "Sportvilag"
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
is devoted to sports. Martin Himler is editor of the weekly
"Hungarian Miners' Journal" and Ernest I. Mandel of
the weekly "Munkaslap," another labor paper. All of these
are very ably edited and anxious to convey in the Hungarian language the spirit and the soul of what is happening in this country. Plays and books are reviewed and
commented upon, and a good many things are translated
from the American into the Hungarian, especially now
when they are so much pleased with the fact that some
of their great writers and painters have won recognition
here.
I went the other day to hear "L'Amore de Tre Re."
Not liking the music of the first act, I looked around me.
When my eyes had accustomed themselves to the semidarkness I discovered an old Hungarian friend in the next
box. With him was a beautiful woman. During the first
intermission we were introduced. "Mme. Solmers," my
friend said, "an old friend of mine." Then they went out
to stroll in the foyer.
I sat waiting for the second act to begin-the second
and best of the three of that opera-but my mind was
away. Solmers; where and when had I heard that name?
I was sure I had heard it in connection with some great
tragedy, but could not recall when and what.
The music began, the curtain was parted, and lofty
love-scenes followed the aimless coming and going, singing
and posing of the principals. During the great scene of
passion I heard the short, crisp laugh of Mme. Solmers.
Our eyes met. It was as though we said, "That fifteenminute kiss is a boring business." But while the thing went
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HUNGARY
on, Didur, immense in kingly robes, but blind, appeared
on the stage. Muzio, after having seen her lover escape,
sang beautifully and acted splendidly but did get into the
hands of the ferocious old man, who then proceeded to
choke her in full view of the audience. It was a most
realistic piece of work. Suddenly I heard a cry, and my
friend was half carrying, half leading Mme. Solmers out
into the hall.
I did not see them during the third act. After the performance I found my friend, wild-eyed and despondent,
sitting down to a cup of wine at Gipsy Land.
"Yanosh," I asked, "what happened to your friend?"
"Oh! I am the most stupid, the most tactless ass under
the sky," he answered after offering me the chair opposite
him. "You know who she is, don't you?"
"I do remember the name, but not the connection."
"Awful," Yanosh cried. "Don't you know she is the
wife of the Hungarian actor, Solmers, who died insane
some years ago?"
"I remember now."
"But what you don't know is how he became insane.
They were playing-she and her husband-a most realistic
tragedy in the theater of Budapest. In that tragedy a
woman married a painter, an artist of high rank, and proceeded by her extravagance to ruin him, driving him to
commercialize his art. At the end he is nothing but an
unknown quantity, a memory, an example of what artists
should not do. An article in a magazine written by an
eminent critic tells it all pitilessly. The artist reads it. Tears
stream down his face. He looks up to his wife, expecting
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I




r

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a consoling word from her, but her face is hard and cold.
The article dishonors her; she can no longer face her
friends. And, what is more, every word is true. He had
deteriorated. 'But,' argues the man, 'you know why I have
done it, don't you?' and he points at the luxurious things
about him and to his wife; 'why and for whom?'
"'Oh,' answers the woman angrily, 'nonsense! If you
had been something real you would have gone on the real
way regardless of me and done your work.' The painter
leaps from his chair like a tiger. His hand clutches the
woman's throat, and he murders her.
"Well, the Solmerses were playing that. Solmers was a
capable actor. He had married his wife at the beginning
of her career and taught her everything he knew. She
had genius; she had talent. The morning after the premiere
the Budapest papers were wild about her and dismissed
him with a few kind words, 'A very capable actor,' and all
that, you know. They quarreled-professional jealousy.
He accused her of monopolizing the stage; she answered
back, and it wound up with her saying that if he had been
a great actor he would have shown it before all his hair
had fallen out. He was just beginning to get bald.
"That night they played. There was liquor on his breath,
but he played better than usual. The last act he did marvelously. Tears actually streamed down his face, and he found
such new accents in his voice that she was thrilled, and
regretted all she had said to him. But when the moment
came for that tigerish leap, she gave a horrible yell. She
knew herself in the power of a maniac, who was going to
strangle her in view of the whole audience.
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"The stage-manager became suspicious of the too-realistic acting. He lowered the curtain. He had a hard job
to loosen Solmers's hands from the throat of his wife. She
still bears the marks on her throat. 
"'A most realistic performance,' said the critics the following day.
"Solmers never came to himself after that. He died in
a strait-jacket. Now, tell me whether I am not the most
tactless man under God's blue sky to take her to hear and
see that second act? How stupid! How stupid!"
And my friend was thinking of his own tragedy while
telling the other.


366




CHAPTER XV


CZECHOSLOVAKIA
U      P to the beginning of the war, if any one had asked
Where Czechoslovakia was in Europe, even the best
student of geography would have looked at his
questioner doubting his sanity. To-day Czechoslovakia is
an independent country, though it originally was only an
American invention. Masaryk met President Wilson, and
the invention received the finishing touches before going
upon the market. There are Czechs and there are Slovaks.
But the Czechs and the Slovaks have never lived in close
friendship. Only for a brief space while Masaryk and Wilson were planning the liberation of Bohemia from the yoke
of Austria did the Slovaks and the Czechs make believe
they got on very well, and then merely to carry on their
propaganda of liberation in common. It was only the feeling against the common enemy that bound them. Once that
enemy was vanquished, the old natural enmity between
them again rose to the surface, and the Slovaks are bringing against their friends the Czechs accusations of similar
nature to those they used to bring against the Austrians and
the Germans. The Czechs, they cry and thunder, are oppressing them, interfering with their religious liberty, and
so on.
The Czechs are natural politicians. Of a higher culture,
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individually and in mass, than either the Poles or the Slovaks, their perpetual enemies and occasional friends, they
have always outwitted them in the long run. There are
fewer illiterates among the Czechs than in any other nation
/ in Europe, the French not excepted. What is equally important is that there are fewer illiterates among the women.
Because of their national misfortunes all Czechs have a
natural inclination toward the study of history and politics. The average Czech knows more of these two subjects
than the average university professor of those branches,
either here or abroad. It is this knowledge of history
which has won them their independence. It is this knowledge of history which has given them a superiority over
the Poles and the Slovaks. It is this knowledge of history,
coupled with great organizing talent, that will eventually
make the Czechs one of the most powerful nations in
Europe. Progressive and cautious, hardy, and daring
without being adventurous, they have their most powerful
weapons within them. They can think of the future in
terms of the past and study the past with an eye to the future. It is a rare educational treat to hear an every-day
Czech working-man discourse on European political history.
The first Czech arrivals in this country were in 1847,
when a group of deserters from Mainz in Germany found
their way to New York and settled on the lower part of the
East Side, near the East River, below Fifth Street, which
was then populated mostly by Poles and Ruthenians, who
had preceded them in great numbers only a few years before. There is no doubt that the Czechs were received with
368




