Bad as they are, the concert saloons of Broadway are the best in the city. Those of the Bowery, and Chatham street, are mere brothels, in which no man's life is safe.

Persons entering these places run a fearful risk. They voluntarily place themselves in the midst of a number of abandoned wretches, who are ready for any deed of violence or crime. They care for nothing but money, and will rob or kill for it. Respectable people have no business in such places. They are sure to have their pockets picked, and are in danger of violence. Many men, who leave their happy homes in the morning, visit these places, for amusement or through curiosity, at night. They are drugged, robbed, murdered, and then the harbor police may find their lifeless forms floating in the river at daybreak.



CHAPTER XXXV.

DANCE-HOUSES.

THESE houses differ from the saloons in two things—they are lower and viler, and their guests assemble for the purpose of dancing as well as drinking. They are owned chiefly by men, though there are some which are the property of and are managed by women. They are located in the worst quarters of the city, generally in the streets near the East and North Rivers, in order to be easy of access to the sailors.

The buildings are greatly out of repair, and have a rickety, dirty appearance. The main entrance leads to a long, narrow hall, the floor of which is well sanded. The walls ornamented with flashy prints, and the ceiling with colored tissue paper cut in various fantastic shapes. There is a bar at the farther end of the room, which is well stocked with the meanest liquors, and chairs and benches are scattered about.

From five to a dozen women, so bloated and horrible to look upon, that a decent man shudders with disgust as he beholds them, are lounging about the room. They have reached the last step in the downward career of fallen women, and will never leave this place until they are carried from it to their graves, which are not far distant. They are miserably clad, and are nearly always half crazy with liquor. They are cursed and kicked about by the brutal owner of the place, and suffer still greater violence, at times, in the drunken brawls for which these houses are famous. Their sleeping rooms are above. They are sought by sailors and by the lowest and most degraded of the city population. They are the slaves of their masters. They have no money of their own. He claims a part of their infamous earnings, and demands the rest for board and clothes. Few have the courage to fly from these hells, and if they make the attempt, they are forced back by the proprietor, who is frequently aided in this unholy act by the law of the land. They can not go into the streets naked, and he claims the clothes on their backs as his property. If they leave the premises with these clothes on, he charges them with theft.

HOW THE LAW AIDS VICE.

In Packard's Monthly, for September, 1868, the reader will find a deeply interesting article on this subject, by Mr. Oliver Dyer, from which we take the following illustration of our remarks.

There is, probably, not a police reporter in the city, of much experience, who has not seen one of these girls arraigned at the Tombs, or at some other police court, on a charge of theft; because in fleeing from the intolerable servitude of some den of vice, she had had to wear clothes belonging to the keeper—not having any of her own wherewith to hide her nakedness.

"We will give a scene of this kind. Place, the Tombs, time, six o'clock in the morning; present, police justice, officers of court, about thirty prisoners, policemen attending as witnesses, and parties preferring charges against prisoners. The name of the girl against whom complaint has been made having been called, the following examination took place:

"Justice.—'What is the charge against this girl?'

"Policeman.—'Felony-stealing wearing apparel.'

"Justice.—'Who is the complainant?'

"Policeman.—'This woman here,' pointing out the keeper of the den from which the girl had fled—a most villainous old hag.

"Justice (to the keeper).—'What did the girl steal?'

"Keeper.—'Every rag she's got on; bad luck to her.'

"Justice (to the girl).—'Mary, who owns that shawl you have on?'

"Mary.—'She does, sir;' pointing to the woman.

"Justice.—'Who owns that hat and dress you have on?'

"Mary.—'She does.'

"Justice.—'Havn't, you any thing of your own to wear?'

"Mary.—'Nothing, sir.'

"Justice.—'This woman owns them all—all the clothes you have on, does she?'

"Mary.—'Yes, sir.'

"Justice.—'If they are hers you should not have taken them.'

"Mary.—'Please, sir, I couldn't stay in her house any longer, and I couldn't go naked into the street.'

"Justice.—'It is a hard case, Mary, but stealing is stealing, and I shall have to send you up for twenty days.'

"And so Mary is sent to the Penitentiary on Blackwell's Island for twenty days (and sometimes for a longer period), wearing the 'stolen' clothes; and the hag of a keeper goes back to her den and tells the other girls of Mary's fate, satisfied to give the shabby garment, in which the victim was attired, in exchange for the 'moral effect' of the girl's conviction and imprisonment on those who are still in her clutches.

"Justice Dowling, we believe, never convicts a girl of theft under such circumstances, but gives her accuser such a scoring down in open court as sends her back to her den in rage and shame."

WHERE THE WOMEN COME FROM.

Let no one suppose that these women entered upon such wretched lives voluntarily. Many were drugged and forced into them, but the majority are lost women who have come regularly down the ladder to this depth. You can find in these hells women who, but a few years ago, were ornaments of society. No woman who enters upon a life of shame can hope to avoid coming to these places in the end. As sure as she takes the first step in sin, she will take this last one also, struggle against it as she may. This is the last depth. It has but one bright ray in all its darkness—it does not last over a few months, for death soon ends it. But, oh! the horrors of such a death. No human being who has not looked on such a death-bed can imagine the horrible form in which the Great Destroyer comes. There is no hope. The poor wretch passes from untold misery in this life to the doom which awaits those who die in their sins.

O, parents, look well to your children. Guard them as you have never guarded them before. Make home happy and bright to them. Encircle them with love and tenderness. Weigh well your every act and word, for you may learn some day, when it is too late, that your criminal carelessness has been the cause of your child entering the path which leads inevitably down to hell.

