Reader, if you can do any thing for this noble institution, do not hold back your hand, but do it. Your help is needed.

OTHER MISSIONS.

Besides the "Home" to which we have referred, the "City Mission Home for Little Wanderers," and the "Five Points House of Industry," are all working hard for the purpose of bettering the condition of the poor and wretched of the City. They are employing a band of energetic, hard- working Christian men and women, and are doing good daily. There is no doubt, however, that they succeed best with children. After the devil has set his mark on men and women, it is very difficult to efface it; but with children the case is different. They are too young to be utterly abandoned or depraved, and they can, by care and patience, in nine cases out of ten, be won over to the side of right.

Not only are persons drawn away from crime and vice by the active efforts of the missionaries, but the Missions themselves do good. They are well known, and they are constant reminders to the fallen that they have a chance to rise. Some few avail themselves of the chance. Men and women, especially young ones, frequently come in and appeal to the missionaries to help them to reform. They want advice, assistance, or protection. Whatever is needed is given, if it be within the means of the institution. If it is not, the missionary seeks it elsewhere, and rarely fails to find it. Few who are ignorant of the workings of these institutions, can rightly estimate the amount of good done by them. They are indeed "Cities of Refuge," to which no one ever goes in vain.

A part of the work of the "City Mission" is to distribute tracts and simple religious instruction. These are simple little documents, but they do a deal of good. They have reformed drunkards, converted the irreligious, shut the mouth of the swearer, and have brought peace to more than one heart. The work is done so silently and unpretendingly that few but those engaged in it know how great are its effects. They are encouraged by the evidences which they have, and continue their work gladly.

Again, these Missionaries are constantly going into sections of the City, from which the "popular preachers" shrink in dismay, and but for their devotion there are thousands of our poor who would never have the Gospel preached to them. They watch beside the bedside of the sick and dying, administer the last rites of religion to the repentant pauper, and offer to the Great Judge the only appeal for mercy that is ever made in behalf of many a soul that departs in its sins. They shrink from no trouble, no sacrifice. They are a hard-working, self-denying, noble band.

THE HOME FOR LITTLE WANDERERS.

This institution is situated on the Bowery, near Pearl street, and is in charge of the Rev. Mr. Van Meter. It is also called the "Howard Mission." While striving to relieve all who call upon it for aid, its care is chiefly given to children. Its object is to rescue the little ones from want and suffering, and make them comfortable. They are educated, and taught their duty as children of the Lord, and at a certain age are provided with homes or trades. Little ones, starving or freezing in the streets, are picked up constantly and brought in here. The police often bring in such guests. All are welcomed and made as comfortable as possible. You may see them warmly and neatly clad, or tucked away in a snug bed, little children, even babies, who but the night before were almost dying with cold in the streets.

Like the "Ladies' Home," the "Little Wanderers' Home" is entirely dependent on voluntary contributions for its support.



CHAPTER XVIII.

HOTEL LIFE.

As we have said before, the majority of the better classes of New York prefer to board rather than keep house. Of these, a large number board at the hotels, the rest in private boarding-houses.

The principal hotels of the City are the Astor, St. Nicholas, Metropolitan, New York, Fifth Avenue, and the Hoffman, Albemarle, Clarendon, Everett, and Coleman Houses. These head the list, but there are scores of first class houses, some of which are elegant in every respect. The transient custom of the hotels of the City is enormous, but the permanent boarders of these establishments are very profitable. The rates are high, and the majority of these houses pay their proprietors well. There are two classes known in the City—those which are conducted on the old American style, or those known as "European houses." The former provide the guests with lodgings and full board at so much per day, or week, while the others furnish merely the room and attendance, and are either without the means of supplying meals to their guests, or charge for each article of food separately. It is hard to say which system is the more popular, though it would seem that the European is growing in favor.

THE GUESTS.

The proprietors of the city hotels are very active in their efforts to exclude improper characters from their houses, but with all their vigilance do not succeed in doing so. One is ever certain as to the respectability of his neighbor at the table, and it is well never to be in a hurry to form acquaintanceships at such places. Fallen women of the higher classes, and gamblers, abound at the hotels. The proprietor cannot turn them out until they commit some overt act, for fear of getting himself into trouble. As soon, however, as his attention is called to any improper conduct on their part, they are turned into the street, no matter at what hour of the day or night, and left to shift for themselves.

HOTEL SWINDLERS.

Quite a number of persons in this city make a regular business of staying at hotels, and absconding without paying their board. This class consists of both males and females, and is much larger than most people suppose. We take the following descriptions of some of the best known from the daily journals of the City. They will show also their mode of operations:

A man by the name of D——, or R——, purporting to hail from St. Louis, has enjoyed many years' experience as a hotel 'beat.' He is a tall, not ill-looking fellow, of tolerable address, and generally travels accompanied by his wife and three children, and by a large trunk; his wife sometimes contrives to smuggle in the third child secretly, and to hide it in the room allotted to them, so that only two children appear on the bill. At any rate the bill is never paid whenever settlement is demanded. Mr. D—, or R—, is always found in his apartment seated at the table, busy with an elaborate assortment of manuscripts, and so busy that really at present he cannot be disturbed. To-morrow he will attend to every thing. But to-morrow the birds have flown, or walked out, one by one, from the hotel, and when the trunk, is opened, there is a beggarly array of brickbats, old boxes, old rags, and carpets, the former having served to render the trunk weighty, the latter to prevent any noise or rolling that might excite suspicion.

Another adventurer, a bachelor, by the name of M——, affects the eccentric, and, as the day approaches for the handing in of his bill, his eccentricity verges upon madness, till at last, when the document is really tendered, he becomes absolutely crazy—shouts, sings, performs in an antic manner, and declares himself to be the king of the Jews, the President of the United States, or something of that sort. He has sufficient method in his madness, however, to gain the advantage of the hotel proprietors, having on one occasion beaten the Fifth Avenue Hotel out of one hundred and seventy-one dollars in board and lodging. He sometimes is to be seen on Broadway in the guise of a military officer.

One of the most cunning and successful of adventurers is known by the name of W——, alias Jones, alias several other titles. This fellow is an undersized man, blind of one eye, but of very genteel and prepossessing address, and is generally accompanied by his wife. The two practice the bundle game, which is a very adroit performance. Their modus operandi is as follows: They travel with a large Saratoga trunk, which is really well stocked with linen and clothing. Of this fact they contrive to render the detective and officials of the house aware, so as to quiet any suspicion. Having thus tolerably opened the ball they keep it rolling as long as possible, till within two days or so of the period of final settlement. Suddenly Mrs. W——, or Jones, appears to be seized with a mania for going up and down stairs, and in and out of the hotel, carrying little parcels in her hand to and fro to the milliners and dressmakers, etc. Her husband also discovers that his clothes need revision, and sends them to tailors. Messengers also come to their rooms for bundles, etc., and at last Mr. Jones, or W——, announces at the office that he is about to leave the next day, and would like his bill made out up 'till to-morrow night.' Meanwhile he goes on to state as his trunk requires some repairs he has removed his wardrobe into the bureau drawers, etc., and has sent for a trunkman to convey it to the nearest establishment, will they allow him a servant to assist the trunkman with it down stairs. The servant is sent to the room, sees that nothing is taken away but the empty trunk, and all is well. The adventurer and his female confederate eat with gusto, walk out arm in arm from the hotel, and are seen no more, neither their trunk, neither their wardrobe, which examination shows has not been removed into the bureau drawers; in short, the clothes of the worthy pair have been taken away bundle by bundle, parcel by parcel, and left at convenient places in the neighborhood, to be called for, while the trunk has been deposited at a friend's till further notice.

By this system of operations the St. Nicholas, Lafarge New York, and Howard Hotels were victimized. Their triumphant career was checked, however, at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, by efforts of the special detective of the house, who discovered one day a piece of paper containing W—— Jones' private memorandum of the places at which he and his wife had left their different bundles. By confronting Jones, accusing him of his dishonesty, presenting the paper and accompanying him nolens volens to these various places, the detective contrived to recover the bill due to his hotel.

There are many adventurers hanging round a hotel, who are not enrolled, however, among its regular lodgers. There are numerous 'beats' who merely direct their energies to obtaining meals gratis, taking advantage of the rush to the tables during meal hours. As many as thirty-four of this class were detected at the Fifth Avenue Hotel in a single month. These adventurers often practice the hat game, depositing, when they enter the dining-room, a worthless chapeau, and taking up, when they pass out, a valuable one—by inadvertence, of course. The Metropolitan Hotel has a colored man in its employ stationed at the door of the dining-rooms, who has proved thus far too much for the efforts of any of these gentry, consequently this hotel has been, in this respect, peculiarly fortunate.

A man named W——, lately gained the advantage of a hotel detective in a rather amusing manner. He was in the habit of stealing his meals, and was detected so doing, but as he was one day also seen to draw from his pocket a gold watch, attached to a heavy chain, it was determined to give him a little longer indulgence. At last his time was up, and the officer, advancing to him, told him that he had been waited for; that he had taken just so many meals, and must just pay so much money. "But I have no money." "Then I will seize your watch." When, lo! the watch had disappeared, and all the detective could find, in its place was but a bunch of keys—the watch itself having been originally borrowed for a purpose which it had fulfilled.

HOTEL THIEVES.

All the first-class hotels employ private detectives and watchmen. The business of these men is to keep a watch over the upper part of the house, to prevent thieves from entering and robbing the rooms of the guests. Suspicious persons are at once apprehended, and required to give account of themselves.