CZECHOSLOVAKIA


open arms by the Poles and their brother Ruthenians, for
a greater number of them, political refugees, followed the
first group, in 1848 and I85o, on the heels of the '48 revolution, which had shaken the whole of Europe. Krikava,
Juranek, Korbel, the younger Hubaceks and Mracek, the
leaders of the refugees, were received as hospitably by
the Poles as by their own people. They fraternized, the
Czechs and the Poles, to a great degree. Austria and
Russia were the hereditary enemies of both nations. They
met in the same halls, had banquets and weddings in the
same places, and theatricals and concerts in the Narodni
Budova, the National Hall on East Fifth Street.
With their aptitude for organization the Czechs formed
a society in I850, to give advice and succor to fellowcountrymen, which did not exclude any of the Slavic peoples
under the yoke of the Austrians, Germans, or Russians.
Even the Jan Hus Church was frequented as much by the
other nations as by the Czechs themselves. In I86I they
formed the Slovenska Lipa, a social and educational club
which also included a language school and a circulating
library. A short time afterward their first paper, the
"New Yorkske Listy," appeared from the same group,
with different organizations springing from it, like the
Czech Slavic Sokol Benevolent Society, and the Union of
Czech Women, and the Union of Catholic Women. There
was hardly a Czech in the city who did not belong to several organizations which did their utmost to keep the national aspirations alive. Yet in spite of their fraternization
with the other nations the Czechs never forgot that their
interests, their national interests in Europe, were not
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK,:rholly the same as those of their friends. The Czech is
an extremely practical and methodical individual.
Like every other nation, the Czecho-Slovaks have special
trades in which they excel and which they have more or
less monopolized. For more than sixty years, since the
I Czechs first came to this country, cigar-making has been
their special occupation. The Cigar Makers' Union was
one of the first organized industries in this city. But
although Czechs have been making cigars more than sixty
years, very few if any have risen to the rank of great
manufacturers among the workers. The Greeks and Armenians are now at the head of the industry. The Czechs
have at different times opened cooperative shops, which
they organized, especially during strikes against their employers, in order to compete with them. But the Czech is
naturally not a business man. Cautious and quiet, without
dreams of wealth, he prefers to better his condition as a
/working-man, bringing his sons up to be working-men like
\himself, rather than to live in a haphazard way in an
unorganized industry and hope for his sons that they
might be able to earn their living otherwise than by the
sweat of their brows.
Another occupation virtually in the hands of the Czechs
is pearl button making, which has always been a Czech
industry even in Europe. The Prague pearl button makers
are the most renowned in the industry. Piano making,
especially the carpenter's work in piano making, is another
industry in which the Czechs excel and in which a great
number of them are occupied and have been occupied for
generations. Czech trades remain in the family and are
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transmitted from father to son. Even to-day, among the,
new generations, one is quite certain to find that the young X
cigar maker is the grandson of a cigar maker, the young
piano maker is the great-great-grandson of a piano maker, 
and so with the butcher, the dressmaker, the.furrier, and
the saloon-keeper. With all the friendship the Czechs have
for Poles and Ruthenians, there are no Poles and no
Ruthenians in the trades more or less exclusively Czech.
But fraternizing with the Poles ceased at once when the
Grand Duke Alexis of Russia came to America in I871.
The Czechs of New York and Chicago sent delegations
"to greet our brother Slav." This "act of perfidy" on the
part of the Czechs so angered the Poles that they immediately seceded from them and left every organization which
the Czechs had had a hand in organizing. For the Poles
have always considered the Russian a greater enemy than
the Austrian, not because they have suffered more under
the Russians than under the Austrians, but because they
always have considered themselves superior to the Russians and consequently chafed more under their yoke As
a matter of fact the Pole considers himself superior to
everybody. And so unpleasant did the Poles, who were in
greater numbers, make it for the Czechs that the Czechs
left the lower East Side and settled along the East River
near Fiftieth Street, spreading northward until they have
now reached Eightieth Street, always hugging the river.
Of all the surprises New York offers to the New Yorker,
none is as great as the suddenness with which one passes
from the center to the rim of the city. There is no gradual
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change from lofty buildings to hovels, from riches to poverty. There being only one generation from shirt-sleeves
to shirt-sleeves, the city is also under the same influence.
Twenty-four wonders may rise to-morrow on the place of
a tumble-down shack, and a prosperous quarter may suddenly stub its toe and go the way all things of flesh and
brick go.
Ivan Opffer and myself had just left Fifth Avenue and
were descending Fiftieth Street. In a few minutes we
were at the East River, where a steamer from the tropics
and a hundred other craft were plying.
That portion of the river is the most God-forsaken section of our city. The population is a mixed one. It was
exclusively Irish until a few years ago. Then the Italians
came, and before either of the two nationalities was dislodged the Polacks attempted a stampede and only scattered
a few Jewish families westward and southward of the city.
It is now Czecho-Slovak.
And over that section of the city rules Big Pat, who
knows where to look and what not to see. And the
authority of his club is so much greater than that of the
other policemen because it is seldom used. Some grownups skirt Big Pat when they have to pass him by, but the
children of the neighborhood are not in the least afraid of
him. The lighted cigarette of the barefoot urchin disappears mysteriously into his mouth by a trick the whole
neighborhood possesses until the policeman is out of sight
(Big Pat is a sworn enemy of the cigarette), but otherwise
the youngsters look upon Big Pat as their representative
and not their enemy.
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While Opffer was sketching roof-tops and distant domes
I looked around to find Big Pat, who is an old friend of
mine.
I approached one of a group of children with pails and
shovels in their hands and asked, "Where is Pat?"


There being only one Pat, the answer was, "Around
there, by the candy factory."
"How's Pat?"
"He is mad because of a Polack," was the answer.
"What is the matter?"
The youngsters looked at one another and shrugged their
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shoulders with the movement which in that section means,
"I know, but I won't tell."
I found Pat standing in a sort of niche in a brick wall
watching, without being seen, a great stretch of the street
opposite him. He motioned to me not to approach him but
to keep on walking to the next corner.
I waited and waited. Something was sure to happen if
Pat waved me away so anxiously. His thick mustache
bristled with anger, and he had brought his cap well over
his ears in preparation for quick action. I decided that
the watched place was down near the river, against the
wind, and that Pat was afraid to lose his cap on the run.
The group of children with pails and shovels, having
circled the block, passed by me and returned to the foot of
the street, where they soon became active at a heap of
burned-out coals and picked whatever was not completely
worthless for the stock at home.
While the children were busy picking the coals a huge,
blond-mustached, overalled brute emerged from behind a
wooden fence and began to steal up nearer to the coal-pile.
Big Pat flattened himself completely against the wall. But
when the overalled brute was half-way to the children the
policeman crossed sidewalk and street in two noiseless
jumps, was himself soon hidden by the bulging irregularities of the broken-down fence, and was gaining on the man
who was coming upon the children.
Suddenly there was a loud cry, and the little urchins
started to run. But it was too late. The man had his big
hands on two of them, the bigger ones, and was holding
them both with his left hand to have the right one free
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for punishment. He lifted his arm high, and the little
shoulders of the boys curved in for protection.
But before that hand had been lowered another arm
behind it had gone up and shot down, and there was a
horrible yell in an unearthly tongue, a scuffle, and Pat and
the man in overalls disappeared behind the fence, whence
I soon heard short yelps and long whines and the thud of a
fist against flesh and bone.
The whole thing lasted less than a minute. Big Pat was
first to come to view again. He put his cap at the proper
angle, pulled his coat, wiped his hands on a handkerchief,
and walked slowly away as if nothing had happened.
A little later the other man came out; holding one hand
to a bleeding nose and the other to,a rumpled ear and
howling like a beaten dog, he limped painfully to the open
gate of the old factory, while the children pelted him with
pieces of coal and stones.
"Don't talk to me now," said Pat, passing me by; "I am
busy."
The following day Pat {vas talking in a friendly fashion
to a badly mussed-up man.
"Rub in some liniment to-night, man, after washing the
sore carefully," he advised.
"Thanks," the man said as he walked slowly away.
"Don't forget, Slitzky. Wash before you rub in the
liniment," Pat called after him.
"Who is that fellow, and why have you beaten him up?"
I asked.
"That's the new watchman. I learned him yesterday a
lesson. We had a talk, we did. No beating of kids in my
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district. I got children of me own. And, God knows, coal
is high enough this year." It was Slitzky's first lesson in
fair play and sportsmanship. He and Pat are great friends
to-day.
Given freedom within a limited space for any national
group to search for its habitat, it will always look for a
spot which resembles as nearly as possible the place it came
from. It is why so many rivers and mountains in Europe
have names similar to rivers and mountains and hamlets
in India. During the great Indo-Slavic migrations the
invaders settled near such places as recalled to them their
natural habitat. And, in doing so, they called the river,
or the mountain, or the valley, by the same name as the
river, the mountain, or the valley from whence they came.
It is one of the reasons why the group-formation of nations
in this city repeats the group-formation of nations in
Europe. The fact that their neighbors have always been
their enemies counts for little in such settlements. No
other factors are taken into consideration.
No part of the city could as much resemble old Prague
as Fiftieth Street and thereabouts up to Seventieth Street.
There are tunnels, and streets to which one must ascend
through stone stairs two stories high, crisscrossing one
another, cobblestone pavements, old shanties heavy with
time upon them. Trellised balconies, vaulted alleys, and
vine-covered facades of old brick, with sudden elevations
and vistas upon the river; old outlying New York which
has remained behind in the upbuilding of the city, and still
resembles Old-World cities.
Given a Czech national holiday, with the sun shining
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>^^y,/


