Chapter 7

"I never knowed but one case of a broken heart, and that was in t'other sex, one Washington Banks. He was a sneezer. He was tall enough to spit down on the heads of your grenadiers, and near about high enough to wade across Charlestown River, and as strong as a tow-boat. I guess he was somewhat less than a foot longer than the moral law and catechism, too. He was a perfect pictur' of a man; you couldn't fault him in no particular, he was so just a made critter; folks used to run to the winder when he passed, and say, 'There goes Washington Banks; beant he lovely!' I do believe there wasn't a gal in the Lowell factories that warn't in love with him. Sometimes, at intermission, on Sabbath-days, when they all came out together (an amazin' handsom' sight, too, near about a whole congregation of young gals), Banks used to say, 'I vow, young ladies, I wish I had five hundred arms to reciprocate one with each of you; but I reckon I have a heart big enough for you all; it's a whopper, you may depend, and every mite and morsel of it at your service.' 'Well, how you do act, Mr. Banks!' half a thousand little clipper-clapper tongues would say, all at the same time, and their dear little eyes sparklin' like so many stars twinklin' of a frosty night.

"Well, when I last seed him he was all skin and bone, like a horse turned out to die. He was teetotally defleshed, a mere walkin' skeleton. 'I am dreadful sorry,' says I, 'to see you, Banks, lookin' so peaked. Why, you look like a sick turkey-hen, all legs! What on airth ails you?' 'I'm dyin', says he, '_of a broken heart_.' 'What!' I says I, 'have the gals been jiltin' you?' 'No, no,' says he; 'I beant such a fool as that, neither.' 'Well,' says I, 'have you made a bad speculation?' 'No,' says he, shakin' his head, 'I hope I have too much clear grit in me to take on so bad for that.' 'What under the sun is it, then?' said I. 'Why,' says he, 'I made a bet the fore part of the summer with Leftenant Oby Knowles that I could shoulder the best bower of the Constitution frigate. I won my bet, _but the anchor was so etarnal heavy that it broke my heart_.' Sure enough, he did die that very fall; and he was the only instance I ever heard tell of a _broken heart_."

ICARUS

BY JOHN G. SAXE

I

All modern themes of poesy are spun so very fine, That now the most amusing muse, _e gratia_, such as mine, Is often forced to cut the thread that strings our recent rhymes, And try the stronger staple of the good old classic times.

II

There lived and flourished long ago, in famous Athens town, One _Dædalus_, a carpenter of genius and renown; ('Twas he who with an _auger_ taught mechanics how to _bore_,-- An art which the philosophers monopolized before.)

III

His only son was _Icarus_, a most precocious lad, The pride of Mrs. Dædalus, the image of his dad; And while he yet was in his teens such progress he had made, He'd got above his father's size, and much above his trade.

IV

Now _Dædalus_, the carpenter, had made a pair of wings, Contrived of wood and feathers and a cunning set of springs, By means of which the wearer could ascend to any height, And sail about among the clouds as easy as a kite!

V

"O father," said young _Icarus_, "how I should like to fly! And go like you where all is blue along the upper sky; How very charming it would be above the moon to climb, And scamper through the Zodiac, and have a high old time!

VI

"Oh wouldn't it be jolly, though,--to stop at all the inns; To take a luncheon at 'The Crab,' and tipple at 'The Twins'; And, just for fun and fancy, while careering through the air, To kiss the _Virgin_, tease the _Ram_, and bait the biggest _Bear_?

VII

"O father, please to let me go!" was still the urchin's cry; "I'll be extremely careful, sir, and won't go _very_ high; Oh if this little pleasure-trip you only will allow, I promise to be back again in time to fetch the cow!"

VIII

"You're rather young," said Dædalus, "to tempt the upper air; But take the wings, and mind your eye with very special care; And keep at least a thousand miles below the nearest star; Young lads, when out upon a lark, are apt to go too far!"

IX

He took the wings--that foolish boy--without the least dismay; His father stuck 'em on with wax, and so he soared away; Up, up he rises, like a bird, and not a moment stops Until he's fairly out of sight beyond the mountain-tops!

X

And still he flies--away--away; it seems the merest fun; No marvel he is getting bold, and aiming at the sun; No marvel he forgets his sire; it isn't very odd That one so far above the earth should think himself a god!

XI

Already, in his silly pride, he's gone too far aloft; The heat begins to scorch his wings; the wax is waxing soft; Down--down he goes!--Alas!--next day poor Icarus was found Afloat upon the Ægean Sea, extremely damp and drowned!

L'ENVOI

The moral of this mournful tale is plain enough to all:-- Don't get above your proper sphere, or you may chance to fall; Remember, too, that borrowed plumes are most uncertain things; And never try to scale the sky with other people's wings!