A friend of the writer once called on an acquaintance at the St. Nicholas, and, being on intimate terms with the gentleman, went immediately to his room, without making the customary inquiries at the office. Although he knew the house very well, he missed his way in the long corridor, and failed to find the stairway. While endeavoring to "get his bearing," he was accosted by a quiet-looking individual, who told him he must go with him to the office and give an account of himself. The man was the private detective of the house, and seeing that the gentleman had lost his way, supposed at once that he was a hotel thief who had become bewildered in trying to make off from the house. Fortunately, the gentleman was well known at the office, where the mistake was at once discovered and apologized for.

AN AGILE THIEF.

Some time ago, a man entered the St. Nicholas and robbed the occupant of one of the rooms, during his sleep, of a gold watch and chain, worth about one hundred and fifty dollars, a small amount of money, and a gold shirt-stud, with which he escaped to the hall-way. Succeeding so well, he concluded to try again, and proceeded to room 175, occupied by the cashier of the hotel, lifted that gentleman's clothing from a table, and stole some money from the pockets. As the thief was in the act of leaving the room, the cashier awoke, and, seeing a stranger, asked, "Who's there?" To which the robber replied, "I beg your pardon, sir; I have made a slight mistake." Upon which he hastily left, followed by the cashier, who cried, "Stop thief!" At that moment, detective Golden, employed in the hotel, appeared on the scene of action, and pursued the fugitive. The latter, in his haste, leaped down a whole flight of stairs, when detective Golden cried out to the men below to stop him; and accordingly he was seized and held till the detective ran down and took charge of the prisoner. On searching him, the gold watch and chain were found in his possession; also five different parcels of moneys, doubtless stolen from as many different rooms.



CHAPTER XIX.

RESTAURANTS.

Thousands of persons, sometimes entire families, live in rooms, and either take their meals at restaurants, or have them sent to them. This has become so common now that it ceases to attract attention in the city, but strangers are struck with it, and are quick to notice the bad effects of it.

Living at restaurants begets irregularity in the meal hours, and thus promotes bad health; and the absence of the restraints which the table of a family at home, or even the public board of a hotel, imposes, is the beginning of a looseness of manners, which is generally sure to be followed by a similar defect in morals. The cooking, at the majority of restaurants, is unhealthy, and intoxicating liquors are sold, to an extraordinary extent, as a part of the bill of fare.

The principal up-town restaurants are largely patronized by the disreputable classes. Women of the town go there to pick up custom, and men to find such companions. Women of good social position do not hesitate to meet their lovers at such places, for there is a great deal of truth in the old adage which tells us "there's no place so private as a crowded hall." A quiet, but close observer will frequently see a nod, or a smile, or a meaning glance pass between most respectable- looking persons of opposite sexes, and will sometimes see a note slyly sent by a waiter, or dropped adroitly into the hand of the woman as the man passes out. Some of these nominally respectable places are so largely patronized by this class, that a virtuous woman is in constant danger of being insulted should she chance to enter one of them.

THE BITER BITTEN.

Restaurants, like hotels, are the object of the constant attention of swindlers, though the operations are conducted on a smaller scale. Some of these persons are nominally respectable.

A bank clerk, with a fair salary and respectable connections, was in the habit of patronizing a fashionable restaurant, partaking of sumptuous lunches and dinners, and evading full payment, under pretence that he had forgotten his pocket-book, or had omitted, in the hurry of business, to provide himself with small change, etc. Thus, if his check called for one dollar he would pay sixty cents, but invariably forgot upon the next, or any succeeding day, to 'settle' the balance due of forty cents. This 'little game,' so profitable to himself, was carried on for some time triumphantly, but retribution came at last, and unexpectedly and very cleverly. The clerk, seeing how matters stood, commenced to keep an account on a piece of paper of the sums due and sums paid on each successive day at his establishment by this ingenious customer, and on one occasion, when the bank clerk had deposited his check for one dollar and a quarter and a ten dollar note in payment upon the counter (as he wished on this particular occasion to procure some small change for his own purposes), the clerk quietly took the note and then handed out two dollars and twenty cents in change. 'There must be some mistake,' said the bank clerk. 'Oh! none at all.' said the cashier. 'Did I not hand you a ten dollar note?' 'You did, sir.' 'And did not my check call for one dollar and a quarter?' 'It did, sir.' 'Then where is my change?' asked the bank clerk. 'It is there, sir' replied the cashier, pointing to a piece of paper which he handed to the astonished bank clerk. 'What is this paper?' 'It is your account.' 'My account!' 'Yes, sir, you will find it correct in every particular,' said the cashier; 'I will go over the items with you. On such and such a day your check called for such and such a sum; you paid only so and so, leaving such and such balance. The next day you ordered so and so, only paid so much, and left, of course, you see, this balance. Altogether, sir, you owe the establishment, as back balances due for food and liquors, up to date, just seven dollars and a half. I have taken out this amount, and you will find the change correct.'

"Words were useless—the bank clerk was outwitted, and left in disgust, and from that day to this has never set foot inside of that restaurant again."



CHAPTER XX.

BOARDING HOUSES.

As we have said elsewhere, it has been remarked that New York is a vast boarding-house. If any one doubts this, he has only to turn to the columns of the Herald, and see the long rows of advertisements on the subject. The better class houses of the city are equal to any in the world, but there are scores here within the pale of respectability which are a trial to the fortitude and philosophy of any man. A really desirable house is a rarity here, as elsewhere, and very hard to find. He who is so lucky as to be domesticated in one of these is wise if he remains there.

FINDING A BOARDING HOUSE.

Some years ago there appeared a work on the subject of boarding houses, from which we extract the following description of the experience of a person looking for board in New York.

He either inserts in the Herald, Tribune, or Times, an advertisement specifying his particular requirements, or consults those addressed to humanity in general through the medium of their columns— perhaps adopts both measures. In the former case, the next morning puts him in possession of a vast amount of correspondence, from the daintily-penned and delicately-enveloped billets of up-towndom to the ill-spelled, pencil-scrawled, uncovered notes of Greenwich and Hudson streets. It matters not that he has indicated any definite locality; sanguine householders in remote Brooklyn districts clutch at him, Hoboken residents yearn toward him, and the writer of a stray Williamsburg epistle is 'confident that an arrangement can be made,' if he will favor her with a visit. After laying aside as ineligible as many letters as there are Smiths in a New York Directory, he devotes a morning to the purposes of inspection and selection.

He becomes acquainted with strange localities and bell-handles. He scrutinizes informatory scraps of paper wafered up beside doorways. He endures tedious waiting at thresholds—it being a curious fact in connection with boarding-houses that a single application for admission through the usual medium never procures it. And according as his quest be high or low, so will his experience vary.

If the former, he may expect to be ushered into spacious and luxuriously-furnished parlors, where, seated in comfortably-padded rocking-chairs, and contemplating marble tables, on which gorgeously- bound volumes are artistically arranged; thousand-dollar piano-fortes, and mirrors capable of abashing a modest man to utter speechlessness, he will tarry the advent of stately dames, whose dresses rustle as with conscious opulence. He will precede them—they being scrupulous as to exposure of ankles—up broad staircases to handsome apartments, and listen with bland satisfaction to the enumeration of 'all the modern improvements' which their mansions comprise; nor, perhaps, be startled at the 'figure' for which they may be enjoyed. If 'money be no object,' he will not have to seek far, or fare badly.

"But the researches of him whose aspirations are circumscribed by a shallow purse will produce different results. By Irish girls, with unkempt hair and uncleanly physiognomy, he will be inducted into sitting-rooms where the Venetian blinds are kept scrupulously closed, for the double purpose of excluding flies and preventing a too close scrutiny of the upholstery. He will have interviews with landladies of various appearances, ages and characteristics—landladies dubious and dingy, landladies severe and suspicious, (inflexible as to 'references or payments in advance,') landladies calm and confiding, landladies chatty and conciliatory,—the majority being widows. He will survey innumerable rooms—generally under that peculiarly cheerful aspect attendant on unmade beds and unemptied washing-basins—and, if of sanatory principles, examine the construction of windows in order to ascertain whether they be asphyxiative or moveable. He will find occasion to admire how apartments may be indifferently ventilated by half-windows, and attics constructed so that standing erect within them is only practicable in one spot. How a three-feet-by-sixteen inches strip of threadbare carpet, a twelve-and-a-half-cents-Chatham-square mirror, and a disjointed chair may, in the lively imagination of boardinghouse proprietresses, be considered furniture. How double, triple, and even quintuple beds in single rooms, and closets into which he only succeeds in effecting entrance by dint of violent compression between the 'cot' and wall, are esteemed highly eligible accommodations for single gentlemen. How partitions (of a purely nominal character) may in no wise prevent the occupants of adjoining rooms from holding conversation one with the other, becoming cognizant of neighboring snores, or turnings in bed. He will observe that lavatory arrangements are mostly of an imperfect description, generally comprising a frail and rickety washing-stand—which has apparently existed for ages in a Niagara of soapsuds, a ewer and basin of limited capacity, and a cottony, weblike towel, about as well calculated for its purpose as a similar sized sheet of blotting paper would be. In rooms which have not recently submitted to the purifying brush of the white-washer, he will notice the mortal remains of mosquitoes (not to mention more odoriferous and objectionable insects) ornamenting ceilings and walls, where they have encountered Destiny in the shape of slippers or boot- soles of former occupants."