N


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over the people marching in their national costumes with
their curiously embroidered flag at the head, with the
yellow and black of the women's embroidered white dresses
waving amply and freely in the wind, while the band
marches before and behind them, such a procession is a
never-to-be-forgotten sight on the upper East Side of New
York. It is Prague on a national holiday. The national
costumes are the dearest possessions of every Czech household. A Czech home in New York with the walls covered
with bits of rugs, and with the celebrated Bohemian colored
glassware on the mantelpiece, is as clearly distinguished
from any other home as if it were on the shores of the
Moldau River.
The numerous saloons in the Czecho-Slovak quarter have
never given rise to any intemperance among the Czechs.
The saloons were merely means for keeping up the numerous meeting-halls in their rears, the saloon-keeper being
more often than not an enthusiastic follower, if not the
leader, of this, that, or the other social or political organization. The Narodni Budova on Fifth Street was such a
place. In 1882 a number of organizations which held their
meetings there, for which the place had now become too
small, bought it out and rebuilt it. The ground floor still
remained the saloon, but in the rear the organizations
erected a stage, on which they had almost weekly performances of plays produced and played by amateurs. On the
second floor they had a library, and on the floor above that
they had their meeting-halls. When the Czechs moved up
town they took along with them all these organizations;
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CZECHOSLOVAKIA


even their club-houses and churches followed them northward.
But no Czech is a real Czech unless he belongs to a
sokol, which is a gymnastic organization similar to the;
old German Turnvereine. The care of the body is as
highly developed among the Czechs as it was among the
old Greeks. No church organization, no socialistic organization, no political organization, is complete without its
own sokol. And every sokol has also its singing and dramatic clubs. It should be mentioned that when in I9I7
eighty-four members of the Blue Sokol marched to Fort
Slocum to volunteer, not one was rejected on physical
grounds, although there were many beyond military age.
I shall never forget one evening at the Seventy-first
Street Sokol. I came in during the latter part of the
evening while gymnastic exercises were in progress. To
see the hundreds of perfectly formed bodies go through
the callisthenics and more difficult exercises with the utmost


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mechanical precision was one of the most beautiful sights
my eye had ever beheld. The bodies glistening, the muscles
rippling smoothly under the perspiring skin of arms and
legs, moving with the lightness of sprites to the rhythm of
the music and the commands of the leader, they carried out
the most intricate and difficult figures. And then came the
women, who went through similar exercises while dressed
in abbreviated national costumes. They did the movements even more beautifully than the men. What a surprise to me when the exercises were over and I mingled
with the people! There were men and women of all ages
ranging from twenty to sixty. Yet the muscles and joints
of the older men and the women were fully as supple as
those of the younger men. There was no desire to wrestle
or to box, this not being considered by the Czechs as a
physical advantage.
It is largely through these sokols that the independence
of the country has been won. The sokols have been more
than "gym" organizations. There soldiers were prepared,
ready for all eventualities. The bodies and the spirits were
kept healthy and strong. "Be ready," was the watchword
of the Czechs for centuries. And they were ready when
the hour struck.
The singing of these gymnasts was as beautiful and precise and as rhythmic as their physical exercises. I have
seldom heard more beautiful group singing than that of the
Czechs. Indeed, to hear them sing their folk-songs, one
would never realize, because of the accent of joy and hap'
piness in them, that they were the folk-songs of an oppressed people. Through all his tribulation, the Czech has
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CZECHOSLOVAKIA


not suffered from an inferiority complex, neither has he
acquired the arrogance or the whining propensities of other
people. The Czech waits. A good Czech knows how to
wait. The independence of a country was fought for and
won on the upper East Side of New York.
- 
There is a beautiful free and unrestrained relation between men and women in the sokols of the Czechs, a
charming gallantry which is beautiful without being patronizing. A Czech never raises woman on a high pedestal in
order easier to enslave her later on. And in all the Czech
organizations the women have always had as much say as


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the men. And this without any Lucy Stonish show or
affectation. Being as strong as the men, they assumed the
same duties and had the same privileges.
The Czech American Working-men's Sokol on Seventysecond Street between Avenue A and the East River fully
rivals the Hungarian Working-men's Association near-by
with its manifold cultural activities. It is a beautiful
building, said to have cost over a quarter of a million dollars, and houses a sokol, a dramatic club, a language club,
and a lecture-hall in which the ablest lecturers have delivered courses on many topics. The picnics and balls of the
Czech American Working-men's Sokol are probably the
most worth-while amusements of any of our foreign populations here.
But their great pride is the National Hall on East Seventy-third Street, which is the central body of all the Czech
organizations, not only in this city but in the entire country.
It is from this hall that volunteers against the Germans
and Austrians were equipped and trained until by the time
they reached the battle-field they were the most perfectly
drilled soldiers in Europe. I remember meetings in the
sokols during the war. Those who could not go gave
everything they possessed to alleviate the sufferings of
those who were left behind by those who did go. It was
pointed out to me that poor working-men who had barely
saved anything, fathers of three or four small children,
were not only not detained by their wives but were urged
by them to go, regardless of the hardships in store for the
family when its only earning member had left, with very
little chance that he would return.
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CZECHOSLOVAKIA


I remember my friend Riggle, who had very pronounced
anarchistic tendencies. I remember him at the beginning
of the war thundering against all the Governments in the
little Czech paper he published weekly; writing it and setting it up himself, although he was by trade a carpenter
and worked at his trade daily. Ruddy-cheeked, deep-eyed
Riggle, who had thundered against every capitalistic Government, began to soften more and more as he came to see
a chance for his own country to become an independent
state. I remember him suddenly explaining to me that one
cannot be an internationalist unless one belongs to a nation,
and that there could be no nation unless it had a government. "And after you have a government," he told me,
"you fight against it."
Little by little Riggle's paper changed from an anarchistic one into one of the most rabid national sheets published during the war. And greatly to my surprise Riggle
began to frequent the sokol, neglecting everything, even
his family, so as to put his body into condition. I have
seen him crying when he was at first refused a soldier's
'uniform. He returned to gymnastics and training and succeeded better at his second attempt. How proud he was
of his body, when I visited him one evening! His wife
and his two daughters stood aside and admired him as he
went through all the exercises.
"Touch here," he asked them; "touch here"; offering his
limbs. They had indeed become vigorous and supple.
There was not a tear in Jankzia's eyes six months later
when the news came of Riggle's death on the battle-field.
Indeed she called out to me, "You know Riggle's died on
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