VIVE LA BAGATELLE

("_Swift's Cheerful Creed_")

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

A bumper to the jolly Dean Who, in "Augustan" times, Made merriment for fat and lean In jocund prose and rhymes! Ah, but he drove a pranksome quill! With quips he wove a spell; His creed--he cried it with a will-- Was "_Vive la bagatelle!_"

Oh, there were reckless jesters then! And when a man was hit, He quick returned the stroke again With trenchant blade of wit. 'Twas parry, thrust, and counter-thrust That round the board befell; They quaffed the wine and crunched the crust With "_Vive la bagatelle!_"

How rang the genial laugh of Gay At Pope's defiant ire! How Parnell's sallies brought in play The rapier wit of Prior! And how o'er all the banter's shift-- The laughter's fall and swell-- Upleaped the great guffaw of Swift, With "_Vive la bagatelle!_"

O moralist, frown not so dark, Purse not thy lip severe; 'T will warm the heart if ye but hark The mirth of "yester year." To-day we wear too grave a face; We slave,--we buy and sell; Forget a while mad Mammon's race In "_Vive la bagatelle!_"

A STACCATO TO O LE LUPE

BY BLISS CARMAN

O Le Lupe, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find: In _The Bookman_ for September, in a manner most unkind, There appears a half-page picture, makes me think I've lost my mind.

They have reproduced a window,--Doxey's window,--(I dare say In your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day,) As "A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay."

There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore, And a little book of verses with its betters by the score, With three faces on the cover I believe I've seen before.

Well, here's matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am. Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb. I was never out of Boston: all that I can say is, "Damn!"

Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark, With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark, When I soloed on _The Chap-Book_, and you answered with _The Lark_!

Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing? "Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, "and I take what it will bring. Publishers may dread extinction--not with such fads on the string.

"There is always sale for something, and demand for what is new. These young men who are so restless, and have nothing else to do, Like to think there is 'a movement,' just to keep themselves in view.

"There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name. People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame; And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game."

But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve, Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve, In he comes with his "Decadence!" like a fly in my preserve.

I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now, Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow, All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your "Purple Cow."

But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard, To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard, Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.

I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned, "Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned; Poems doubtless are immortal, where a poem can be discerned!"

How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse! How he'll wish his vogue were greater; plume himself it is no worse; Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!

Don't I know how he will pose it; patronize our larger time; "Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!" Just let me have half an hour with the nincompoop sublime!

I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear; When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear, "O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here.

"Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been told Of the _Larks_ we used to publish, and the _Chap-Books_ that we sold? Where are all our first edition?" I feel damp and full of mould.

A GUEST AT THE LUDLOW

BY BILL NYE

We are stopping quietly here, taking our meals in our rooms mostly, and going out very little indeed. When I say we, I use the term editorially.

We notice first of all the great contrast between this and other hotels, and in several instances this one is superior. In the first place, there is a sense of absolute security when one goes to sleep here that can not be felt at a popular hotel, where burglars secrete themselves in the wardrobe during the day and steal one's pantaloons and contents at night. This is one of the compensations of life in prison.

Here the burglars go to bed at the hour that the rest of us do. We all retire at the same time, and a murderer can not sit up any later at night than the smaller or unknown criminal can.

You can get to Ludlow Street Jail by taking the Second avenue Elevated train to Grand street, and then going east two blocks, or you can fire a shotgun into a Sabbath-school.

You can pay five cents to the Elevated Railroad and get here, or you can put some other man's nickel in your own slot and come here with an attendant.

William Marcy Tweed was the contractor of Ludlow Street Jail, and here also he died. He was the son of a poor chair-maker, and was born April 3, 1823. From the chair business in 1853 to congress was the first false step. Exhilarated by the delirium of official life, and the false joys of franking his linen home every week, and having cake and preserves franked back to him at Washington, he resolved to still further taste the delights of office, and in 1857 we find him as a school commissioner.

In 1860 he became Grand Sachem of the Tammany Society, an association at that time more purely political than politically pure. As president of the board of supervisors, head of the department of public works, state senator, and Grand Sachem of Tammany, Tweed had a large and seductive influence over the city and state. The story of how he earned a scanty livelihood by stealing a million of dollars at a pop, and thus, with the most rigid economy, scraped together $20,000,000 in a few years by patient industry and smoking plug tobacco, has been frequently told.

Tweed was once placed here in Ludlow Street Jail in default of $3,000,000 bail. How few there are of us who could slap up that amount of bail if rudely gobbled on the street by the hand of the law. While riding out with the sheriff, in 1875, Tweed asked to see his wife, and said he would be back in a minute.