EXPERIENCE.

All boarding houses begin to fill up for the winter about the first of October. Few of the proprietors have any trouble in filling their establishments, as there is generally a rush of strangers to the City during the winter season. A few of the best houses retain their guests for years, but the occupants of the majority change their quarters every fall. At the first, the table is bountifully supplied with the best the markets afford, the attendance is excellent, and the proprietor is as obliging and pleasant as one could wish. This continues for a month or two until good board becomes scarcer in the City. Then the attendance becomes inferior. The proprietor cannot afford to keep so many servants, and the very best in the house are discharged. The fare becomes poor and scanty, and the proprietor, sure that few will care to change quarters so late in the season, answers all complaints with a gruff intimation that you can leave the house if you are dissatisfied. You feel like taking his advice, and would do so but for the knowledge that you will fare as bad or worse if you do so. You make up your mind to submit, and endure all the discomforts of the house until May with her smiling face calls you into the country, or offers you an opportunity to better your condition.

All houses are more liberal to their boarders in the summer than in the winter—the City is then comparatively deserted, and most of the "highly respectable establishments" are very much in want of guests. They then offer unusual inducements, and are forced by their necessities to atone in some measure for their winter barbarity.

BOARDING-HOUSE CHARACTERS.

Persons seeking board in New York frequently complain of being annoyed by a demand on the part of the landlady (for the proprietor, is, in most cases, a woman) for reference. This may not be pleasant to the over-sensitive, but it is absolutely necessary. Nearly every boarder is at first a stranger to his landlady. She does not know whether a man is a gentleman or a thief, or whether a female is a saint or a fallen woman. She naturally desires to keep her house free from improper characters, and to secure as guests those who will pay her promptly and regularly.

In spite of these efforts, however, it may be safely affirmed that there are not ten boarding houses in the city, which do not contain improper characters. Observers have been struck with the number of handsome young widows who frequent these places. Sometimes these women claim to be the wives of men absent in the distant Territories, or in Europe, and pretend to receive letters and remittances from them. In nine cases out of ten such women make their living in a manner they do not care to have known. They conduct themselves with the utmost propriety towards all persons living in the house with them, and are considered ladies by even acute judges. These same judges are sometimes a little startled to meet these virtuous dames in places where ladies are never seen. Of course the secret is kept, and the woman continues to deceive her other companions.

Landladies are the object of the especial attentions of swindlers, and suffer very much from them. All sorts of expedients are resorted to by the unprincipled to live without paying their board.

A FASHIONABLE SWINDLER.

Last winter a "gentleman" called upon a lady who presides over a fashionable boarding-house in Lexington avenue, and introducing himself as William Aspinwall, of the "Howland and Aspinwall branch," obtained a room on the second floor. This apartment he occupied for three weeks, constantly "promising" the lady of the house money, but as constantly "being disappointed in his remittances from his friends, but if the lady would wait but a day or two longer he would apply, if his remittances did not arrive, in person to Mr. Aspinwall and obtain a thousand or two." At last, one day this pretended scion of the Aspinwalls vanished, leaving his trunk behind him, which, upon examination, was found to be very full and very heavy indeed, but with bricks and rags only. All Mr. Aspinwall's wardrobe being carried on his precious person. A letter was found, however, which proved that his real name was Charles H, or at least that he had been known at times by that title.

A SHARP GAME.

A man calling himself Doctor Thorne is frequently seen in the city boarding houses. He is a married man, which fact, of course, makes him all the more dangerous to his victims, as he contrives to support at their expense not only himself, but his wife and children. The Doctor is a burly, heavily-bearded gentleman (at least in manner); his wife, a more accomplished Jeremy Diddler than himself, is one of the softest- spoken and most amiably-seeming of her sex. The Doctor plays his little game as follows: He obtains first-class rooms at first class prices, pledging as security for the payment of these prices a large assortment of really valuable baggage in the line of clothes and linens. Having taken possession of his rooms he is, after a week's time, suddenly called by business to Chicago or St. Louis; he will settle the little balance due on his return. He accordingly departs, but not to St. Louis, or Chicago—oh, dear, no. He understands a trick worth two of that. He simply hires a little room in a retired street at the lowest possible rent, and there resides. His wife and children—two boys, one aged ten, the other twelve, and both very "smart"—take him his meals daily, in a basket, in their pocket, or by other means, as the case may be, the meals being furnished unwittingly by the victimized landlady with whom his family are sojourning. But more than meals are taken from the boarding house. The baggage is also taken away, piece after piece, secretly, and conveyed to the little room where the "head and father" of this interesting family resides. So one day, after an unaccountable absence of Dr. Thorne from home, and after the receipt by his wife of daily letters from her husband, but no money, though money is always expected by the next mail, the whole family disappear, one by one, and never return. The landlady congratulates herself upon the fact that she retains at least the baggage—but alas, upon an examination she finds that nothing is left her in lieu of the month's board for three people and a week's board for the fourth, saving some empty trunks. For a few days subsequent to this denouement, Dr. Thorne and family live in retirement. Then they boldly emerge and repeat the same series of operations in other localities of this much beswindled city.

A TRIO OF FEMALE SWINDLERS.

About twelve-month since, an old widow lady opened a boarding-house on University place, investing in the establishment and furniture all her capital. She experienced no difficulty in obtaining boarders, and among her guests she numbered a small-sized, full-faced, but keen-eyed woman by the name of Agnes S. who rented a large room on the second floor. This Mrs. S. exhausted all her wiles to gain the friendship of the landlady, and succeeded in so doing. In a short time, she became the inseparable companion and intimate of the old widow, who never took any step of importance without first consulting her dear Agnes. The "dear Agnes" improved her intimacy and played her cards so well, that although she never paid her board, she was never requested to do so, and thus enjoyed the unenviable advantage of being enabled to live rent free. Having accomplished her first object, she now undertook to achieve her second. One day she sought the widow, and in a fit of gushingly-tender confidence revealed to her sympathizing friend her heart history; she told the widow that although passing for a maiden, she was in reality a married woman—but that her husband had been obliged to conceal himself from the gaze of the public owing to some 'unfortunate' business transactions in which he had been involved, solely for the sake of his brother out West.

Would she (the widow) not receive that husband, for her sake into the house? Would she not consent to harbor the poor unfortunate partner of her bosom beneath her roof until the matter had blown over? The doting widow agreed to this proposal, and thus Agnes S. and her 'husband' (who was in reality no more her husband than any man who reads this) were united, and lived for several weeks in luxury at the widow's expense; although great scandal arose among her boarders concerning the matter, and several of her 'best paying lodgers' left in consequence of these 'developments.' At last the widow was taken sick, and then 'having cast her bread upon the waters, she found it after many days,' and found it 'toasted.' From the hour of her taking to her bed, 'Agnes S. and husband' ruled the house. The worthy pair run the establishment, hired and discharged the servants, acted as steward and stewardess, and not only so, but absolutely made out the weekly bills and collected them; and not only collected them, but put the money into their own pockets.

"Last Thursday week the matter culminated by the sudden departure of Agnes S. and husband from the house in University place to unknown localities. Their 'little game' was effectually 'played out,' and the landlady at last recovered her health and common sense. But the adventurous birds had feathered their nests, and have only subsided for a while, to resume, in all probability, their 'genteel swindles' in some other city, or perhaps only in another portion of this very metropolis."

"The second of these worthies we shall call Mrs. Adelle Garnier. She is a stout creature, but endowed with a large share of good looks and dignity of manner. She has for years past resided in fashionable hotels, and has contrived to live on her 'face' in more senses than one. She is specially noticeable for three facts which have been abundantly exemplified in her career. First, she is a remarkably well educated woman, an accomplished linguist, speaking fluently, French, German and Italian, a skilled performer on the piano, and thoroughly versed in the literature of the day. Second, she has always exhibited a dislike, amounting almost to horror, of matrimony; and although she has, during her eventful history, received several advantageous offers of marriage, has declined them all, objecting decidedly to having her personal movements restrained in any degree by the will of any being on earth, not even a husband. Third, and last, and most remarkable of all, spite of her education and talent, spite of her matrimonial chances, she has steadily persisted in a course of life which has subjected her constantly to a long series of indignities, apparently preferring a wild, careless, lawless and scandalous Bohemianism to the sober routine and conventional demands of a modern lady's ordinary existence. Her last 'adventure' occurred some few weeks since at a Broadway hotel, from which she was expelled at a very short notice by the proprietors in presence of a number of the guests. It is presumed that at present she is almost penniless, though no one can safely predicate at what place or in what guise she may appear hereafter. For an adventurer, like a cat, has nine lives."

"The third, Miss Alice Mauley, is a petite blonde of fascinating manners, with large blue eyes, and a luxuriant wealth of hair. Alice has been a 'pilgrim and a stranger' in the cities of Philadelphia, Boston, Baltimore and St. Louis, since her sixteenth year, and has 'enjoyed' the privilege of a large circle of acquaintance—the police of these cities included. Her mode of life verges on the 'sentimental,' and her peculiar forte is entrapping the affections of 'young bloods.' She cares not for 'love,' so-called, and is, in herself, chaste and irreproachable in morale; but she devotes her energies to procuring all the money, jewelry, diamonds and presents she can obtain from her 'enamored ones' prior to their 'proposals for her hand.' She, then, 'astonished at their mistaken presumption,' leaves them to regret their folly, but never by any chance returns their presents. She recently and seriously 'compromised' the prospects of the only son and heir of a wealthy merchant of the metropolis, from whom she obtained some ten thousand dollars worth of 'tokens' and 'souvenirs.' But, owing to the exertions and worldly acumen of the young fool's papa, she has been obliged to leave New York, and has within the last few days been heard of from Cincinnati."