the battle-field." It was such a joyful cry that I myself
answered it with almost a jubilant greeting. But the two
American daughters, born here. were not as enthusiastic as
their mother.
"Poor dad!" they said. "Poor dad!"
But Mrs. Riggle exclaimed: "Poor! Why, he was the
happiest man on earth!"
As an example of the Czechs' political activity in favor
of their country could be cited the advent of their first
newspaper, the "Lucerna" ("Lantern"). The Czechs all
over the country called mass-meetings in I870 to protest
against Germany's attack on France. A New York meeting
was held at Cooper Union on November I9. All the Czechs
of the city crowded into the hall, with several overflow
meetings outside it. As a result of that meeting, one of the
speakers, Lev J. Palda, from Chicago, remained in New
York to edit that paper, entirely written by hand, several
copies of which were made by William Jandus of Cleveland and distributed and read at subsequent meetings. It
was the only issue of its kind. Copies of that paper sell
now for hundreds of dollars and are very rare.
"New Yorkske Listy" was edited by Jan Reindl, a music
teacher of distinction, who was also a fine tenor enjoying
great popularity.  A short time afterward, under the
management of John Capek, of the same family as the
present Capek brothers of "R. U. R." fame, the "New
Yorkske Listy" became a daily in I877. It was later
on absorbed by the "Delnicke Listy," the "Workmen's
News," a radical paper from Chicago, with Palda as its
editor.
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CZECHOSLOVAKIA


Indeed, from their very first arrival, the Czechs have
had one paper after another; the working-men, especially,
have always had their own publications, which fought very
effectively their cause and at the same time carried valuable
articles of information and instruction. The files of these
papers are almost encyclopedic in the variety of subjects
treated.
One of the things the Poles and frequently the Slovaks
have charged against the Czechs is that more than half of
the Czechs who have come here have abandoned their inherited faith. It seems to me this is very far from counting
against them. It only shows an inquiring and progressive
mind. The Czech is never satisfied with any belief at all.
Intensely emotional without being hysterical, he is forever inquiring and delving into his own soul. In this he
is infinitely superior to his brother Slav, the Russian, who
tortures his soul by moving in a narrow groove. The
Czech mixes easily with other people, without ever losing his national ego. An experimentalist. A modernist.
Czech art has always been the vanguard of new adventures
in color, form, and sound.
Our Lady of Perpetual Help and St. John the Martyr's,
the first on Sixty-first Street and the second on Eightysecond Street, both Catholic churches, are as well attended
by the Irish as by the Czechs. The Jan Hus Presbyterian
Church on Seventy-fourth Street is another Czech church
attended by other nationalities as well. Half of the children of the Sunday-school of the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church on Seventy-third Street are Czech. And
although there are only twenty-five thousand Czechs in
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New York, and five or six times as many Poles, the cultural
influence exerted by them is far intenser and greater than
that of their erstwhile friends.
The Webster Branch of the Public Library on Avenue
A, which opened in I906 with fifteen hundred Czech books,
has now fifteen thousand in that language. It is the largest
Czech library in the country. Additions to it are being
made daily. For every Czech donates his books after he
is through reading them. It is a pleasure to examine any
of the Czech books. Apart from the fact that they are
beautifully printed and beautifully bound, one is pleasantly
surprised to see with what respect the readers have handled
them. I have frequently looked at books that have been
read by forty or fifty people during the first year of their
appearance. The pages were still neat and clean. There
was no evidence of disrespect toward them. No signs left
by moistened thumbs. No dog's-eared pages. The books
of a library are the best indication of the character of a
nation.
The Webster Branch is not the only Czech library.
Every sokol, every benevolent society, every lodge, has its
own circulating library. Even the library of the "New
Yorkske Listy," although used and used again by the staff
and the readers who come in, is in the most beautifully
preserved condition.
None of the younger generations born here are untaught
in the Czech language. Continuing as they do mostly in
the trades of their parents, they move in the same circles
and are therefore continually in contact with the older
members, who among themselves never speak any other
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CZECHOSLOVAKIA
language but Czech. One can see members of the younger
generations at the sokols and the dancing-halls. I have
heard American-born Czechs who have never seen their
fatherland go up on the platform and speak as fluently as
if they had never heard any other language spoken but


~tfltu


Czech. And yet they speak English quite as fluently. In
all the investigations of child-labor in the city there was
never found a single Czech factory in which Czech children
below the legal age were at work. Most Czech children
went through high school even before the law was made
as strict as it now is. The Czechs have tremendous facility
for learning languages. Indeed it is said of them that they
have etymological minds. Any Czech can give you the
derivation of almost any word you ask. It is this
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
etymological mind which facilitates his learning foreign
languages.
Among the Czechs who have become nationally known
in this city are the painters, Fabry and Harrison Fisher,
who is Czech on his father's side; Joseph Mazek; and
Emanuel V. Nadheny, who has for years been on the staff
of the "Herald." Rudolf Rujicka is one of the finest
etchers in this country. Among sculptors they have men
like J. Mario Korbel and Joseph M. Kratina, as well as
Rose Krachikova.
But it is in music that they most excel. Rudolf Friml,
the pianist and composer; Anica Fabry, the soprano; Anna
Faka-Pangrac, the organist and composer; Alois Reiser,
the violoncellist and orchestra director; and Josef Stransky,'
the director of the Philharmonic Orchestra, are but a few
of the more celebrated ones. And the "New World Symphony," which is perhaps, more than any other musical
composition of American essence, haunting and powerful,
one of the symphonies that will live together with the great
ones of Beethoven and Mozart and Tschaikovsky, was
composed by Anton Dvorak, the Czech, during the eight
years that he lived here. No one before him had seen the
great musical values of the negro rhythm and negro
spirituals for symphonic purposes.
Among the better-known Czech actresses are Blanche
Yurka, Phyllis Phova, and Galena Kopernak.
A friend of mine was complaining to me of the lack of
romance in New York.
"You see too much steel and cement in this great city of
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CZECHOSLOVAKIA


ours," he said. "Too heavy, oppressive, unromantic. Too
much hustle and bustle."
I was just going to answer something or other when a
short man of about forty came out of the back door of a
saloon and, walking unsteadily through the crowd, seized
the friend by the lapel and asked him:
"Say, were you ever a boy? Were you ever a boy, I
ask?"
"Sure enough," answered the friend, trying to free his
coat from the not over-clean hands of the drunken man.
"Do you remember Monte, the bareback rider of the
Sells-Floto Circus? Do you? Have you ever seen him?
And if you have ever been a boy and seen him in his prime
give me a dollar."
"My God," said my friend, finally freeing his coat, "the
price of everything has gone up frightfully! There was a
time when a man asked you for a dime. Now it's a
dollar."
"That was before prohibition. Drinks have gone up
since then," the man answered gingerly.
"Here is romance," I whispered, but my friend would
not hear it and disappeared in the subway station, leaving
me, alone with the little man.
"Were you ever a boy?" the man asked me.
"I was," I answered promptly. "Let's have a glass of
beer. Come."
We entered a saloon in the sixties near the East River.
"Atta boy-hip-hip-atta boy!"
At the third almost-beer he began to sob violently.
"Wieder!" called out the bartender.  "Again! Ain't
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