The keepers of these dens use every means to decoy emigrant girls into their dens. As we have shown in another chapter, they frequently succeed. Mr. Oliver Dyer, in the article from which we have just quoted, relates the following, which will show how this is done. We merely remark that this is perhaps the only case in which the helpless victim has been rescued:

"In the month of February, 1852, Isaac W. England, Esq., formerly the city editor of the New York Tribune, subsequently the managing editor of the Chicago Republican, afterwards editor-in-chief of the Jersey City Times, and now the managing editor of the New York Sun, was returning to this city from Liverpool in the emigrant packet ship New York, in which he had taken a second cabin passage, for the purpose of learning practically how emigrants fared in such vessels.

"Mr. England did this with a view to exposing the atrocities then practiced upon emigrants, and which he afterwards did expose, in the columns of the Tribune, with such effect as to be largely instrumental in the fundamental regeneration of the whole emigrant business, and the creation of the Castle Garden Commission.

"Among the passengers in the second cabin of the packet ship was a handsome English girl, some nineteen years of age, from near Mr. England's native town. The fact that the girl came from near his native town led Mr. England to feel an interest in her, and he learned that she was coming to America to join her brother, then living near Pottsville, in Pennsylvania.

"On landing in New York, the girl went to a boarding-house in Greenwich street, there to await her brother's arrival—it having been arranged that he should come to New York for her.

"Mary (for that was her name) had not been at the boarding-house many days when a German woman called there in search of a bar-maid, and seeing Mary, she at once sought to induce her to accept the situation. It is not uncommon for English girls, of the class to which Mary belonged, to act as bar-maids in England, that being there a respectable employment.

"Deceived by the complaisant manners, and lured by the liberal promises of the German woman, the unsuspecting English girl accepted her offer and went with her to her saloon—basement in William street, near Pearl.

"After one day's service as bar-maid, Mary was bluntly informed by her employer that she had been brought thither to serve in a capacity which we will, not name, and was ordered to make ready for at once entering upon a life of shame.

"The horror-stricken girl, frantic with, terror, set about immediately leaving the premises. But she was too valuable a prize to be allowed to escape. The hag into whose clutches she had fallen locked her up in a back basement room, extending under a grate in the yard, and open to the inclemency of the weather, and there she kept her for two days and two nights—the girl not daring to eat or drink any thing during all that time, for fear of being drugged to insensibility and ruin.

"The only sustenance that passed that girl's lips for eight and forty hours was the snow that she scraped from the area grating. Nor did she dare to close her eyes in sleep for an instant.

"And while thus imprisoned, constant efforts were made to intimidate or force her to the fate to which the keeper of the place was determined to drive her. For this purpose man after man was sent to her prison. With some of them a simple statement of the case was sufficient to turn them from their purpose; but against others she had to fight as if for life for that which was to her dearer than life.

"But lack of food and lack of sleep began to tell upon her. Her strength failed, her mind weakened, and it seemed as though her doom was sealed.

"On the third day of Mary's imprisonment Mr. England, who was about to start for Rhode Island, bethought himself of his young countrywoman, and determined to call at the boarding-house in Greenwich street, to see what had become of her. He did so, and was informed that she had engaged as bar-maid in the William street saloon.

"Having knowledge of such places, Mr. England was troubled at this news, and though pressed for time, he determined to call at the saloon and see what kind of hands Mary had fallen into. He went thither, and the moment he entered the place he discovered its character.

"On inquiring of the landlady for Mary, he was told that she had gone to Pennsylvania with her brother, who had come for her two days before. Something in the woman's manner excited Mr. England's suspicions, and he told her that he thought she was deceiving him, and that Mary was still in the house.

"At this the woman flew into a passion, and swore volubly at Mr. England in several languages. This strengthened his suspicions of foul play, and he grew more peremptory in his manner of speech. While he was contesting the matter with the landlady, one of the girls in waiting passed near him, and muttered something which he understood to be a statement that Mary was actually in the house.

"Upon this Mr. England took decided ground, and told the woman that unless she immediately produced the girl, he would go for an officer and have her arrested. This brought her to terms. She gave one of the waitresses a key, and an order in German, in pursuance of which the girl went and unlocked the room in which Mary was confined. As soon as the door was opened Mary came rushing out, and seeing Mr. England, she flew to him sobbing hysterically, and clinging to his arm—and cried:

"'Take me from this place, Mr. England; take me from this place!'

"After demanding Mary's trunk, which was delivered to him, with all her things, Mr. England immediately took the rescued girl to a place of safety.

"Mary's brother had died, as she soon learned, while she was on her voyage to meet him. But a young New York lawyer saw her and loved her, and wooed her, and won her, and married her, and she is now living, happy and prosperous, in Brooklyn.

"But suppose there had been no Mr. England in the case. Or, suppose Mr. England had gone to Rhode Island, without stopping to look after this homeless young stranger!

"Why, then, she would have met her wretched doom in that William street den, and been one of the class about, whom this article is written."



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE WICKEDEST MAN IN NEW YORK

In the July number of Packard's Monthly, an able and sprightly magazine, published in this city, there appeared an article by Mr. Oliver Dyer, entitled "The Wickedest Man in New York." It was a lengthy and interesting account of a dance-house, carried on at No. 304 Water street—one of the vilest sections of the city—by one John Allen, and of the proprietor himself. As many of our readers may not have seen this article, we give portions of it, referring them to the magazine for the rest.