CHAPTER XXI.

TRINITY PARISH.

Trinity Parish was laid off in 1697. The first church was a plain, square edifice, with an ugly steeple, in which were conducted the first services of the Church of England in New York. The site is now occupied by a magnificent Cathedral, the most beautiful church edifice in the city.

The parish extends over a large part of New York. It includes the following churches, or chapels, as they are called: St. Paul's, St. John's, Trinity Chapel, and Trinity Church. It is in charge of a Rector, who is a sort of small bishop in this little diocese. He has eight assistants. Each church or chapel has its pastor, who is subject to the supervision of the Rector. The Rev. Morgan Dix, D. D., a son of the American Minister to France, is the present Rector.

Trinity takes good care of its clergy. The salaries are amply sufficient to insure a comfortable support, and a well-furnished house is provided for each one who has a family. Should a clergyman become superannuated in the service of the Parish, he is liberally maintained during his life; and should he die in his ministry, provision is made for his family.

The wealth of the parish is immense. It is variously stated at from sixty to one hundred millions of dollars. It is chiefly in real estate, the leases of which yield an immense revenue.

TRINITY CHURCH.



Trinity Church, the Cathedral, is situated on Broadway, at the head of Wall street. It is built of brown stone, and is the most beautiful and magnificent church building in America. It is very large, and is capable of containing an immense throng. Its services are very beautiful and attractive. They resemble those of the Church of England, as they are almost entirely choral. The music is the best in the city, and hundreds are drawn into the church by it. At Christmas and Easter it is grand. On Christmas Eve, at midnight, the chimes of the church ring in the blessed morning, thus continuing an old custom which is observed now only in some parts of Europe.

The church is kept open from early morning until sunset. In the winter season it is always well heated, and hundreds of the poor find warmth and shelter within its holy walls. It is the only church in New York in which there is no distinction made between the rich and the poor. The writer has frequently seen beggars in tatters conducted, by the sexton and his assistants, to the best seats in the church.

The rector and his assistants are alive to the fact that this is one of the few churches now left to the lower part of the city, and they strive to make it a great missionary centre. Their best efforts are for the poor. Those who sneer at the wealth of the parish, would do well to trouble themselves to see what a good use is made of it.

The ultra fashionable element of the congregation attend Trinity Chapel, or "Up-town Trinity," in Twenty-fifth street, near Broadway. This is a handsome church, and has a large and wealthy congregation.

THE CHURCHYARD.

A long iron railing separates the churchyard of Old Trinity from Broadway, and the thick rows of old gravestones, all crumbling and stained with age, present a strange contrast to the bustle, vitality, and splendor with, which, they are surrounded. They stare solemnly down into Wall street, and offer a bitter commentary upon the struggles and anxiety of the money kings.

The place has an air of peace that is pleasant in the midst of so much noise and confusion, and is well worth visiting.

Near the south door of the church, you will see a plain brownstone slab, bearing this inscription: "The vault of Walter and Robert O. Livingston, sons of Robert Livingston, of the Manor of Livingston" This is one of the Meccas of the world of science, for the mortal part of Robert Fulton sleeps in the vault below, in sight of the mighty steam fleets which his genius has called forth. A plain obelisk at the extreme southern end of the church yard marks the grave of Alexander Hamilton; and James Lawrence, the heroic commander of the Chesapeake, sleeps by the south door, his sarcophagus being the most prominent object in that part of the churchyard.

At the northern extremity of the yard, and facing Pine street, is the handsome monument erected to the memory of those patriotic men who died from the effects of British cruelty in the "Old Sugar-house," and in the prison ships in Wallabout Bay, the site of the present Brooklyn Navy Yard.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE HOLIDAYS IN THE CITY.

New York is very careful to observe the holidays, of the year. The mixture of the old Dutch, the orthodox English, and the Puritan elements has tended to preserve, in all its purity, each of the festivals which were so dear to our fathers. The New Yorker celebrates his Thanksgiving with all the fervor of a New Englander, and at the same time keeps his Christmas feast as heartily as his forefathers did, while the New Year is honored by a special observance.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

New Year's day is one of the institutions of New York. Its observance was instituted by the Dutch, who made it a point never to enter upon the new season with any but the most cheerful spirits. They made it a time for renewing old friendships, and for wishing each other well. Each family was then sure to be at home, and social mirth and enjoyment ruled the hour. Old feuds were forgotten, family breaches were healed, and no one thought of harboring any but kindly feelings for his relatives or friends. The jolly old Knickerbocker sat in the warm light of his huge hearth, and smoked his long pipe in happiness and peace, while his children and children's children made merry round about him.

Subsequent generations have continued to observe the custom, and to-day it is as vigorous and fresh as it was when New Amsterdam was in its primitive glory.

GETTING READY.

For weeks before the New Year dawns, nearly every house in the city is in a state of confusion. The whole establishment is thoroughly overhauled and cleaned, and neither mistress nor maid have any rest from their labors. The men folks are nuisances at such times, and gradually keep themselves out of the way, lest they should interfere with the cleaning. Persons who contemplate refurnishing their houses, generally wait until near the close of the year before doing so, in order that everything may be new on the great day. Those who cannot refurnish, endeavor to make their establishments look as fresh and new as possible. A general baking, brewing, stewing, broiling, and frying is begun, and the pantries are loaded with good things to eat and to drink.

All the family must have new outfits for the occasion, and tailors and modistes find this a profitable season. To be seen in a dress that has ever been worn before, is considered the height of vulgarity.

The table is set in magnificent style. Elegant china and glassware, and splendid plate, adorn it. It is loaded down with dainties of every description. Wines, lemonades, coffee, brandy, whiskey and punch, are in abundance. Punch is seen in all its glory on this day, and each householder strives to have the best of this article. There are regular punch-makers in the city, who reap a harvest at this time. Their services are engaged long beforehand, and they are kept busy all the morning going from house to house, to make this beverage which is nowhere so palatable as in this city.

Hairdressers, or "artistes in hair," as they call themselves, are also in demand at New Year, for each lady then wishes to have her coiffure as magnificent as possible. This is a day of hard work to these artistes, and in order to meet all their engagements, they begin their rounds at midnight. They are punctual to the moment, and from that time until noon on New Year's day are busily engaged. Of course those whose heads are dressed at such unseasonable hours cannot think of lying down to sleep, as their "head gear" would be ruined by such a procedure. They are compelled to rest sitting bolt upright, or with their heads resting on a table or the back of a chair.

Sometimes a family desiring to "shine" on such occasions find themselves unable, after meeting the other expenses, to provide the clothing and jewels necessary. These are then hired from modistes and jewelers, proper security being given for their return.

NEW YEAR'S CALLS.

All New York is stirring by eight o'clock. By nine, the streets are filled with gayly dressed persons on their way to make their annual calls. Private carriages, hacks and other vehicles soon appear, filled with persons bent upon similar expeditions. Business is entirely suspended in the city, the day is a legal holiday, and is faithfully observed by all classes. Hack hire is enormous—forty or fifty dollars being the price of a carriage for the day. The cars are crowded, and, if the weather is fine, everybody is in the highest spirits. A stranger is struck with the fact that the crowd in the streets consists almost entirely of men. Women rarely venture out on this day. It is not considered respectable, and, the truth is, it is not safe to do so.

The earliest hour at which a call can be paid, is ten o'clock. The ultra fashionables do not begin to "receive" until twelve. At the proper time, the lady of the house, attended by her daughters, if she has any, takes her stand in the drawing room by the hospitable board. In a little while, the door bell rings, and the first visitor is introduced. He salutes his hostess, and after a few pleasant words, is invited to partake of the refreshments. A few eatables are swallowed in haste—the visitor talking away all the while with his mouth full—a glass of wine or of punch is "gulped" down, and the gentleman bows himself out. He has no time to lose, for he has dozens of similar calls to make. This goes on until late at night.

A gentleman in starting out, provides himself with a written list of the calls he intends making, and "checks" each one off with his pencil, when made. This list is necessary, as few sober men can remember all their friends on such occasions, and after the first dozen visits are over, such a list is greatly needed. Each man tries to make as many calls as possible, so that he may boast of the feat afterwards. At the outset, of course, everything is conducted with the utmost propriety, but, as the day wears on, the generous liquors they have imbibed begin to "tell" upon the callers, and many eccentricities, to use no harsher term, are the result. Towards the close of the day, everything is in confusion—the door bell is never silent. Crowds of young men in various stages of intoxication rush into the lighted parlors, leer at the hostess in the vain effort to offer their respects, call for liquor, drink it, and stagger out, to repeat the scene at some other house. Frequently, they are unable to recognize the residences of their friends, and stagger into the wrong house. Some fall early in the day, and are put to bed by their friends; others sink down helpless at the feet of their hostess, and are sent home; and a few manage to get through the day. Strange as it may seem, it is no disgrace to get drunk on New Year's day. These indiscretions are expected at such times; and it not unfrequently happens that the ladies, themselves, succumb to the seductive influences of "punch" towards the close of the evening, and are put to bed by the servants. Those who do retire sober, are thoroughly worn out.