you ever going to stop that? I '11 put you out if you ain't
going to be reasonable. As sure as you live, I will."
"Have a heart!" begged my companion. Then he turned
to me.
"Ridgi Monte! A finer bareback rider never lived; no,
sir! What Ridgi could do with a horse no man ever done.
And the kids and grown-ups that jest natcherly come to
the circus all waited until Ridgi Monte's turn came. And
the manager just kept on doubling the price every year.
He was jest natcherly a good fellow. No, sir, not as much
as touched a drink. A glass of beer once in a great while.
A man has to keep sober. The stunts can't be done unless
a man is sober. To jump through a circle of fire in the air
and fall sitting on the bare back of a galloping horse.
That's no small matter. Oh, oh, oh! I have been known
as the best rider in Bohemia!"
"Again?" yelled the bartender.
The porter, who when times were different had served
as bouncer, approached our table ready to do the job. But
some man in the place, with one foot on the brass rail, said:
"Leave him alone, Tony. He ain't going to do it any
more."
"Let's have another one; what do you say?" And my
companion continued his tale as he sipped from the newly
brought tall glass.
"Then came the woman. A trapeze woman she was, a
she-devil. And whom should she pick out of the whole
circus but Ridgi Monte, the best-paid man of the whole
outfit. And with a wife and a kid, too. Jewels, say,
jewels! That she-devil was never satisfied with anything
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CZECHOSLOVAKIA


that cost less than five hundred. And when what there
was in the bank was gone, she jest natcherly went out with
other fellows.
"There was wife and kid, and the wife ain't knowing a
thing of what was going on. She sees her husband, of
course. Ain't bringin' her presents as he used to. No,
sir! Givin' it all to the she-devil of a trapeze girl; a
heathen Spanish devil without a heart and soul-but with
burning black eyes and something about the swing of her
shoulders as she walked and the way she had with her of
smoking a cigarette and looking at a man through the
smoke she blew in his face..
"Oh, why did I not remain in Prague!
"What does a man do but take a drink to forget? A
drink calls another. He comes home late, early in the
morning-wife gets angry. He says something; she says
something back. Then he can't sleep properly.
"Well, comes the following day, and when you have to
make the salto mortal you ain't got the gumption to do it.
Your stomach sinks. You ain't in condition. Then the
she-devil laughs in your face and says something nasty in
her own lingo. Between the wife's nagging and tears and
that she-devil's deviltry, the best bareback rider of the
world went to pieces.
"Then soaked, penniless, he goes up to see the woman.
The circus was in Chicago then. She sits in a cafe with a
few swells, and they jest natcherly drink and make love
to her. She is wearing all the jewels he has given her.
"She won't even look at him when he talks to her. Then
he gets mad, sees red, and hits some one with a bottle.
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They sends him up for two years, and when he comes back
he ain't got the equilibrium any more. He ain't no more
capable of ridin' a horse bareback than if he ain't never
done it.
"So, well, oh, oh, oh!" the man sobbed again, this time
louder than before. The bartender and the bouncer lifted
him from the chair and threw him into the street as one
throws a bundle of rags.
I spoke to the bartender. "You must not be so severe
with a man who has suffered so much. It's no little thing
to have been the greatest bareback rider of the world and
to end up a beggar at forty."
"Bareback rider-who-what?" the bartender asked.
"Ridgi Monte, the man you just put out."
"He? Are you crazy? He is the barber's helper across
the street. It's a story of a bareback rider he heard a few
days ago, and it has broken him up so he's gone on a spree
because of it and tells it to everybody. He 's told it a hundred times in the last few days. Every once in a while he
gets that way over a story or a play he sees in the theater
or in the movies. But he 's a good barber when he 's sober;
I '11 say that much for him."
My companion of a while ago was standing on the street
corner. His nose was bleeding, and there was an ugly
gash over his eyebrow where his head had struck the hard
pavement, but he had already stopped a passer-by, and I
heard him repeat his question to the victim:
"Say! Were you ever a boy?"


392




CHAPTER XVI


SCATTERED NATIONS
I
POLAND
P      OLES came to New York virtually as early as the
Jews. In I659 the Dutch colonists of Manhattan
hired a Polish schoolmaster for the education of the
youth of the community. There are some half-million Poles
in the United States, and if figures are true when given by
the Poles themselves, I gather there are above a hundred
thousand Poles in New York City alone. Yet they are not
living, as most other nationalities live, in one particular
part of the city, and developing their own center of activities. Whether this is due to their lack of clannishness or to
the fact that they are more migratory than other peoples,
because so many of them are unskilled laborers and are
hired out from time to time to work in mines and in steelmills out West, I don't know. But there is not a single
place in New York where within 'walking-distance you
could not find a number of Poles, little groups of two or
three families, or perhaps ten, rarely more than fifty living
anywhere apart from the others. You can see the signs on
windows, "Russky-Polsky Restaurant" or "Polsky Restaurant," anywhere on the lower East Side from Houston
393




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Street up. Polish book-stores, in the windows of which
are those beautifully colored and illustrated and magnificently bound volumes of queer and unaccustomed formats,
are almost anywhere on the avenues cutting the east and
west streets from north and south. You can meet Poles
everywhere. They are easily distinguished from any other
Slavic race. There is a deeper blue of the eyes; and the
longish face, in spite of the broad and high cheek-bones
and the golden hair, is also of different cast than any other
face. In the Italian quarter below Avenue A on Fifteenth
Street the blond children are playing with the dark-faced
sons of the South. In Jackson Park and on Tompkins
Square the Polish children are playing with Hungarian
and German children. Some of the older Polish inhabitants, perhaps three or four hundred in number, cluster
over the area from Second Street to Seventeenth and
Eighteenth Streets on what was formerly Stuyvesant's
Bouwerie.
One knows whenever there is a Polish wedding in the
neighborhood, for the noise and the quarrels and the dance
and the stamping of feet and the sad singing disturb the
night till the early hours of the morning. A certain kind
of noise is called "Polish wedding" in the neighborhood.
There are Poles living among the Hungarians further
up town in the lower East Side Hungarian district. There
are Poles living among the Croatians and the Slovaks in
the sixties and seventies. There are Poles living among
the Germans and the Austrians above Eightieth Street,
There are Poles in Harlem and Poles in the Bronx and
Poles in Brooklyn, little groups of Poles all over the city.
394




SCATTERED NATIONS


And yet there is no Polish life of any magnitude among
them. It is true that Haller's army, that band of heroes
that played such a spectacular part in the war, was organized here. It is true that the Poles living here have shouted




louder than others, greatly helping to make the noise that
drowned all other clamor for independence, and attracting
the attention of other peoples toward them during the war.
But it is also true that their patriotism did not go very far
beyond that. No Poles have become impoverished buying
Polish marks as the Germans have impoverished themselves because of their faith in their country, as the Czechs
and Italians and Frenchmen have done. A good deal of
the actual load of the Polish fight for independence was
left to the few intellectuals, to the celebrated musician of
395




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
their nationality, and to the American's habit of giving
without much thinking.
The Poles of this city have not entered any of the activities that have given to the city its magnitude and size.
Unskilled laborers of a comparatively low standard of
living, with only a small earning-capacity and extremely
large families, they have always been too busy with their
own misery, scratching out a livelihood, to occupy themselves or to have leisure to think of any other thing but
themselves; for among all the Poles in the city there are
not a half a dozen whose names have to any degree reached
national prominence.
And wherever they are they don't neighbor well in a
social sense. They have inherited century-old quarrels and
grievances with almost all nations. They sneer at the
Jews. They detest the Russians. They are not at peace
with the Germans or the Austrians. They consider the
Czecho-Slovaks traitors. The only nation they have always
been at peace with is the French.
And yet wherever these little groups are they add a certain piquancy, a certain color of their own, a pigment which
saddens and gives pleasure at the same time. Their meetings and affairs are generally held in so tense an atmosphere that one can expect almost anything to happen. Even
without understanding their language, I have frequently
been moved to tears by the impassioned words of their
orators. Their speakers possess to a high degree an
arresting theatricality with gestures as cadenced as master
poetry, a flow of language so perfect that it sounds more
396