The Wickedest Man in New York goes by the name of John Allen. He lives at No. 304 Water street. He keeps a dance-house there. He is about forty-five years old. He is reputed to be worth one hundred thousand dollars, more or less, and is known to be worth over seventy thousand dollars. He has three brothers, who are clergymen—two of them being Presbyterians, and the other a Baptist—and is reported to have once been a minister of the Gospel himself. He is known formerly to have been a school teacher, and is a man of education and fine natural powers; was originally a good man; and is yet a 'good fellow' in many respects. Were it not for his good qualities he never could have attained unto the bad eminence of being the Wickedest Man in New York.

The best bad is always the worst.

Take him for all in all, our Wickedest Man is a phenomenon. He reads the Bible to his dance-house girls, and his favorite papers are the New York Observer and the Independent. He takes them regularly, and reads them. We have repeatedly seen them lying on the counter of his bar-room, amid decanters and glasses, along with the daily Herald and the Sun. We have also seen a dozen copies of the Little Wanderer's Friend at a time scattered about his place, for he takes an interest in mission work, and 'goes in' generally for progress for other people.

This Wickedest Man is the only entity appertaining to the shady side of New York life which we have been unable to fathom, analyze, and account for. But he is too much for us. Why a human being of his education, natural tastes, force of character, and wealth, should continue to live in a Water street dance-house, and bring up his children in a soul-destroying atmosphere of sin and degradation, is more than we can comprehend.

For the Wickedest Man loves his children. His little five-year-old boy is the apple of his eye, the core of his heart, and the chief object of his worship. He never misses an opportunity to sound the child's praises, and to show off his accomplishments. And all things considered, the little fellow is truly a wonder. He is crammed full of information on all manner of topics, and is ever ready to respond to his doting father's attempts to make his smartness visible to the naked eye.

We have never visited the Wickedest Man's dance-house without having our attention called afresh to his little son's abilities, except once, and then he took us round to the school which the child attends, to let us see that he ranks with the best, and is a favorite with his teacher. That was on the 28th day of May last, at about a quarter to twelve in the day time, when we went to No. 304 Water street, to tell Mr. Allen that the fated time had come for serving him up in a magazine article.

For be it known to the reader, we have had our pen couched at John Allen for nearly two years. In the year 1865, the Sabbath after President Lincoln was assassinated, we began an exploration and sub- soiling of New York city, as to its crime, poverty, want, woe, wretchedness, and degradation, which we have pursued ever since, as other engagements would permit. Of course, it was not long before we found out John Allen. We at once recognized his genius for wickedness, and made him an especial study. But, as we have said, he baffles us. We have told him so, and have frequently asked him to help us out of our dilemma, but he always comes short of the complete thing.

We think we know why this Wickedest Man persists in living in his Water street den—that we have, in fact, penetrated his secret; but as we are not absolutely certain as to the matter, we will not set our suspicion down in print, lest we should do him injustice.

We have said that our Wickedest Man is a phenomenon. We meant this in its application to the deepest springs of his character; but it is also, and perhaps equally, applicable to the external manifestations of those deepest springs.

Has the reader any notion of a Water street dance-house? Concretely stated, it is a breathing hole of hell—trap-door of the bottomless pit. You step from the street into a bar-room, wherein lousy loafers lurk, and which is, in some cases, on a level with the sidewalk, and in others far below it; and there you are in the general midst of things, if it happens to be a dance-house of the very lowest class. But usually there is a 'saloon' in the rear of the bar-room.

Passing out of the bar-room by a door opening in a partition across its rear, you enter the dancing-saloon, which varies in size from a room fifteen feet square to a room twenty-five to fifty feet in extent. Along the wall of this room a bench extends, usually on three sides. In the farther end of the room is an orchestra, proportioned in numbers and skill to the prosperity of the establishment. The number of musicians is sometimes as high as six, but the average is not more than three. In one of the rear corners of the saloon there is a small bar, where the girls can drink with their victims without exposing their fascinations to the unthriftful gaze of a non-paying and censorious outside public.

Sitting upon the benches, or grouped upon the floor, or whirling in the dance, are the girls, varying in number from four to twenty, but averaging about ten.

These girls are not often comely to the fastidious eye. But to a sailor, just from a long cruise where nothing lovelier than his weather-beaten shipmates has for years been seen, they are not without attractions. So, too, do certain landsmen, of a degraded type, pay homage to their strenuous charms. But a decent man, in the full possession and equipoise of his faculties, can only regard them with sorrow unspeakable, and pity too deep for tears.

The only girl we ever saw in a dance-house, in whom we could detect the slightest vestige of comeliness or refinement, had been there but a few hours, and was reputed to be the daughter of a former Lieutenant- Governor of a New England State.

The first time we entered John Alien's dance-house we found it in full blast. The hour was eleven in the evening. There were thirteen girls in the saloon, three musicians in the orchestra, and seven customers submitting to the blandishments of an equal number of the ballet- dressed syrens who pervaded the room. Our party consisted of the policeman who accompanied us, three clergymen on the look out for the "elephant," Mr. Albert C. Arnold, of the Howard Mission, and the writer.

The Wickedest Man was in his glory. Things were moving briskly. He gave us all a hearty welcome, ordered the orchestra to do their best, and told the girls to 'break our hearts.' A vigorous dance followed, after which the proprietor called out:

'Hartford, go up stairs and get my baby.' Hartford turned out to be one of the girls, who immediately disappeared and soon returned, bearing in her arms an undressed sleepy child, wrapped in a shawl. This was the juvenile prodigy. His father took him in his arms, with a glow of pride and affection.