THE NEXT DAY.

The next day one half of New York is sick. Doctors are in demand. Headaches and various other ailments caused by "punch" are frequent. Business men have a weary, sleepless look, and it requires one or two nights' rest to restore mind and body to their proper condition. Should you call on a lady friend, you will probably find her indisposed—the cause of her sickness you can easily imagine. The Police Courts are busy on the Second of January. Disorder, drunkenness, and fighting are frequent on New Year's night.

INDEPENDENCE DAY.

The Fourth of July is simply a nuisance in New York. The weather is generally very warm. There is an early parade of the First Division of the National Guard, and at night there are fine displays of fireworks in various parts of the city. The greater part of the day, however, is devoted to drinking and acts of lawlessness. Fire-crackers, Roman candles, pin-wheels, and the like, abound. The police try to stop them, but without success. The city resounds with the discharges, the air is filled with sulphurous vapors, which irritate the throat and eyes, and the ears are stunned with the explosions. Young America is in his glory, and quiet, orderly people are driven nearly frantic.

EVACUATION DAY.

On the 25th of November, 1783, the British troops evacuated the City of New York, and embarked on board their ships, and the American army, under the personal command of General Washington, occupied the city and its defences. This was a proud day for the city, and the whole country, and the people of New York have always commemorated it by a grand military display. It is honored by a parade of the First Division, and the troops are reviewed upon this occasion by the Governor of the State. The parade is the finest to be seen in America, twelve or thirteen thousand men, with cavalry and artillery, being under arms at the time.

THANKSGIVING DAY.

This is a "home festival," and the observance of it was introduced by the New England element of the population. It is commemorated by morning service in all the churches. The rest of the day is given to rest and social enjoyment, and a bountiful dinner, for which all the members of a family assemble at some particular house, affords the occasion for many a friendly and domestic reunion. In the evening the theatres and places of amusement offer additional attractions to pleasure-seekers.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

When the bell of old Trinity ceases to strike the hour of midnight, on the 24th of December, there is a brief pause, and then the full, rich chimes of the old church strike up a joyous peal. The sweet tones echo and re-echo through the dark and silent streets, bidding the great city rejoice, for the merry Christmas time has come.

For weeks before the holiday you will see a brighter, smarter look about the markets and the shops. The toy shops, especially, do a brisk trade, as well as those in which articles intended for presents are sold. Residents of the city are busy laying in dainties for the season, and purchasing gifts for their children, relatives and friends.

On Christmas day the festivities are much the same as those in other places. They are hearty and merry here, as elsewhere, and the season is one of happiness. The poor are not forgotten. Those who give nothing at other times, will subscribe for dinners or clothing for the unfortunate at Christmas. The various charitable institutions are kept busy receiving and delivering the presents sent them. Their inmates are provided with plentiful, substantial dinners, and have abundant means of sharing in the happiness which seems to pervade the whole city.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE CENTRAL PARK.

For many years the rapid growth of the city has made it desirable that the people should be provided with public grounds, within easy reach; to which they could resort for rest and recreation. The natural features of the island made it plain that such a place of resort would have to be constructed by artificial means, and it was for some time doubted whether any site within the city limits could be made to serve the purpose.

On the 5th of April, 1851, Mayor Kingsland, in a special message to the Common Council, called attention to the importance of a public park, sufficiently ample to meet the growing wants of the city population. The message was referred to a select committee, who reported in favor of purchasing a tract of one hundred and fifty acres, known as Jones' Wood, lying between Sixty-sixth and Seventy-fifth streets, and Third Avenue and East River. This location came near being decided upon and purchased, but a quarrel with reference to it, between two members of the Legislature from New York City, called the attention of the public and the State authorities to it, and happily defeated the whole scheme. On the 5th of August, 1851, a Committee was appointed to examine whether another more suitable site for a park could not be found, and the result of the inquiry was the selection of the site known as Central Park.

A WONDERFUL WORK.

The Central Park, so called because it is situated almost in the centre of the island, is a parallelogram, and lies between Fifth and Eighth Avenues, and Fifty-ninth and One-hundred-and-tenth streets. It covers an area of eight hundred and forty three acres, and is about two and a half miles long by half a mile in width.

When the site was selected and the work commenced, the whole area, with the exception of the Croton Reservoirs in the upper part, was a barren waste. It was a succession of rocky elevations, stagnant pools, and sandy plains. It was covered with a coarse undergrowth, which simply disfigured it, and was occupied by the miserable shanties of a number of Irish families, known as "squatters." By looking at the character of the land surrounding it, the reader can easily form a correct idea of the primitive character of the Park, and of the immense labor which has been performed in transforming that barren waste into the magnificent grounds of to-day.

As it was morally certain that the authorities of the city of New York would not carry on the work as honestly and as promptly as was desirable, the Legislature placed the management of affairs in the hands of a Commission, composed of prominent citizens of all parties. Under the auspices of this Commission, the work was begun in 1858, and pushed forward as rapidly as possible, to its present state. These Commissioners still have charge of it, and conduct its affairs with the same skill and vigor which have accomplished so much in the past.

The Park now contains a parade ground of fifty acres, for the manoeuvering of large bodies of troops, play grounds, base ball grounds, rides, drives, walks, etc. There are nine miles of carriage roads in it, four miles of bridle roads, and twenty-five miles of walks. It is larger than any city park in the world, except the Bois de Boulogne at Paris, the Prater at Vienna, and the Phenix Park at Dublin. A rocky ridge, which traverses the whole island, passes through almost the exact centre of the grounds; and has afforded a means of rendering the scenery most beautiful and diversified. A part of the grounds form a miniature Alpine region; another part is the perfection of water scenery; and still another stretches away in one of the loveliest lawns in the world. The soil will nurture almost any kind of tree, shrub, or plant; and more than one hundred and sixty thousand trees and shrubs of all kinds have been planted, and the work is still going on. Any of the principal walks will conduct the visitor all over the grounds, and afford him a fine view of the principal objects of interest.

All the entrances on Fifty-ninth street lead to the handsome marble arch near the eastern side. Passing through this archway, and ascending a broad flight of stairs, the visitor finds himself in the great mall, which, beginning near the principal entrance on Fifth Avenue, leads to the terrace, which is one of the chief attractions. The terrace is handsomely constructed of a soft yellow stone, carved elaborately and tastefully. Three broad flights of stairs, one on each side, and one covered stairway in the centre, lead to the esplanade below, in which is the main fountain, and at the end of which is the lake.

THE LAKE.



To our mind, this is the chief attraction of the Park. It covers an area of one hundred acres, and serves as one of the receiving reservoirs of the city. It was formerly an unsightly swamp, but it would be hard to find now a lovelier sheet of water than this. It is spanned by several handsome bridges, and the scenery along its banks is both beautiful and varied. Here the eye ranges over a low shore, covered with a rich greensward, which stretches away far in the distance; there a bold waterfall leaps over its rocky barrier, and plunges into the lake from a height of fifty or sixty feet. On one hand the banks rise up bold and rugged, with an air of sternness, and on the other the ascent is gradual and beautiful. Row-boats are constantly plying on the lake in the mild season, and in these the visitor can enjoy, for a small sum, the pleasure of a row over the lake. No one can properly appreciate the beauty and variety of the scenery of this beautiful sheet of water, without taking this little voyage.

There is another and a smaller lake near the Fifth Avenue entrance. It is near the wall on Fifty-ninth street, and lies down in a deep hollow, formed by high, rocky sides, which give it a wild, mountainous appearance.

PLEASURE SEEKERS.

In fair weather the Park Commissioners cause free concerts to be given on the mall every Saturday afternoon, by one of the best bands in the city. The music is of a high character, and thousands flock there to hear it. The Park is full of visitors on fine afternoons, and the boats on the lake are crowded. The horses and equipages of the wealthier classes form one of its greatest attractions on such occasions. They come in great numbers. All the celebrities of the city, and many from other parts of the world, are to be seen here, and the horses now compare favorably with those of any other American city. Previous to the opening of the Park, there were no drives around or in New York, and the horse-flesh of the Metropolis was the laughing-stock of the country. Now the case is different.

In the winter season, when the lake and ponds are frozen over, the skating is the great attraction. Large sheds are erected at the principal points, containing private apartments for the sexes, restaurants, cloak-rooms, and places for warming and putting on or removing skates. The ice is carefully examined, and the dangerous localities are plainly marked. Every precaution is taken to prevent accidents, and means of assistance are always at hand. When the ice is in good condition, a large ball is hoisted on the Arsenal, and little flags are fastened to the various street cars running to the Park. In this way the news is soon scattered through the city, and crowds of persons flock to the Park to enjoy the sport. The scene is both brilliant and exhilarating. The Commissioners prepare a code of liberal rules for the government of skaters, and place them at conspicuous points. All persons going on the ice are required to comply with them, on pain of exclusion from the sport.

Good sleighing is rare in the Metropolis, but when it is to be had, the best is always in the Park.

THE ARSENAL.

This building is situated on Fifth Avenue, just within the Park enclosure. It was originally used for the purpose designated by the name it bears, but is now a free museum of natural history and art. It contains the nucleus of the Zoological Garden, which is now in course of construction near the centre of the Park, on the line of Eighth Avenue, and though the collection of animals, birds, etc., is small, it is very interesting. In the upper part of the building are the models of the sculptor Crawford, presented to the city by his widow, and many other interesting specimens of art.