SCATTERED NATIONS
like the reading of some national epopee than an impassioned improvised speech.
Before the Poles won their independence the little coffeehouses down town were the senate chambers and the parliaments of the future country. Theories as to what was
to be done with Austria and Russia, once they themselves
were independent and powerful enough, were debated with
the greatest earnestness; and there arose fist-fights over
differences of attitude.
Apathetic to all political movement, more ignorant than
their illustriously illiterate husbands, the women, in their
own national colors of eyes and hair, distinguished from
the women of other nationalities even if they did wear the
haphazard clothing one picks up in the shops of lower New
York, sat and listened to all that was said as if it were
merely a gallant combat, with the winner always winning
the ladies' hearts.
To-day the discussions are still going on, but in a much
milder form. Really the Versailles Treaty played the Poles
a shameful trick. They clamored for independence. They.
obtained it. And the world is now anxiously waiting to
see what they are going to do with it. The first pogroms
against the Jews may only have been a mistake of policy,
but they are undoubtedly an indication. The boycott
against Jewish traders, though not very harmful, is actively
enforced in New York. And if all the articles in their
newspapers were to be translated into English, it would
easily be seen what un-American intolerance they are
propagating.
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But it is at Polish weddings that one can see Poles at
their peasantesque best. A good many of them come
arrayed in their national costumes. The polkas and mazurkas are danced with all the charm and fury with which
such dances are executed at home. And while the dances
are going on, the bride's mother and her relatives, standing
in a corner, are weeping and crying and looking suspiciously
at the parents or relatives of the groom.
There are so many castes among the Poles that social
intercourse among them is only possible on a very small
scale. For want of anything better, the castes in New
York are established among them according to the rents
they pay. I remember a case while I was doing some
investigation work when I urged a Polish woman to call
in a Polish neighbor, who lived two flights below in the
rear of the apartment, to stay with her until her husband
should return home. He had been arrested in some connection or other, and she had wept her eyes red. In her
hysterical mood she clawed the doors and walls and hit
~herself with her clenched fists. Yet she remained dumb
when I suggested that she call her Polish neighbor to stay
with her while she was in such a state.
"What? She?" she finally called.
"Why, she is Polish," I answered, "and she is your
friend most certainly."
"How can you think that, Pania?" she answered.
"Bozhemi. She only pays sixteen dollars a month rent!"


398




SCATTERED NATIONS


2
ARMENIA
In 1863 there were about ten Armenians in America,
six of whom lived in New York City. In 1875 there
were about seventy, all living in New  York. There
are some thirty thousand to-day. The Armenians themselves occasionally claim double that number, but next to
the Russians they are the most advertised race in the
United States. For every other Armenian one meets is
the self-accredited publicity agent of, his people, the selfaccredited representative of some relief organization. The
Turkish massacres in Armenia may have been as much
exaggerated as only Armenians can exaggerate, but the
fact of the matter is that had they been ten times what
they were they could not have been more denounced, more
advertised than they have been. For as every Oriental
would tell you, and as every one who has come in contact
with the Armenian knows, there is no shrewder business
man than an Armenian anywhere on this earth. In the
wake of the Armenian massacres in Turkey some of the
largest businesses in Turkish and Syrian rugs were established in this city. Fifth Avenue, Madison Avenue, Fourth
Avenue, Lexington Avenue, from Twenty-sixth Street up,
and the streets adjacent to Third Avenue up to Fiftysecond Street house some of the largest establishments and
numerous extremely prosperous families. I doubt very
much, from what I know, whether they have even relatively speaking contributed their quota to all the reliefs
that have been gathered here in favor of their brethren in
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Armenia. During the Tut-ankh-Amen flurry their antique
shops were piled high with all the things Egyptian that
had in some mysterious manner come to be theirs. There
were things Egyptian which smelled of some New York
antique factory.
But one has to be grateful to the Armenians for introducing into this country the Oriental rug, the quiet and
peaceful rug, which, whether counterfeit or genuine, contributes more to rest the weary eye than any other single
factor in this bubbling and sizzling city.
No sooner has an Armenian, a young man, stepped aown
from the boat and been admitted into the city than he steps
into some business. By some manner or other the photoengraving business, which had been in the hands of the
Germans until the great photo-engraving strike that has
almost become legendary in the industrial world, then
passed to the Armenians. It is now largely in their hands.
There is a continual struggle now by which the Armenians
are trying to wrest from the control of the Greeks the restaurants in the business streets, a number of them having
already been established in their own district, while a still
greater number are spreading slowly all over the city. It
is quite possible that the Armenians will win. Their special
dishes are much tastier than the Greek dishes. From time
to time Armenian theatrical troupes from Tiflis come to
the city, and play in Madison Square Garden, where
the Jewish Art Theater is housed, on off nights. I have
seen several presentations of Shaksperian plays. And if
mimicry is at all an indication these plays received marvelous performance.
400




SCATTERED NATIONS


Have you ever noticed, when humming a song or reciting
a poem in a swiftly moving car, that no matter what the
measure of the song or the poem, the rhythm of the wheels
is the same as that of your song or your poem?
And this is why we meet people of our own kind, no
matter where we are or where we go. And if the town
be New York, where most people are seized with Wanderlust, the Wanderlust of the homeless toward home, one
surely gravitates in the right direction.
A thousand newly arrived immigrants are let loose in
the city at debarkation, and within an hour each one of
them will find the path leading "home"; to Italy or Slovakia, to Greece or Armenia. And twenty years later he
will still be there or on the way thereto, for a favorite
song, an old friend, news from home, or a national dish.
So, once on the way thereto, I stopped in Armenia, which
is along Lexington Avenue between Twenty-fifth Street
and Twenty-fourth Street, east toward Third Avenue. The
chief occupation of Armenians here seems to be selling
rugs and food. Maybe the rugs are made in Armenia.
But the food in Armenian restaurants is made here. And
it is good food, and cheap, and has such fancy names that
one expects to get broiled pheasants when only boiled beef
is ordered. And the rugs on the walls look so fine in the
semi-darkness that maybe they were not woven in Dobbs
Ferry on the Hudson.
In one of these restaurants a blond (yes, blond) Armenian waitress serves all the tables.
Her voice is so sweet, when she calls out the names of
the ordered dishes, that one begins almost to excuse the
40I




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inexcusable Turk, even if one does not understand him.
She is tall and thin. Her eyes are blue, and her voice is
full and sweet.
I ordered the food. Miss Jenny Covan, of Brentano's
foreign department, was sharing my table and my monologue. A little further from us a prosperous-looking
Armenian was reading aloud to others an Armenian paper.
We understood from his sad voice that there were new
massacres in his homeland. Listening to the reading, his
companions bared their heads as at a funeral procession.
Still they ate as they listened to the recitals of horrors
and of death; only they ordered their food in hushed voices.
Even the little light tread of the slippered feet of the blond
waitress became softer as she flitted to and fro taking the
orders and giving them in her turn.
"Ta-Skebab," she called to the kitchen.
"Ta-Skebab," she called again, softly. And then the
telephone bell jingled. The proprietor of the place was
called. He, too, had been listening to the reading of the
paper.
After a short conversation he hooked back the receiver
and began to push tables together regardless of noise and
fitness of things. His funereal mood was gone.
The prosperous stout man looked at him furiously for a
while. The others, too, turned around and looked at him
as if they were ready to swallow him, starched collar, necktie, collar-button, shoes, and all. Oh, those big brown,
almond-shaped Armenian eyes!
But-they vented their anger on the food, crushing the
soft bones of the pork cutlets with their sharp teeth. After
402