'Now, gentlemen, you are writers, philosophers, and preachers; but I'll show that my baby knows as much as any of you. He's hell on reading, writing, praying and fighting.'

And without more ado, he stood the sleepy little fellow upon the floor and began to catechize him in ancient history, both sacred and profane, and then in modern history, geography, the political history of the United States, etc., etc., with a result which astounded all. Suddenly he exclaimed:

'Chester, give me a song.'

And Chester, for that is the child's name, gave us a song.

'Now, Chester, give us a break-down.' The orchestra played a 'break- down,' and Chester danced it with precision and vigor, his mother looking on with delight.

"'Now, Chester, give us a prayer."

And the child recited, first the Lord's Prayer, and then others in succession mixed with which were so much ribaldry and profanity on the father's part as cut us to the heart. And here it was that we got a glimpse of the pre-eminent wickedness of the man-wickedness to him unknown, and all the worse because of his unconsciousness of it; wickedness which is leading him to train up that idolized boy in a way and in an atmosphere which will yet make him an object of loathing, even to his own heart.

For that dance-house child there seems to be no spiritual hope. The sacred and the profane are so intermingled in his childish understanding, that he will never be able to tell which is sacred and which is profane; and his nature being dogged and combative, he will grow up into the highest possible type of wickedness, if he grows up at all. Of the thousand of painful cases wherewith we have met in this city, that of little Chester Allen gives us about the keenest pang.

After the infant phenomenon had been sent back to bed, his father asked our party if we wouldn't 'mix in' and have a dance with the girls.

'It'll do you good,' said he, 'to trip it a little on the light fantastic. Besides, I like to do the fair thing by distinguished visitors. I'm fond of literary people, and especially of clergymen. I've three brothers myself who adorn the sacred calling; and grit and grace run through our family, like the Tigris and the Jordan through the Holy Land. Go in, gentlemen; the girls shan't hurt you. I'll watch over you like a hen over her chickens, and you shall leave my premises as virtuous as—you came in! Ha, ha! Come, what shall it be?'

On being assured that we would not 'trip it on the light fantastic,' he asked us if we (that is, our party) would not favor the girls with a song, whereupon Mr. Arnold suggested that we should all sing together, and asked the girls what they would like best. Several of them immediately responded in favor of 'There is Rest for the Weary.'

'Do you know that? one of the clergymen asked.

'Yes;' answered at least half-a-dozen of the girls.

'Where did you learn it?' asked another of the clergymen.

"'At Sabbath-school," was the reply.

We all looked at one another. Here was a revelation. These girls had been brought up to attend Sabbath-school! Perhaps they were the daughters of Christian parents! But we had not time to pursue this painful speculation, for the girls began to sing—

'In the Christian's home in Glory There is a land of rest; And my Saviour's gone before me, To fulfil my soul's request.

'CHORUS: There is rest for the weary, There is rest for you, On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where the Tree of Life is blooming, There is rest for you.'

And oh, with what fervor and pathos they sang—especially the chorus— which, at the end of each verse they sang three times over; some of them, at last, weeping as they sang. What girlish memories, those sweet, simple strains evoked! Memories, perhaps, of once happy homes, and affectionate Sabbath-school teachers, and beloved companions, so sweetly contrasting with their dance-house condition. And so, those soul-weary creatures lingered fondly upon, and repeated over and over again, the lines:

'On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where the Tree of Life is blooming, There is rest for you.'

Since that occasion we have repeatedly visited the abode of the Wickedest Man in New York, for the purpose of 'studying him up,' and of trying to hit upon some means of inducing him to abandon his course of life, and of saving his boy. For in truth we not only feel an interest in, but also rather like him, wicked as he is. And so does nearly everybody whom we have taken to see him; and we have taken scores—most of them clergymen.

But all our efforts to get any vital hold upon him have been in vain. He is always cordial; always ready to let the girls 'have a spiritual sing;' will even permit a little exhortation to them in his dancing saloon; and is free with his Observer and Independent. But he keeps on his way with unyielding pertinacity.

On one occasion a party of us suggested that he should let us hold a prayer-meeting in his saloon. After a little reflection, he replied:

'Well, no, gentlemen, I can't go that. You know that every man must have regard to his profession and the opinion of his neighbors. What with my Observer and Independent, and you fellows coming here and singing camp-meeting hymns, I am already looked upon in the neighborhood as being rather loose and unsound; and if, a-top of all that, I should let you hold a prayer-meeting here, I should lose what little character I've left.'

But our friend Arnold, of the Howard Mission, was determined to achieve the prayer-meeting. And during the fourth week in May last, when there were many of his clerical friends in the city, Mr. Arnold thought he'd bring a heavy spiritual cannonade to bear on Allen, and see what would come of it. So, on Monday night, May 25th, after a carefully conducted preliminary season of prayer, an assaulting party was formed, including six clergymen from different parts of the country, to march upon the citadel of the enemy. When we arrived, it was half past twelve; the window-shutters were closed, and we feared we were too late. But a light shone through the window over the door, and on application we were admitted, and received a hearty welcome. Allen was just then undergoing a shampooing process; for the purpose, as he frankly stated, of enabling him to go to bed sober. He added:

'You see, gentlemen, it won't do for a business man to go to bed drunk, nor for a literary man either. So now, you just take my advice, and whenever you find yourself drunk about bedtime, you just take a good shampoo, and you'll find the investment will pay a big dividend in the morning. But walk into the saloon, gentlemen; walk in. The girls are in there taking a rest and a smoke, after the arduous duties of the evening. Walk in.'