THE CROTON RESERVOIRS.

These are located in the upper Park, and cover a considerable area. From the hill on which they are situated, a fine view can be had of the lower Park, stretching away in its beauty for over a mile. These reservoirs receive the water direct from the aqueduct, which brings it from Croton Lake, and pass it into the distributing reservoir on Forty- second street.

The scenery of this part of the Park is wild and romantic. It is said that "the deep gorge, called McGowan's Pass, dividing this northern portion, is the valley which, by means of its darkly wooded hillsides, sheltered the secret messengers passing between the scattered parties of the American troops who, during the few days intervening between their disheartening rout on Long Island and the battle of Harlem Plains, rallied about the range of hills extending from Fort Washington to Bloomingdale." A small part of the "Old Boston Road" is still to be seen in this portion of the Park, and in the distance a view is obtained of the High Bridge and Westchester county, while Washington Heights rise beautifully to the northward. To the eastward we see the white sails of the vessels in Long Island Sound, and get a faint glimpse of the town of Flushing on Long Island, and New Rochelle on the mainland.

TRANSVERSE ROADS.

It was foreseen when the Park was laid off, that as it would extend for so long a distance right through the centre of the island, it would be necessary to provide means of communication between the eastern and western sides of the island, without forcing persons to pass around the upper or lower ends of the enclosure. At the same time it was felt to be desirable to make these roads as private as possible, so that the beauty of the Park should not be marred by them, or by the long trains of wagons, carts, and such other vehicles as would pass over them. The genius of the constructing engineers soon settled this difficulty. A system of transverse roads was adopted and carried out. There are four of them, and they cross the Park at Sixty-fifth, Seventy-ninth, Eighty-fifth, and Ninety-seventh streets. They are sunken considerably below the general level of the Park, and are securely walled in with masonry. Vines, trees and shrubbery are planted and carefully trained along the edges of these walls, which conceal the roads from view. The visitors, by means of archways or bridges, pass over these roads, catching but a momentary glimpse of them in some places, and in utter ignorance of them in others.

THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN.

This, when completed, will be one of the principal attractions of the Park. It is located between the Lake and Eighth Avenue, and work is now going forward upon it to prepare it for the reception of the animals. It is very rocky and wild, and has many natural advantages for the purpose to which it is to be applied. It lies just outside of the main enclosure, and will be connected with it by means of a tunnel under the avenue.

INTERNAL ADMINISTRATION.

The original cost of the Park was nearly five millions of dollars. The total cost to the present time has been nearly nine millions. About half a million of dollars are annually spent in improvements and in keeping the grounds in order.

The control of affairs is vested in a board of eight commissioners, but the general administration is conducted by the Comptroller, Mr. Andrew H. Green.

The discipline is very rigid. A force of special policemen, who may be recognized by their gray uniforms, has been placed on duty in the Park, with the same powers and duties as the Metropolitan Police. One of these is always on duty at each gateway, to direct visitors and furnish information, as well as to prevent vehicles from entering the grounds at too rapid a rate. Others of the force are scattered through the grounds at such convenient distances, that one of them is always within call. None of the employes are allowed to ask or to receive pay for their services. Their wages are liberal. When an article is found by any of the employes of the Park, it is his duty to carry it to the property clerk at the Arsenal, where it can be identified and recovered by the rightful owner.

Improper conduct of all kinds is forbidden, and promptly checked. Visitors are requested not to walk on the grass, except in those places where the word Common is posted; not to pick flowers, leaves, or shrubs, or in any way deface the foliage; not to throw stones or other missiles; not to scratch or deface the masonry or carving; and not harm or feed the birds. No one is allowed to offer anything for sale within the limits of the enclosure, without a special license from the Commissioners. There are several hotels, or restaurants, in the grounds. These are conducted in first-class style by persons of responsibility and character. Private closets for men, which may be distinguished by the sign, "For Gentlemen only" are located at convenient points throughout the Park, and cottages for ladies and children are as numerous. These latter are in charge of a female attendant, whose business it is to wait upon visitors, and care for them in case of sudden illness, until medical aid can be procured.

Carriages for hire will be found at all the principal entrances to the Park. The Commissioners have no control over these vehicles, and the visitor must make his own bargain with the driver; a matter to which he had better attend before entering the vehicle, for these Jehus know how to drive a hard bargain.

The effect of this magnificent pleasure ground has been most salutary. The thousands of poor persons in the great city have the means of breathing the pure fresh air, and enjoying the beauties of nature, on all their holiday occasions. The health of this part of the population has improved very greatly, and the people of all classes have been correspondingly benefited. Every inhabitant of the great city has an especial pride in the Park, and, thanks to this feeling, the Commissioners have little or no trouble in enforcing their regulations. There have been no acts of rowdyism or lawlessness within the enclosure, for even the most depraved feel themselves compelled to respect the rules of the place. In a few years the streets facing the walls will be occupied with magnificent residences and public buildings, and the neighborhood will be the most delightful on the island.



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS.

New York stands at the head of all American cities in the excellence and extent of its system of public education. It has one free college, fifty-five ward or grammar schools, forty primary schools, and ten colored schools. The ward schools are divided into three departments, primary, male, and female, and the others into two, one for each sex. The buildings are generally of brick, tastefully trimmed with freestone or granite, and are amongst the handsomest in the city. They are commodious, and in every respect equal to the demand upon them. The rooms are large, airy, and neat. The building is well warmed and ventilated, and every care is taken to render the teachers and pupils as comfortable as possible. The number of teachers is between two thousand five hundred and three thousand, and the number of children is near three hundred thousand. A janitor resides in each building, and is responsible for its cleanliness and healthfulness.

The course of study is most thorough. Pupils enter the primary classes, and pass through the various grades of the primary and grammar schools, until the course is finished. Then the college of the City of New York is opened to all who desire to enter it, who have passed regularly and honorably through the lower schools. In this institution all the branches of a thorough and complete collegiate course are taught. Horace Webster, L. L. D., is the president of the college, and the faculty embraces some of the most learned men in the city. The institution grants diplomas, confers degrees, and is entitled to and exercises all the privileges of a first-class college.

The whole system is free to all the children of the city, whose parents choose to avail themselves of it. Books and everything needed are furnished without charge, and no pains are spared to render the course as thorough and beneficial as possible. The pupil is put to no expense, whatever, but is required to maintain habits of cleanliness and neatness. The sexes are provided with separate apartments, and enter the building by different doors. In some localities night schools are provided, for those who cannot be present at the day sessions, and are well attended. Many cash and errand boys and clerks, porters, drivers, and others gladly avail themselves of this means of acquiring knowledge.

The cost to the city of this magnificent system, is between two and a half and three millions of dollars annually. It is a heavy tax upon the municipal treasury, but it is gladly borne, for it saves the metropolis from those hordes of idle, ignorant men and women which are the curse of all great cities. The very poorest men or women can thus give to their children the priceless boon of knowledge, of which their youth was deprived. Profiting by the advantage thus acquired, these little ones, in after years, may rise to fame and fortune. Thus not only the metropolis but the whole country reaps the blessings of this magnificent system of free education.

The best proof of its excellence lies in the fact that, a short time since, a Committee, appointed by the authorities of the city of Boston, for the purpose of inquiring into the public school systems of other American cities, with a view to improving that of the "Hub," stated in their report, that they regarded the system in practice in the city of New York, as the best in the world, and recommended that the school system of Boston be modeled upon the same plan.

Ample as are our means of diffusing knowledge, however, they must still be increased. They must be made to reach those lower portions of humanity, in behalf of which the Mission Schools of the great city are doing such noble work. Not until this is done, will the system be perfect.



CHAPTER XXV.

THE POOR OF NEW YORK.

As we have said before, land for building purposes is very high and scarce in New York. In consequence of this, dwellings rent here for more than in other American cities. The laying off of the Central Park was a decided benefit to the city and its inhabitants, but the blessing had also its accompanying evil. It reduced the "house room" of the island by eight hundred acres, which would have afforded comfortable accommodations for seventy-two thousand persons, and naturally crowded the lower quarters of the city to a still greater extent. A careful estimate has been made by the Sanitary Association of New York, and they report that with three fourths of the population there is an average of six families to every house.

The poorer classes are to be met with in all parts of the city, but they are most numerous along the East and North rivers, and between Fourteenth and Canal streets. The majority of them are, beyond a doubt, honest, and willing to work, and in times of great commercial activity nearly all can find some means of employment; but in dull seasons, when merchants and manufacturers are forced to discharge their employes, thousands are thrown out of work, and the greatest suffering and distress prevail in the poor districts. Besides these there are thousands of vagrants, drunkards, and disreputable persons, who would rather steal, or beg, than work, and whose misery is frightful.

We must not be understood as intimating that all who desire employment can procure it in New York. Indeed the contrary is the case. Labor and skill of almost every kind are in excess here. For every position of regular labor there are at least five applicants, so that four fifths of the poor have to resort to any and all means to maintain an honest existence. Some of these means it is our purpose to notice separately.

THE LOWEST DEPTHS.