SCATTERED NATIONS
a little while the prosperous-looking man threw the paper
away and called the proprietor to him. He upbraided him
for his lack of feeling. I understood it immediately. He
thumped on the paper.
"Here, here! Thousands are killed!"
Then it was the turn of the restaurateur to have his
say, and he spoke English that so I, too, could understand.
"They kill Armenians! All right, they kill Armenians!
What can I do? They call me up on 'phone. A wedding
party is coming. All right. So I must prepare the tables.
That's all. Here they come-you see- "
A beautiful, slender, dark girl of about fifteen, locked
arm in arm with a swarthy young chap of twenty and followed by a noisy dozen of women and men, was received
at the door by the smiling proprietor. The men wore dark
red fezzes, the women gaily colored dresses and happy silk
shawls on their heads. In the belt of her skirt the bride
had stuck a bunch of white roses. After a little preliminary
noise and much laughter they all sat down to eat.
The waitress became animated again. The funereal
mood had left her, also. Soon the bride's brother began to
sing. One after another the men joined in the chorus of
the song. Then the women fell in. The face of the prosperous-looking Armenian at the other end of the place lit
up, and he began to beat the rhythm of the song with his
fork on the plate. Then he, too, joined in the singing.
The others did likewise. All the tables were pushed
together. Salaams and hand-shaking. An old Oriental
song they sang. The Greeks claim it is theirs. The Bulgars say it is one of their doinas. The Serbs sing it at
403




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funerals, the Armenians at weddings, in New York, a
stone's-throw from Madison Square.
"Ta-Skebag."
"Ta-Skebag."
"Pilaf."
By what other name more fanciful if not more appropriate than the one by which it is known could one call this
big city of ours? Bagdad? Babel of Babels? City of
gray steel? All the bazaars of Bagdad put together could
be hidden away in a corner of one of our bazaars! All the
languages with which the builders of the ancient tower
were confused are heard in New York, off Canal Street,
near the Bowery, a minute's walk from City Hall, in a little
corner of Pearl Street where a few old gray stones of a
still older Jewish graveyard attest the fact that the children
of Moses had dared the sea long before, much before, it
was crossed in floating, steam-propelled palaces.
Pearl Street! Why was it given such a name? There
is nothing of the pearl about that street. The dark-gray
warehouses on both sides and the elevated railway overhead give it more the appearance of a long, narrow box,
a trap with two openings such as is used by crocodilehunters on the Egyptian Nile.
The names of the business firms on the doors and windows of Pearl Street are painted in Greek letters, in
Turkish, Arabian, Syrian, all making very decorative
patterns for wall-paper.
If you can't read them, what's in the windows is instructive enough: olive-oil, cheese in big, round, four-foot
chunks, smoked meat, smoked fish, and a few bags of
404




SCATTERED NATIONS


curubs, which is nothing else but St. John's bread. Still
more, I can wager that all these stores, wholesale and retail,
are owned by a few Armenian gentlemen. For the Armenian can be Syrian, Turkish, Greek, Macedonian, Persian, or Arabian at will. He can speak and look the part
if he so desires. In New York he can even be an American.
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Wonderfully pliant. Linguistic and business ability of a
high order.
Such are the Armenians. And there are millions of
them. Though not all of them alive or, as yet, in New
York. Some few hundred thousands were killed by the
Turks. The Turks usually love the Armenian broiledboiled-fried-any fashion. They are not particular. I
know. I have seen it. And I am not the only one, by any
means.
Now let me tell you the story of Yussuf Ben's tragic end
in this country. It is a sad, sad story. But it is good to be
sad once in a while. A friend, a physician, once told me
that it is even healthy to be sick once in a while. Now the
story.
At the beginning it sticks very close to the ordinary run
of immigrant stories. Yussuf Ben came to New York a
boy of twenty. He did not go at once to evening school
to learn all about our Constitution and history. He made
the rounds of our cafes and night restaurants peddling
Turkish rugs manufactured near Dobbs Ferry on the Hudson; and Syrian laces, hand-made, on machines that are
still turning them out in a shop on St. Mark's Place, near
Second Avenue.
He looked well, Yussuf, in his outlandish clothes that
had been tailored for him by a master tailor of Erzerum.
Also, he had a red fez on his head and could not "speaky
much Eengalish." But he knew how to ask twenty dollars
for a piece of lace that cost him one dollar, and knew how
to say, "Give the money," when some one offered ten dol406




SCATTERED NATIONS
lars. The ladies, after theater hours on Broadway, declared he was "simply killing," that strange he wasYussuf. And as long as he looked Turkish they were sure
that the rugs he sold were what he pretended they were
and that the lace was the finest the Orient could produce.
And they marveled at the fine hand-made points they
bought from him for next to nothing. There is nothing
like a piece of really imported lace on a summer dress!
But a few months after Yussuf Ben's arrival his homemade shoes had to be thrown away and new ones bought.
It was only natural that he should choose the most American-looking shoes, the kind with the nose turned up high
like the prow of a racing-boat. And when he put them on
a new step came into his feet, and in spite of the red fez
and the home-made coat and trousers Yussuf was not half
as Turkish as he had been on the previous day.
So the ladies began to suspect his wares. The rugs and
the lace did not look half as "genuine," as imported, as
yesterday. He returned home with fewer sales than
before. Well! That's how it is in business. One day is
very good, the next day is a very poor one. But it averages
up in a month.
Ignorant of the cause of his undoing, Yussuf intended
to be more persuasive the following day. He looked into
his English-Armenian dictionary and learned another
dozen English words. Words of utility. "This good Toik
rug. This best lace. Fine, cheap. See, leddy, nice."
"Hey, look at him! Listen to him," one of the "leddies"
called to her friend. "He is not a Turk at all. He is a
faker. He speaks American as well as you do. That rug
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
on his shoulders-you can buy it for five dollars at a
department-store. He may have bought it there himself."
That lady said a lot of other uncomplimentary things,
sure that Yussuf understood all she said. The way she
repeated "American" and "faker" was very uncomplimentary.
Yussuf only shook his head and said, "No unnerstan';
no unnerstan'," as he retreated from her table. But it was
of no use. They would not buy from him that night.
Early in the morning Yussuf returned to his lodging, in
a little room over a grocery store. There he consulted the
English-Armenian dictionary again and added another
dozen words to his vocabulary.
"What are you doing?" called out his room-mate.
"Learning America," he answered.
"You are crazy," the other replied, without giving any
further explanation.
The following day Yussuf went out to visit the barber.
His hair was too long. He intended to be neat. It pays
when one goes around great cafes. The tonsorial artist
cut Yussuf's hair American fashion, and even shaved his
mustache —or as much of a mustache as Yussuf had grown
at twenty. Of course he still wore the red fez. But a red
fez on a clean-shaven face is worse than a silk-hat-andoverall combination.
And the rugs and the lace that Yussuf peddled simply
shrieked their nativity from the shoulders of the Armenian
boy. His increased vocabulary, clean-shaven face, and
American shoes made his prospective buyers cry out,
"Fake, fake!" Such of them as had already bought things
408