We walked in, and found the girls smoking pipes, and sitting and lounging about the room. In a few minutes Allen came in and proposed to have the girls dance for us, but we declined.

'Well then, Arnold, let's have a song,' he exclaimed.

Mr. Arnold, as usual, asked the girls what they would like to hear, and they at once asked for their favorite—'There is Rest for the Weary.'

'Here, mother, give me my fiddle,' said Allen to his wife, 'and bring out the books,' meaning the Little Wanderer's Friend, of which he keeps a supply.

The books were got out by one of the girls, the fiddle was handed him by his wife, and Allen led off on the treble, all hands joining in. There were eleven girls in the room, and they sang in the chorus with unusual fervor, even for them. As soon as this song was finished, a couple of the girls, simultaneously, asked for 'There's a Light in the Window for Thee, Brother,' which was sung with emphasis and feeling.

At the conclusion of the last-mentioned song, Mr. Arnold believed that the appointed hour had come, and, tapping Allen on the shoulder, he said:

'Well, John, old boy, give us your hand: I feel just like praying here with you!'

Allen took the extended hand and gruffly said, 'What, pray? Do you mean pray? No, sir, never!'

'Well, John, responded Mr. Arnold, 'I am going to pray here, anyhow. If I don't pray loud I'll pray soft. You shan't lose the prayer, at any rate.'

'Well, Arnold, mind, now, if you pray I won't hear you; mind that. I don't know any thing about it. I won't hear you.'

And backing slowly out of the room, and repeating, 'I won't hear you,' over and over again, Allen went through the door leading to the bar, and closed it after him.

Mr. Arnold then invited the girls to join in prayer with him, which they did, some of them kneeling on the floor, as did the visitors, and others bowing their heads upon their hands, while Allen peered through the window of the partition door upon the singular scene.

Mr. Arnold's heart was almost too full for utterance, but his fervor soon unloosed his tongue, and he poured out a simple, direct, and heartfelt prayer, which told powerfully upon the hearers. Many of the girls arose, sobbing, to their feet, and several of them crowded around Mr. Arnold, and begged him, in the name of God, to take them from that place. They would work their hands off, if honest work could be got for them; they would submit to any hardship if they could only be restored to opportunities for virtue and a Christian life.

Poor Arnold! He was the picture of despair. It came upon him, all at once, that there is no help for such, this side the grave. He had at last conquered his opportunity, and prayed with these children of sin and shame, and now that they were calling upon him to answer his own prayer—to give them a chance to eat the bread of life—he had to put them off with the stone of evasion.

Take them from that place! Where could he take them? In all this Christian land there is not a Christian home that would open its doors to a repentant female sinner, except to turn her out of the house.

On calling upon Mr. Arnold the next day, we found him in the room at the Mission, with his head bowed upon the table, as though in prayer. Looking up at us with blazing eyes, exclaimed:

'Sir, what is to be done about this?'

'About what?' we asked.

'These poor girls,' he replied. 'I have been thinking and praying, and praying and thinking over it all night, but I can see no light. Sir, (pressing his head between his hands,) I shall go mad.'

There are about forty dance-houses in Mr. Allen's neighborhood; that is to say, within a half mile square, of which No. 304 Water street is the centre. The average number of girls in each of these houses, the season through, is ten, making four hundred in them all. So that, to feed this half mile square of infamy requires eighty fresh girls per annum. To feed the entire city, requires an average of two thousand one hundred and ninety-four a year, which is a trifle over six a day, Sunday included! Six fresh girls a day from the Sabbath-schools and virtuous homes of the land, to feed the licentious maw of this metropolis of the western world.

THE WATER STREET REVIVAL.

The result of the publication of Mr. Dyer's article, was to centre upon John Allen an unusual share of public attention. Certain clergymen in the city, thinking the occasion a proper one for endeavoring to create a religious awakening amongst the worst classes of the city, determined to endeavor to induce John Allen to abandon his wicked ways, and lead a better life, hoping that his conversion would have a powerful influence upon his class. They went to work. On the 30th of August, 1868, John Allen's house was closed for the first time in seventeen years. A handbill posted on the door, contained the following announcement:

THIS DANCE-HOUSE IS CLOSED.

"No gentlemen admitted unless accompanied by their wives, who wish to employ Magdalenes as servants." On the next day it was announced that Allen had abandoned his infamous vocation, never to resume it.

In order to do justice to all parties, we give the following, which states the case of the originators of the revivals in their own words. The paper is signed by J. M. Ward, M.D.; Rev. H. C. Fish, D.D.; Rev. W. C. Van Meter; A. C. Arnold; Rev. W. H. Boole; Rev. F. Browne; Oliver Dyer; Rev. Isaac M. Lee; Rev. Mr. Huntington.

The facts are as follows:

First.—At midnight on Saturday, the 29th day of August, 1868, JOHN ALLEN closed his dance-house, No. 304 Water Street, where he had for nearly seventeen years kept a rum shop and house of prostitution. As soon after such closing of the dance-house as the rooms could be arranged for the purpose, a prayer-meeting was held in the dancing saloon, with the concurrence of Mr. ALLEN and his wife. This meeting was begun at about half an hour after midnight, and continued until one o'clock in the morning. It was conducted and participated in by Messrs. ALBERT C. ARNOLD, Rev. H. C. BEACH and OLIVER DYER; and there were present Mr. and Mrs. ALLEN, the girls of the establishment, and a couple of ALLEN's neighbors, one of whom had been a liquor seller in the Fourth Ward for twenty years.