He came back by way of Spain, in the fall of '76, looking much improved. But the malaria and dissipation of Blackwell's Island afterward impaired his health, and having done time there, and having been arrested afterward and placed in Ludlow Street Jail, he died here April 12, 1878, leaving behind him a large, vain world, and an equally vain judgment for $6,537,117.38, to which he said he would give his attention as soon as he could get a paving contract in the sweet ultimately.

From the exterior Ludlow Street Jail looks somewhat like a conservatory of music, but as soon as one enters he readily discovers his mistake. The structure has 100 feet frontage, and a court, which is sometimes called the court of last resort. The guest can climb out of this court by ascending a polished brick wall about 100 feet high, and then letting himself down in a similar way on the Ludlow street side.

That one thing is doing a great deal toward keeping quite a number of people here who would otherwise, I think, go away.

James D. Fish and Ferdinand Ward both remained here prior to their escape to Sing Sing. Red Leary, also, made his escape from this point, but did not succeed in reaching the penitentiary. Forty thousand prisoners have been confined in Ludlow Street Jail, mostly for civil offenses. A man in New York runs a very short career if he tries to be offensively civil.

As you enter Ludlow Street Jail the door is carefully closed after you, and locked by means of an iron lock about the size of a pictorial family Bible. You then remain on the inside for quite a spell. You do not hear the prattle of soiled children any more. All the glad sunlight, and stench-condensing pavements, and the dark-haired inhabitants of Rivington street, are seen no longer, and the heavy iron storm-door shuts out the wail of the combat from the alley near by. Ludlow Street Jail may be surrounded by a very miserable and dirty quarter of the city, but when you get inside all is changed.

You register first. There is a good pen there that you can write with, and the clerk does not chew tolu and read a sporting paper while you wait for a room. He is there to attend to business, and he attends to it. He does not seem to care whether you have any baggage or not. You can stay here for days, even if you don't have any baggage. All you need is a kind word and a mittimus from the court.

One enters this sanitarium either as a boarder or a felon. If you decide to come in as a boarder, you pay the warden $15 a week for the privilege of sitting at his table and eating the luxuries of the market. You also get a better room than at many hotels, and you have a good strong door, with a padlock on it, which enables you to prevent the sudden and unlooked-for entrance of the chambermaid. It is a good-sized room, with a wonderful amount of seclusion, a plain bed, table, chairs, carpet and so forth. After a few weeks at the seaside, at $19 per day, I think the room in which I am writing is not unreasonable at $2.

Still, of course, we miss the sea breeze.

You can pay $50 to $100 per week here if you wish, and get your money's worth, too. For the latter sum one may live in the bridal chamber, so to speak, and eat the very best food all the time.

Heavy iron bars keep the mosquitoes out, and at night the house is brilliantly lighted by incandescent lights of one-candle power each. Neat snuffers, consisting of the thumb and forefinger polished on the hair, are to be found in each occupied room.

Bread is served to the Freshmen and Juniors in rectangular wads. It is such bread as convicts' tears have moistened many thousand years. In that way it gets quite moist.

The most painful feature about life in Ludlow Street Jail is the confinement. One can not avoid a feeling of being constantly hampered and hemmed in.

One more disagreeable thing is the great social distinction here. The poor man who sleeps in a stone niche near the roof, and who is constantly elbowed and hustled out of his bed by earnest and restless vermin with a tendency toward insomnia, is harassed by meeting in the court-yard and corridors the paying boarders who wear good clothes, live well, have their cigars, brandy and Kentucky Sec all the time.

The McAllister crowd here is just as exclusive as it is on the outside.

But, great Scott! what a comfort it is to a man like me, who has been nearly killed by a cyclone, to feel the firm, secure walls and solid time lock when he goes to bed at night! Even if I can not belong to the 400, I am almost happy.

We retire at 7:30 o'clock at night and arise at 6:30 in the morning, so as to get an early start. A man who has five or ten years to stay in a place like this naturally likes to get at it as soon as possible each day, and so he gets up at 6:30.

We dress by the gaudy light of the candle, and while we do so, we remember far away at home our wife and the little boy asleep in her arms. They do not get up at 6:30. It is at this hour we remember the fragrant drawer in the dresser at home where our clean shirts, and collars and cuffs, and socks and handkerchiefs, are put every week by our wife. We also recall as we go about our stone den, with its odor of former corned beef, and the ghost of some bloody-handed predecessor's snore still moaning in the walls, the picture of green grass by our own doorway, and the apples that were just ripening, when the bench warrant came.

The time from 6:30 to breakfast is occupied by the average, or non-paying inmate, in doing the chamberwork and tidying up his state-room. I do not know how others feel about it, but I dislike chamberwork most heartily, especially when I am in jail. Nothing has done more to keep me out of jail, I guess, than the fact that while there I have to make up my bed and dust the piano.

Breakfast is generally table d'hôte and consists of bread. A tin-cup of coffee takes the taste of the bread out of your mouth, and then if you have some Limburger cheese in your pocket you can with that remove the taste of the coffee.