SCATTERED NATIONS


from him decided to put the wares away in a corner and
not to show them to their friends as picked-up bargains.
That Turk was not a Turk at all, but a badly disguised
American!
Still Yussuf did not understand. He only changed
stores. He no longer bought his goods at the same place.
And when things went from bad to worse, he thought he
had discovered the cause.
He went down to Washington Street, to a wholesale
importer, and loaded himself with the most genuine articles
obtainable in the country. Then he bought a new shirt, a
necktie, shaved again, learned another dozen English
words, and went boldly about his business.
But it was all in vain! Even the genuine articles were
declared fakes. He looked too American. His red fez
looked counterfeit. People no longer spoke to him in
broken English with many accompanying gestures to help
him understand what they said. He did not look foreign.
There was no sport in dealing with him. 'Moreover, he
now answered in good enough American when they talked
to him, and assured them that the rug he was selling was
an "honest to goodness" Syrian imported, and that the lace
was made in Erzerum. Still to no purpose. They did not
believe him.
After Yussuf had walked from cafe to cafe, from restaurant to restaurant, for a full week without making a
sale, he returned to the wholesaler. He could not sell the
goods. Somebody must have thrown a spell over him.
"What shall I do now?" he asked Azri Mardouf.
The Washington Street wholesaler, who has lived twenty
409




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK
years in New York but never gone further than Rector
Street, looked at the boy, smiled, and said:
"Have you any money left?"
"Twenty dollars is all I have," answered Yussuf. "But
I can talk American. I have learned new words every day
for the three months I have been here."
Arzi Mardouf smiled again as he said,
"Go out, Yussuf Ben, buy yourself a hat such as they
wear here, buy a pick and a shovel, and find work as a
ditch-digger. They need ditch-diggers in this country.
You know too much English to sell rugs, and you know
too little to do other things."
There is a dish-washer in a restaurant on the Bowery
who is called Joseph by the Austrian owner and Joe by the
Irish waiter. It is Yussuf Ben. He earned more in one
night before he threw away his old shoes than he earns
now in a week of hard work.
Yet one cannot unlearn.
Among the most prominent people in the city of Armenian origin one cannot but bow his profoundest before Dr.
Menas Gregory, the chief psychiatrist of Bellevue Hospital. Among specialists he is regarded not only as the
highest authority but also as one invested with uncanny
powers. Psychiatrists assert there never has been any one
as able as is the nervous little man before whom everybody
steps aside in that enormous building, the Bellevue Hospital.
Among the singers of the Metropolitan Opera Company,
Mr. Palo Ananian and Mr. Armen Shah-Mouradian are
410




SCATTERED NATIONS


among the most noted ones. Flora Zabelle, Mrs. Raymond
Hitchcock, is of Armenian origin.
There is the Persian Armenian Educational Society, and
the Ararat Club, for military and physical culture. There
is the Armenian Colonial Association. And there are a
number of papers in the Armenian language: "Cilicia," a
religious weekly; "Gotchnag," an independent weekly; and
"Yeghegetic," another religious publication. There is also
the "New Armenian," in English, published every two
weeks, of which Mr. Arshag Mahdesian is the editor.
New York has both a Gregorian Catholic and a Protestant
Armenian church.
3
SCOTS
Statistics show that there are some fifty-four thousand
people of Scotland in this city. According to the number
of people of Scotch origin one meets here, there, and everywhere, there seem to be fully ten times that number. But
they have been here so long, and having been in long association with the Anglo-Saxons and being near kin to the
other Celtic races, they have been assimilated much easier
with many other peoples. Except in their small organizations and societies exclusively for Scots, they do not live in
special groups in the city. The new-comers are somehow
engulfed here and there, living according to the professions
they are in so as to be nearer their work-places, instead of
seeking their own kin to live near-by.
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AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


One is very frequently surprised with Scotch parades of
kilted men and kilted women. The bagpipe is heard frequently enough, but still somehow there is no Scotland in
New York City, no single place of which one could say,
"Here the Scots live."
e te Jws, te S s hav alays b     w   us. 
Like the Jews, the Scots have always been with us. The
first Highlanders to arrive in New York were the survivors
of the ill-fated colony founded by William Paterson, the
founder of the Bank of England. Twenty-five hundred
Scots, with a capital of over a million dollars, set sail from
Leith in two expeditions for the Isthmus of Darien, being
nearly mobbed by crowds of men anxious to be taken along.
But the colony was a failure. Most of the colonists died of
4I2




SCATTERED NATIONS
fever, or were shot by the Spaniards, or starved trying to
escape from the swampy jungle in which they were left.
Probably the first Scot in America to become famous
was Captain Kidd, who was hanged for piracy on a technical charge, protesting to the last that he was innocent
and the victim of foul play; the site of his house on Liberty
Street was for years a fascinating spot for small boys in
search of treasure. Philip Livingston, the first president
of the St. Andrews Society of New York, was one of the
several Scots to sign the Declaration of Independence.
Alexander Hamilton was a Scotch Frenchman from the
West Indies.
During the Civil War the Seventy-ninth New York,
organized by Scots, was one of the most famous volunteer
regiments. And J. J. McCook of this city was the youngest
brother of the "fighting McCooks," all of whom, including
Daniel McCook of Ohio, with his nine sons and his five
cousins, were Northern officers.
And, in mentioning but a few, one must not omit Frederick MacMonnies, the gifted sculptor, who modeled the
Nathan Hale statue in City Hall Park and the three decorative angels for St. Paul's Church, and who at the age of ten
painted a creditable portrait of his father. James Gordon
Bennett, who first brought out the "New York Herald"
nearly ninety years ago in a Wall Street cellar, was a thorough Scot; and in our own day every one knows of Arthur
Brisbane, the editorial writer, of Scottish ancestry.
There are many Irish settlements but not one distinctively so, not one that has a life different from the lives of
413




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


other peoples. The independence of the Irish has been
fought for and won as much in New York as elsewhere;
and the Irish, even more than the early Dutch, are the most
thoroughly absorbed of the nationalities of New York City.
There are some sixty thousand Swedish and some forty
thousand Norwegians and seventeen thousand Danish and
some fifteen thousand Finlanders and eleven thousand Hollanders, in all a hundred and thirty thousand Dutch and
Scandinavians, living in this city. But my journey is at an
end. They do not live anywhere in such groups that I
should have been able to visit them. Or is it because there
is something in me so alien to them that I could not discover
them anywhere?
The Finlander is slow to anger. Near upper Fifth
Avenue there is a cooperative apartment-house built by
Finnish socialists. When the Socialist party was divided,
some of these Finns joined the Left wing and some remained with the Right. They promptly resorted to the
law-courts, seeking control of other properties they had
hitherto held jointly, but the apartment-house remained,,with its tenants on the best of personal terms.
This book is the result of fifteen years of observation
and study, done during long peregrinations. I have
tramped streets and sat in old coffee-houses and meetingplaces. I have listened to foreign languages, some of
which I understood, some of which I only guessed. I have
followed strange funerals and danced at still stranger weddings. I have hovered about charitable institutions, mission-houses, wharves, police courts and churches and syna414




SCATTERED NATIONS
gogues. I have during these fifteen years seen considerable changes in the aspects of the streets and watched the
continual shifting of the nations from one place to another
to adjust themselves to new conditions. I have seen
changes of attitude toward people, transformations of dis

tricts from residential into industrial places. It is possible
that in finally putting down the things I have erred in
many details. Things have changed since I first saw them
and noted them down. New York is very much like a huge
sieve into which everything is thrown as soon as it disembarks from ships and railroad-cars. There is a continual
sifting and resifting, before the melting-pot begins its
work. And then, even after this is done, nothing has been
415




AROUND THE WORLD IN NEW YORK


settled definitely. That, too, is thrown in another crucible
and still another one. The Great War has somehow succeeded in giving cohesion to many elements, but it has fortunately not been long enough to do more than it has done.
Time and trials, which are undoubtedly as much ahead of
this country as they are of others, will do their work.
I have set things down as I have seen them. It is the
privilege of the traveler to see things differently than they
are seen by the natives themselves. Like the wind and the
bee, the traveler carries the pollen from one place to the
other,
416
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0 -I                                                                                                                      oil -