Second.—On the next day, the Sabbath, Mr. ALLEN attended worship, in the afternoon, at the Howard Mission, and then and there publicly announced that he had closed his dance-house, never to open it again for any evil purpose. On the evening of the same day, a public prayer- meeting was for the first time held in ALLEN's house, hundreds of persons of all classes crowding the premises, among whom were some of the most abandoned characters of the neighborhood.

Third.—Since these meetings were begun, they have been continued daily from noon till one o'clock, P. M., in Mr. ALLEN'S house; and on Sabbath, there have been large outdoor meetings in front of the premises. On the 11th of September, the house of THOMAS HADDEN, No. 374 Water street, kept as a low groggery and sailor's boarding-house, was also opened for religious services, at the hour of 12 o'clock; the rooms being filled to overflowing, multitudes being unable to enter. At the same hour a prayer-meeting was in progress at Allen's, and another upon the sidewalk opposite, to accommodate those who could not get within the doors at either Allen's or Hadden's.



Fourth.—These meetings have been attended and sustained by Christians of all denominations, and have uniformly been characterized by extraordinary fervency and power. The congregations have been, to a considerable extent, composed of sailors and residents of the Ward, (the Fourth,) which is known as the worst ward in the city. Some of the most wretched outcasts of this infamous locality have been present, and have, in several instances, requested prayer and private religious instruction; some cases resulting, as it is hoped, in their permanent reformation and conversion.

THE OTHER SIDE.

It is hardly possible that such religious demonstrations as the prayer- meetings which were held in Water street in September, 1868, could fail to do good to some one. The friends of the movement, however, made a grave mistake in announcing and spreading the report of John Allen's conversion, and even in allowing him to take part in their meetings, when it was known to them that he was not even a repentant, much less a converted man. The announcement of his conversion set on foot an inquiry, on the part of the press of the city, the results of which are thus stated by the New York Times, of September 19th.

The highly sensational stories concerning the 'wickedest man in New York,' with which the eyes and ears of the public have been regaled of late, have awakened an interest in John (Van) Allen such as has not been felt since the ever memorable reformation of 'Awful' (Orville) Gardner, the notorious pugilist and gambler, who, nearly eleven years ago, suddenly forsook the prize ring and the card table, with their vile associations, and began to live like an honest man, and a respectable member of society. Gardner was for several years a companion of Allen's in a line of open, shameless sinning, and was classed with the very lowest strata of humanity. When his 'conversion' was announced there were few that believed in the man's sincerity, while fewer still had any faith in the thoroughness or probable perpetuity of the reformation. Gardner deceived the masses of his fellows, however, by adhering strictly to his solemn pledge to 'serve God in the future as zealously as he had served Satan in the past,' and to this day he has indorsed that oath with a life of the most irreproachable character.

The same depth of popular interest that was born with the reformation of the prize-fighter and gambler, in 1857, was brought forth recently, when the community was startled with the strange news that the King of Water street dance-house keepers had abandoned his wicked business, and, like his associate of old, had promised to devote the remainder of his days to serving the highest interests of mankind. That Gardner was sincere and earnest, and that his motives were pure and unselfish, when he promised to be a better man, time has fully vindicated; but that Allen deserves the same commendation is, to say the least of it, very questionable, as is shown by the inconsistencies of his brief probationary career. To speak plainly, it is no more a matter of doubt that the religious community has been grossly imposed upon, with reference to the Water street 'revival,' as will be seen by glancing at a few stubborn facts that cannot be reconciled to a more favorable theory. Upon whose shoulders the guilt of this deception rests, may not have been discovered, but, most assuredly, the righteous indignation of the public will fall, unsparingly, upon whoever may deserve its infliction.

The facts, negatively stated, are briefly and plainly these: There is not a religious revival in progress among the wretched dwellers in Water street dance-halls, and sailors' boarding-houses, nor has there been of late, as represented to the public. Neither Allen, Tommy Hadden, Slocum, nor 'Kit' Burns are 'converted' or reformed men, all accounts to the contrary notwithstanding. The whole movement originated several months ago, in the efforts of the colporteurs of a certain mission, to ameliorate the condition of sailors and fallen women of the Fourth Ward. House-to-house visits were made by the missionaries for a considerable length of time, but without accomplishing all that was desired. At length it was decided that an unusual and sensational method should be taken to arouse Water street, and Water street was accordingly aroused. Allen was selected as the victim against whom the shafts of religion should be specially levelled, and they were, therefore, directed toward him. Two articles appeared in a certain magazine, calling attention to Allen as the 'wickedest man in New York' and in a short time he was the most notorious character in the country. The aim of the article in question was evidently to shame John Allen into a change of life, and thus to obtain a foothold among his vile neighbors and companions in sin. The stroke was a bold one, but it utterly failed in its purpose to soften John's heart. The result, however, was that thousands of religious persons—clergymen and others—thronged his house daily, either from a motive of curiosity, or of inducing John to abandon his wicked life and become a religious man. This he sternly refused to do, threatening to throw any preaching or praying people, who might come there, out of doors. The rush of visitors of the better classes to his house entirely destroyed his business, and for weeks he did not make a dollar of profit in his usual way. Finding that Allen could not be coerced into a reformation, and fearing that the game would be lost, his religious shepherds made a proposition to him to hire his house for one month, to October 1, for daily prayer meetings, and such arrangement was, after some discussion, perfected. For the use of the rooms it is known that a check for three hundred and fifty dollars was passed to Allen, last week, by a party controlling the movement, and the house is now in legal possession of the drawer of the check. Allen's prayers, songs, and exhortations, with which he interested the praying dupes who gathered to his house, were assuredly bogus, and, after being continued for two or three days, they were abandoned, and thereafter, in drunken obliviousness or cunning reticence, the 'wickedest man' passed his time, avoiding visitors, and talking only when compelled to do so. What he purposes to do hereafter will be learned in the course of this article. So much for Alien's falsely reputed conversion!