You will see the extremes of poverty and want in and about the Five Points district. In the day time half-clad, filthy, emaciated creatures pass you on the gloomy streets, and startle you with the air of misery which they carry about them. At night these poor creatures huddle into cellars, so damp, foul, and pestilential that it seems impossible for a human being to exist in them. The walls are lined with "bunks," or "berths," and the woodwork and bedding is alive with vermin; the floors are covered with wretched beds in a similar condition. The place is either as dark as midnight, or dimly lighted with a tallow dip. Sometimes a stove, which only helps to poison the atmosphere, is found in the place, sometimes a pan of coals, and often there is no means of warmth at hand. Men, women, and children crowd into these holes, as many as thirty being found in some of them. They pay a small sum to the wretch who acts as landlord, for the privilege of receiving this shelter from the cold night. The sexes are mingled carelessly, and the grossest indecency prevails. The air is loaded with blasphemy and curses, and is heavy with such foul odors that one unaccustomed to it cannot remain five minutes in the place.

The attics of the lowest class of tenement houses are no better than these cellars. They are colder, and more exposed to the elements, but the suffering in them is no greater.

TENEMENT HOUSES.

The scarcity of land in the city has led to the construction of numbers of buildings known as "Tenement Houses." These are large edifices, containing many rooms and, often, as many families. They abound chiefly in the Tenth, Eleventh, and Seventeenth Wards. The majority of persons living in these houses are foreigners. "It is not to be inferred, however, that it is poverty only that causes such dense settlement, since a spirit of economy and frugality manifests itself among these people, which forbids too much expenditure for the high rents charged, or for much riding on the railroads." Still, whatever may be the causes which lead persons to herd together in such buildings, the effect is the same in all cases. The neighborhood becomes dirty and unhealthy, and the buildings themselves perfect pest-houses. Some of them are neat and tasteful in their exteriors, others are vile and filthy all over.

They are now generally built for this purpose. As pecuniary investments they pay well, the rents sometimes yielding thirty-five per cent. on the investment. The following description will convey a fair idea of them to the reader. One of the houses stands on a lot with a front of fifty feet, and a depth of two hundred and fifty feet. It has an alley running the whole depth on each side of it. These alley-ways are excavated to the depth of the cellars, arched over, and covered with flag stones, in which, at intervals, are open gratings to give light below; the whole length of which space is occupied by water closets, without doors, and under which are open drains communicating with the street sewers. The building is five stories high, and has a flat roof. The only ventilation is by a window, which opens against a dead wall eight feet distant, and to which rises the vapor from the vault below. There is water on each floor, and gas pipes are laid through the building, so that those who desire it can use gas. The building contains one hundred and twenty-six families, or about seven hundred inhabitants. Each family has a narrow sitting-room, which is used also for working and eating, and a closet called a bed room. But few of the rooms are properly ventilated. The sun never shines in at the windows, and if the sky is overcast the rooms are so dark as to need artificial light. The whole house is dirty, and is filled with the mingled odors from the cooking-stoves and the sinks. In the winter the rooms are kept too close by the stoves, and in the summer the natural heat is made tenfold greater by the fires for cooking and washing. Pass these houses on a hot night, and you will see the streets in front of them filled with the occupants, and every window choked up with human heads, all panting and praying for relief and fresh air. Sometimes the families living in the close rooms we have described, take "boarders," who pay a part of the expenses of the "establishment." Formerly the occupants of these buildings emptied their filth and refuse matter into the public streets, which in these quarters were simply horrible to behold; but of late years, the police, by compelling a rigid observance of the sanitary laws, have greatly improved the condition of the houses and streets, and consequently the health of the people. The reader must not suppose the house we have described is a solitary instance. There are many single blocks of dwellings containing twice the number of families residing on Fifth Avenue, on both sides of that street, from Washington Square to the Park, or than a continuous row of dwellings similar to those on Fifth Avenue, three or four miles in length. There is a multitude of these squares, any of which contains a larger population than the whole city of Hartford, Connecticut which covers an area of seven miles. [Footnote: Annual Encyclopaedia, 1861] There is one single house in the city which contains twelve hundred inhabitants.

FALLEN FORTUNES.

You will see all classes of people in these tenement houses, and, amongst others, persons who have known wealth and comfort. Alas! that it should be so. You will see them stealing along quickly and noiselessly, avoiding the other inmates with an aversion they cannot conceal, and as if they fear to be recognized by some one who knew them in their better days. They live entirely to themselves, suffering more than those who have been used to poverty. If they can get work, they take it gladly and labor faithfully. If unable to procure it, they suffer, and often starve in silence. Only when driven by the direst necessity do they seek aid from charitable persons or associations. There are many of these men and women, persons of worth and refinement, in the great city, whose poverty and sufferings are known only to the eye that sees all things.

A ROMANCE OF A CHIGNON.

Many a fine lady, as she pauses in her toilette to admire the effect of the beautiful locks, for which she is indebted to her wealth rather than to nature, would shrink in horror from the glittering coils, could she know their whole story. We will tell it.

A poor sewing girl, whose only riches consisted of a "wealth of hair," died in a tenement house in one of the most wretched quarters of the city. Her life had been a fearful struggle against want and temptation, and death was a relief to her. She died alone, in her miserable home, with no one to minister to her last wants. Her death became known to the inmates of the house, who notified the city authorities. Preparations were made to lay the body in the "Potter's field," and until these were completed it was left in the silence and loneliness of the chamber which had witnessed its mortal sufferings. While it lay there, the door was noiselessly opened, and a man, roughly dressed, with his face partly concealed, entered, glancing around carefully to see if he was noticed. Then closing the door quickly, he approached the body, and produced a pair of large shears; lifting the lifeless form roughly with one hand, with the other he severed the long tresses quickly from the cold head, and gathering them up, departed as noiselessly as he had come, taking with him the only source of happiness the dead woman had ever possessed. The braid was sold for a mere trifle to a fashionable hair-dresser, who asked no questions concerning it, and when it was seen next, it was worn by some fine lady, who, in, her thoughtless vanity, never paused to consider its history.



CHAPTER XXVI.

POOR GIRLS.

We cannot hope to do justice to this branch of our subject. To treat it properly would require a volume, for it is full of the saddest, sternest, and most truthful romance. A writer in Putnam's Magazine for April, 1868, presented an able and authentic paper on this subject, which is so full and interesting that we have decided to quote a few extracts from it here, in place of any statement of our own.

Where the Bowery runs into Chatham street, we pause, and from within our close-buttoned overcoats look out over our mufflers at the passing throng. There are many novel features in it, but let them pass. Note these thinly-clad creatures who hurry shivering past, while the keen wind searches, with icy fingers, through their scanty garments, and whirls the blinding snow in their pitiful, wearied faces. We count them by tens, by scores, by hundreds, as we stand patiently here—all bearing the same general aspect of countenance, all hurrying anxiously forward, as if this morning's journey were the most momentous one of their whole lives. But they take the same journey every morning, year in and year out, whether the sun shines or the rain falls, or the bleak winds whistle and the snow sweeps in their faces, with a pain like the cutting of knives. The same faces go past in this dreary procession month after month. Occasionally one will be missing—she is dead. Another: she is worse than dead—her face had beauty in it. Thus one by one I have seen them drop away—caught by disease, born of their work and their want, bringing speedy end to the weary, empty life; caught by temptation and drawn into the giddy maelstrom of sin, to come out no more forever.

To-morrow morning take your stand at Fulton or Catharine ferry, and you shall see much such another procession go shivering by. The next day station yourself somewhere on the west side, say in Canal street, a few blocks from Broadway; here it is again. If Asmodeus-like, you could hover in the air above the roofs of the town, and look down upon its myriad streets at this hour, you would see such processions in every quarter of the metropolis. The spectacle would help you to form some idea of the vastness of the theme now on our hands.

Let us define the poor girls as those who are forced to earn whatever food they eat, whatever clothing they wear, by hard toil; girls who do not receive one cent, one crumb, from the dead, helpless, or recreant parents who brought them into the world. It is, of course, impossible to give their number accurately; but there is a result attainable by persistent observation, day by day and week by week, at all hours, and in all sorts of places, which is quite as reliable and satisfactory as any that is obtainable through blundering census-takers; and I know this army of poor girls to be one of great magnitude. The sewing girls alone I have heard estimated at thirty thousand, by one whose life is in every day contact with them, and has been for years. This is but a single class among the poor girls, reflect. The estimate may be deemed an exaggerated one. Then we will disarm criticism by taking it at half its word. If, accordingly, we say thirty thousand for the whole—for all classes—it is still a vague figure.... Few persons ever saw thirty thousand people gathered together. But we all comprehend distances. If this army of poor girls were to form in a procession together, it would be more than ten miles long.

THE SEWING GIRLS.

There are two classes of sewing girls in New York. Those who work at home, and those who go out to work at places provided by their employers. Those who work at home are comparatively few. They stay there not from choice, but from necessity. Bodily deformity, or infirmity, or sickness, or invalid parents, or relatives, whom they are unable to leave, keeps them there.

The writer in Putnam, to whose deeply interesting statement we refer the reader for further information on this point, found a poor girl of this class, who was kept at home by the sickness of her consumptive father, living and working in a miserable tenement house in the upper part of Mulberry street. After a brief conversation with her, he asked:

'What rent do you pay for this room, Mary?'

'Four dollars a month, sir.'

"That," he continues, "is little more than thirteen cents a day, you will observe."

'What do you get for making such a shirt as that?'

'Six cents, sir.'

'What! You make a shirt for six cents?'

'Yes, sir, and furnish the thread.'

If my reader is incredulous, I can assure him that Mary does not tell a falsehood; for I know that this price is paid by some of the most 'respectable' firms in New York. 'Can't you get work to do at higher prices?'