Dinner is served at 12 o'clock, and consists of more bread with soup. This soup has everything in it except nourishment. The bead on this soup is noticeable for quite a distance. It is disagreeable. Several days ago I heard that the Mayor was in the soup, but I didn't realize it before. I thought it was a newspaper yarn. There is everything in this soup, from shop-worn rice up to neat's-foot oil. Once I thought I detected cuisine in it.

The dinner menu is changed on Fridays, Sundays and Thursdays, on which days you get the soup first and the bread afterward. In this way the bread is saved.

Three days in a week each man gets at dinner a potato containing a thousand-legged worm. At 6 o'clock comes supper with toast and responses. Bread is served at supper time, together with a cup of tea. To those who dislike bread and never eat soup, or do not drink tea or coffee, life at Ludlow Street Jail is indeed irksome.

I asked for kumiss and a pony of Benedictine, as my stone boudoir made me feel rocky, but it has not yet been sent up.

Somehow, while here, I can not forget poor old man Dorrit, the Master of the Marshalsea, and how the Debtors' Prison preyed upon his mind till he didn't enjoy anything except to stand off and admire himself. Ludlow Street Jail is a good deal like it in many ways, and I can see how in time the canker of unrest and the bitter memories of those who did us wrong but who are basking in the bright and bracing air, while we, to meet their obligations, sacrifice our money, our health and at last our minds, would kill hope and ambition.

In a few weeks I believe I should also get a preying on my mind. That is about the last thing I would think of preying on, but a man must eat something.

Before closing this brief and incomplete account as a guest at Ludlow Street Jail I ought, in justice to my family, to say, perhaps, that I came down this morning to see a friend of mine who is here because he refuses to pay alimony to his recreant and morbidly sociable wife. He says he is quite content to stay here, so long as his wife is on the outside. He is writing a small ready-reference book on his side of the great problem, "Is Marriage a Failure?"

With this I shake him by the hand and in a moment the big iron storm-door clangs behind me, the big lock clicks in its hoarse, black throat and I welcome even the air of Ludlow street so long as the blue sky is above it.

THE ENCHANTED HAT

_The Adventure of My Lady's Letter_

BY HAROLD MACGRATH

It was half-after six when I entered Martin's from the Broadway side. I chose a table by the north wall and sat down on the cushioned seat. I ordered dinner, and the ample proportions of it completely hoodwinked the waiter as to the condition of my cardiac affliction: being, as I was, desperately and hopelessly and miserably in love. Old owls say that a man can not eat when he is in love. He can if he is mad at the way the object of his affections has treated him; and I was mad. To be sure, I can not recall what my order was, but the amount of the waiter's check is still vivid to my recollection.

I glanced about. The café was crowded, as it usually is at this hour. Here and there I caught glimpses of celebrities and familiar faces: journalists, musicians, authors, artists and actors. This is the time they drop in to be pointed out to strangers from out of town. It's a capital advertisement. To-night, however, none of these interested me in the slightest degree; rather, their animated countenances angered me. How _could_ they laugh and look happy!

At my left sat a young man about my own age. He was also in evening dress. At my right a benevolent old gentleman, whose eye-glasses balanced neatly upon the end of his nose, was deeply interested in _The Law Journal_ and a pint pf mineral water. A little beyond my table was an exiled Frenchman, and the irritating odor of absinthe drifted at times across my nostrils.

With my coffee I ordered a glass of Dantzic, and watched the flakes of beaten gold waver and settle; and presently I devoted myself entirely to my own particularly miserable thoughts.... To be in love and in debt! To be with the gods one moment and hunted by a bill-collector the next! To have the girl you love snub and dismiss you for no more lucid reason than that you did not attend the dance at the Country Club when you promised you would! It did not matter that you had a case on that night from which depended a large slice of your bread and butter; no, that did not matter. Neither did the fact that you had mixed the dates. You had promised to go, and you hadn't gone or notified the girl that you wouldn't go. Your apologetic telegram she had torn into halves and returned the following morning, together with a curt note to the effect that she could not value the friendship of a man who made and broke a promise so easily. It was all over. It was a dashed hard world. How the deuce do you win a girl, anyhow?

Supposing, besides, that you possessed a rich uncle who said that on the day of your wedding he would make over to you fifty thousand in Government three per cents? Hard, wasn't it? Suppose that you were earning about two thousand a year, and that the struggle to keep up smart appearances was a keen one. Wouldn't you have been eager to marry, especially the girl you loved? A man can not buy flowers twice a week, dine before and take supper after the theater twice a week, belong (and pay dues and house-accounts) to a country club, a town club and keep respectable bachelor apartments on two thousand ... and save anything. And suppose the girl was independently rich? Heigh-ho!