As for the other men's reformation, that is as absolutely a piece of humbuggery as Allen's. Tommy Hadden is playing the pious with the hope of being secured from trial before the Court of General Sessions for having recently 'shanghaed' a Brooklynite, and also in consideration of a handsome moneyed arrangement with his employers—similar to that with Allen. 'Kit' Burn's rat-pit will also be opened for religious services on Monday next; but the public need not be deceived in the matter of his reformation. His motive, like that of the others, is to make money, and, be it known, that he is to receive at the rate of one hundred and fifty dollars per month, for the use of his pit an hour every day. Slocum desired prayers at the Howard Mission, on Sunday last, but it is understood that he is not to be lionized, because the missionaries are not willing to pay him a high enough rental for his hall. As for the general movement carried on in Water street, under the false pretence that these men have voluntarily, and from purely religious motives, offered their saloons for public worship, and have, themselves, determined to reform, very little more need be said. The daily prayer- meetings are nothing more than assemblages of religious people from among the higher grades of society, in what were once low dance-halls. There is an unusual amount of interest displayed at these meetings, and much good has, doubtless, been accomplished thereby, but it is also a fact, that there are but a few, and sometimes none, of the wretched women, or ruffianly, vicious men, of that neighborhood, present. Those classes are not reached at all, and it is false to say that a revival is going on among them. The character of the audiences and the exercises are similar to that of the noon meeting at the Fulton street Church.

With a view of sounding Allen on various points of public interest, connected with this exciting affair, the writer, on Thursday, paid a visit to the devildom of which Allen is monarch, and there saw and heard some things that are worth the reader's attention. The house, 304 Water street, was easily found. Opening the door that leads from the Street into the apartment that once served as a bar-room, he (the writer) asked if Mr. Allen was at home, and he was informed by a lad to whom the inquiry was addressed, that he was not—he was across the street talking to Slocum, (the proprietor of a neighboring dance-hall,) and if the business upon which the visitor had called was important he would be summoned. Allen was accordingly sent for, and with evident reluctance he accompanied the lad to the room of which we have spoken.

The moment he entered, it was easily seen that he was grossly intoxicated. His step was steady, but the wandering expression of his bloodshot eyes, the silly grin that played about his lips, and the unmistakable rum-odor of his breath, as he approached, made it certain that he was a drunken man. He did not wait for the formalities of an introduction, but at once opened with: 'Well, who are you? What's your name? Where do you live? What's your business—salvation, sinners, eh?'—all at a single breath, and with a rapidity that would defy the pencil of the most skilful stenographer. There was an air of imperiousness, too, in his tone of voice, that seemed to say, 'Come, talk quickly now, and then go about your business; I have no time to waste.' The inquiries, in the main, having been answered, Allen closed the door of the saloon, dragged a small table and two chairs into the middle of the floor, and, having done this, and dismissed the boy and a hideous-looking girl, who was preparing to scrub the apartment, he bade us be seated, and then resumed the conversation, which was carried on in something like the following manner:

'Well, Mr. Allen, what do you desire to say to the public about this reform work?'

'Don't know what to say about it—it's all right, I guess. You can tell 'em that those prayin' "fellers" have broken all my cane chairs, and I've had to get wooden ones—guess they can't break them. Broke my glass there, too, smashed it in, and they smash everything they touch. Somebody stole my coat, too—I'd like to catch him. I don't much like them prayin' folks, anyhow,' he said.

'Why?' was the rejoinder, in evident surprise, 'the public has been led to believe that you were "converted," John, and that you loved Christian people—there will be great surprise when it is made known that such is not the case.'

'Oh!' he returned, interrupting the visitor, 'I'm reformed, and I've made up my mind to serve my great Redeemer as long as he lets me live. I'll never go back on Him, true as you live. I'm just a goin' to let the world know that I'm a second Apostle Paul—there ain't a goin' to be anybody beat me in this line of business, sure's my name is John Allen.'

'What do you mean by "a second Apostle Paul?"' we ventured to ask.

'What do I mean?' was the reply. 'Why, I mean just what I say; I'm goin' to study for a preacher, and I'm goin' to sweep everything in this street. If one church won't have me, another will; and I'll tell these wicked sinners in the world that they'd better look out for themselves, or they'll wake up some fine morning in hell fire.'

'You say that you are going to preach, John. Do you suppose that people will hear you from the pulpit, unless you stop drinking rum?'

'Who told you I drank rum?' he asked, fiercely—and without waiting for a reply, continued: 'I never was drunk in my life. I take a glass now and again, when I feel the need of it; and lately I've been tapering off. I am going to stop it, by-and-by, when I get ready.'