'Sometimes, sir. But these folks are better than many others; they pay regularly. Some who offer better prices will cheat, or they won't pay when the work is carried home These folks give me plenty of work, and I never have to wait; so I don't look around for better. I can't afford to take the risk, sir; so many will cheat us.'

Respectability is a good thing, you see. Let me whisper a few other prices to you, which respectability pays its poor girls. Fifteen or twenty cents for making a linen coat, complete; sixty-two cents per dozen for making men's heavy overalls; one dollar a dozen for making flannel shirts. Figures are usually very humdrum affairs, but what a story they tell here! These last prices I did not get from Mary. I got them in the first place, from a benevolent lady who works with heart and hand, day after day, all her time, in endeavoring to better the condition of the poor girls of New York. But I got them, in the second place, from the employers themselves. By going to them, pencil in hand, and desiring the cheerful little particulars for publication? Hardly! I sent my office-boy out in search of work for an imaginary 'sister,' and to inquire what would be paid her. Having inquired, and got his answer, it is needless to say that James concluded his sister could live without taking in sewing.

So, you see, that in order merely to pay her rent, Mary must make two shirts a day. That being done, she must make more to meet her other expenses. She has fuel to buy—and a pail of coal costs her fifteen cents. She has food to buy—but she eats very little, her father still less. She has not tasted meat of any kind for over a year, she tells us. What then does she eat? Bread and potatoes, principally; she drinks a cup of cheap tea, without milk or sugar, at night—provided she has any, which she frequently has not. She has also to buy (I am not painting fancy pictures, I am stating facts, which are not regulated by any rules known to our experience) 'a trifle of whiskey.' Mary's father was not reared a teetotaller, and though I was, and have no taste for liquor, I am able to see how a little whiskey may be the last physical solace possible to this miserable man, whose feet press the edge of a consumptive's grave.

"Perhaps you think it cannot be any of our first and wealthiest firms that pay poor girls starvation prices for their work. But you are mistaken. If my publishers did not deem it unwise to do so, I should give the names of some of our best Broadway houses as among the offenders against the poor girls."

A LIFE-STRUGGLE.

"Let us follow one of these poor girls," says the writer we have quoted, "as she comes out of the den of this beast of prey, and moves off, wringing her hands in an agony of distress. Day and night, with wearying industry, she had been working upon the dozen shirts he had given her to make. She had been looking forward—with what eagerness you can hardly realize—to the hour when she could carry him her work and get her pay, and recover her deposit money or receive more shirts to do. Now she is turned into the street with nothing! She dares not return to her miserable boarding-place in Delancey street, for her Irish landlady is clamorous for the two weeks' board now due. Six dollars! The sum is enormous to her. She had expected that to-night she could hand the Irish woman the money she had earned, and that it, with a promise of more soon, might appease her. But now she has nothing for her—nothing. Despair settles down upon her. Hunger is its companion, for she has had no supper. Where shall she go?"

Night has come down since she left Delancey street, carrying the heavy bundle of new-made shirts. The streets are lighted up, and are alive with bustle. Heedless what course she takes, unnoticed, uncared-for by any in the great ocean of humanity whose waves surge about her, she wanders on, and by-and-by turns into Broadway. Broadway, ever brilliant—with shop windows where wealth gleams in a thousand rare and beautiful shapes; Broadway, with its crowding omnibuses and on-pouring current of life, its Niagara roar, its dazzle—is utter loneliness to her. The fiery letters over the theatre entrances are glowing in all the colors of the rainbow. Gayly-attired ladies, girls of her own age, blest with lovers or brothers, are streaming in at the portal, beyond which she imagines every delight—music, and beauty, and perfume of flowers, and warmth. She looks in longingly, hugging her shivering shoulders under her sleazy shawl, till a policeman bids her 'move on.' Out of the restaurants there float delicious odors of cooking meats, making her hungrier still. Her eyes rest, with a look half wild and desperate, on the painted women who pass, in rustling silks, and wearing the semblance of happiness. At least they are fed—they are clothed—they can sit in bright parlors, though they sit with sin. It is easy to yield to temptation. So many do! You little know how many. In Paris, she might perhaps go and throw herself into the Seine. In New York, such suicides are not common; but there is a moral suicide, which is common. Thousands on thousands of poor girls have thrown themselves into this stream, in the last agony of desperation; sinking down in the dark current of sin, to be heard of no more.

But this poor wanderer has memories of a home, and a mother, under whose protection she had been taught to shudder at sin. She cannot plunge into this ghastly river with wide-open eyes—at least, not yet. She walks on.

Her ear is caught by sounds of music and laughter, songs and bursts of applause, that come up out of these basement-haunting concert saloons. She has heard of the 'pretty waiter girls'—the fine clothes they wear, the gay lives they lead, their only labor to wait upon the patrons of the saloon, and chat with them as they sit about the tables listening to the music. 'It is a life of Paradise,' she murmurs, 'to this life I lead!' At least, she thinks, there is no actual sin in being a waiter girl. She perceives a wide distance between the descent of these basement stairs to solicit employment, and that other dreadful resource.

The poor girls who work in these underground hells do not get good pay, and their work is not light. They are confined in these noisome places, thick with tobacco smoke and foul with poisonous odors, till two o'clock in the morning; in some places till five o'clock. Their pay is four dollars to six dollars a week; higher figures, certainly, than thousands of working-girls get, but, for two reasons, lower, in effect. The first of these two reasons is, that the waiter girl must dress with some degree of attractiveness. The second, and the most weighty, is, that she must pay a high price for board. Going home long after midnight, she must live somewhere in the vicinity of the saloon. Then the woman who, having taken a girl to board, finds that she comes home after two o'clock every night, draws her own conclusions at once. That girl must pay well for her board, if, indeed, she be not turned out of the house without a word. It will scarcely help the matter, if the girl explains that she is employed at a concert saloon. The woman knows very well what 'pretty waiter girls' are. 'Those creatures' must pay for what they have, and pay roundly. The result is, that the waiter girl's occupation will not support her. The next result is, that there are no virtuous girls in the concert saloons of Broadway—unless they be such girls as this we are following tonight, as she wanders the streets, pausing to look down into this fancied half-Paradise, only to enter it at last, in search of 'good pay.'

Let us go down with her. She pushes open the green-baize door, and walks timidly to the bar. A girl who is passably pretty can almost always get a situation here. The big-armed prize-fighter-looking brute behind the bar reads our wanderer's history at once. 'Fresh' girls are rare in that quarter. She is assisted to improve her dress a little— in some cases these girls are provided with a fancy costume, a la Turque, which they don at coming, and doff at leaving each night—and she commences her work. A crowd of half-drunk rowdies enter, and call on her to serve them, attracted by her sweet face. The grossest insults are put upon her, her character being taken for granted; infamous liberties are taken with her person, and her confusion laughed at. She would fly from the place at once, if she dared; but she does not dare— she is afraid of the man behind the bar. Her experience with men has taught her to expect nothing but brutality from them, if she offend them in any way. When the weary hours have dragged along to the end, and the place is closed, she goes out into the street again, with a bevy of other girls. The street is still and lonely; the long lines of lamps twinkle in silence; the shop windows are all shrouded in darkness; there are no rumbling wheels, save when an occasional hack passes with slow-trotting horses.

Now she must decide upon her course. This is the critical moment. Will she adhere to her new-found employment? If she do, one of her companions will volunteer to take her to a boarding-place—and from that hour she is lost. But perhaps she breaks away: a policeman saunters by, and she appeals to him, begging to be taken to a station- house to sleep—a common resource with the homeless poor girl—and on the morrow resumes her deathly struggle for existence. How long it will last—how long she will fight her almost inevitable fate—no one can tell.

"But the poor girls who work in shops provided by their employers, fare better, you think. At least, they find shelter and warmth in the cold winter, while at work? At least, they are permitted to breathe and live."

THE WORKSHOPS OF THE POOR GIRLS.

There are hoop-skirt manufactories where, in the incessant din of machinery, girls stand upon weary feet all day long for fifty cents. There are photograph galleries—you pass them in Broadway admiringly— where girls 'mount' photographs in dark rooms, which are hot in summer and cold in winter, for the same money. There are girls who make fans, who work in feathers, who pick over and assort rags for paper warehouses, who act as 'strippers' in tobacco shops, who make caps, and paper boxes, and toys, and almost all imaginable things. There are milliners' girls, and bindery girls, and printers' girls—press- feeders, bookfolders, hat-trimmers. It is not to be supposed that all these places are objectionable; it is not to be supposed that all the places where sewing-girls work are objectionable; but among each class there are very many—far too many—where evils of the gravest character exist, where the poor girls are wronged, the innocents suffer. There are places where there are not sufficient fires kept, in cold weather, and where the poor girl, coming in wet and shivering from the storm, must go immediately to work, wet as she is, and so continue all day. There are places where the 'silent system' of prisons is rigidly enforced, where there are severe penalties for whispering to one's neighbor, and where the windows are closely curtained, so that no girl can look out upon the street; thus, in advance, inuring the girls to the hardships of prison discipline, in view of the possibility that they may some day become criminals! There are places where the employer treats his girls like slaves, in every sense of the word. Pause a moment, and reflect on all that signifies. As in the South 'as it was,' some of these girls are given curses, and even blows, and even kicks; while others are special favorites either of 'the boss,' or of some of his male subordinates, and dress well, pay four dollars a week for board, and fare well generally—on a salary of three dollars a week.