THE LAST OF THE WICKEDEST MAN.

The last appearance of the "wickedest man" in public, was a short while ago, when he and his wife, and several of his girls, were arraigned before Justice Dowling, at the Tombs Police Court, on the charge of robbing a sailor of fifteen dollars. The trial, as reported in the daily journals, was a severe commentary upon the revivals, and those who had been conducting them. The following is the account of it:

John Allen and wife, and several girls, who have made that saintly personage's house their home, were before Justice Dowling yesterday morning, to answer a number of damaging charges—among them, keeping a resort for thieves, gamblers, and prostitutes, and robbing Benjamin Swan, a seaman. The story may be best told by the victim, who was examined by Justice Dowling, as follows.

Justice.—'Tell me, Swan, how this robbery occurred.'

Swan.—'Well, your Honor, I was going along Water street, on Friday night, and was picked up by the girl, and taken to a private room in the house of Allen. I gave Mrs. Allen five dollars, to pay for drinks, etc.; and during the night, my bedfellow, Margaret Ware, took from my pantaloons pocket fifteen dollars, which she said she gave to Mrs. Allen to keep. When I asked it back, they would not give it to me. I am sure it was John Allen's house.'

The testimony of this witness having been taken, Captain Thorne made a formal complaint against John Allen for keeping a disorderly house.

Justice.—'How do you know that he keeps a disorderly house, captain?'

Captain.—'I take it on the testimony of this man, who has been robbed there.'

Justice.—'Yes, but you must have stronger testimony than that. The law says that it requires more than one act to constitute a disorderly place.'

Captain.—'I have policemen here to prove that it is disorderly.'

Justice.—'Allen, what do you say to this charge?'

Allen.—'Your Honor, during the past six weeks I have done no business. My house has been used all the time for prayer-meetings.'

Justice.—-'What about the robbery of this man?'

Allen.—'I have nothing to say about it, for I was not at home last night. I know very well that the captain does not want to have me locked up. We have always been good friends, haven't we, captain?'

Captain.—'I have nothing to say about it.'

Allen.—'If no charge is made, I promise to have nothing to do with politics.'

Justice.—'Do you mean to say that politics had any thing to do with your arrest?'

Allen.—'I don't say anything at all about it, your Honor.'

Justice.—'Then why do you hint at it?'

Allen.—'I will promise not to interfere one way or the other, if I am allowed to go.'

The court loungers, who know something of the peculiar politics of the Fourth Ward, here laughed immoderately.

Justice.—'You go to the captain, and tell him all about it.'

Allen.—'I won't vote at all if I am let go. I always keep in with the police.' (Laughter.)

Justice.—'That's right.'

Allen.—'Only for the kindness of the police, I never could have kept my place so many years. They have always been my friends.' (Laughter.)

Justice.—'How long is it since you have had any prayer meetings in your house?'

Allen.—'About eight days.'

Justice.—'You have got through with them, then, have you?'

Allen.—'Well, yes, they are not held in my house any more, but they do be held at Jim Miller's, next door, all the same.'

Justice.—'I believe those praying fellows are the most disorderly persons in Water street. Captain, if you would arrest them, some time, and charge them with disorderly conduct, I think you would be doing good service to the community, for their religious gatherings have been a farce.'

Margaret Ware was committed for trial, and John Allen was held on three hundred dollars bail to answer at the Special Sessions. Daniel Creedon, lodging-house keeper, who represents ten thousand dollars in real estate, became John Allen's bondsman. John says that Oliver Dyer caused his arrest and that the whole thing was a 'put up job.'

THE RESULT.

We grant, without hesitation, that those who originated and carried on the Water street revivals, were influenced by worthy motives; but, having given both sides of the case, we maintain that the whole affair was a grave mistake. There was no genuine conversion of the principal characters, and this fact was soon made evident. The public became disgusted with the sham. The class for whose benefit the movement was designed, has been morally injured by it. Good people are made chary of engaging in schemes for the conversion of bad characters, lest they should be drawn into another "John Allen affair," and the wretches who were to have been saved, having been quick to detect the deceit practiced in the matter, denounce all the efforts and declarations of the actors in this affair as hypocrisy and cant, and will for a long time hold aloof from them. On the whole, therefore, we can but regard the cause of religion as more injured than benefited by the mistaken zeal of those who conducted the Water street revivals. The men themselves are above reproach. Their motives, no candid person will impugn, but their wisdom and good sense are open to the gravest criticism.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

CHEAP LODGING HOUSES.

The Bowery and eastern section of the city are full of cheap lodging houses, which form a peculiar feature of city life. "There is a very large and increasing class of vagrants who live from hand to mouth, and who, beneath the dignity of the lowest grade of boarding houses, find a nightly abode in cheap lodgings. These establishments are planned so as to afford the greatest accommodation in point of numbers with the least in point of comfort. The halls or rather passages are narrow, and the rooms are small, dark, dirty and infested with vermin. The bedding consists of a straw pallet and coarse sheets, and a coverlet of a quality too poor to be an object of luxury. In some houses no sheets or coverlet are afforded, but even with the best of these accommodations the lodger suffers from cold in the winter, while in the summer he is devoured with bed-bugs. For such accommodations in a room which half a dozen may share, the lodger pays ten cents, though it is said there is a lower depth where they sleep on the floor and pay half the above- mentioned price. The profit of this business may be inferred from the fact that one hundred and fifty lodgings, and in some cases a much larger number, are sold by each house, making a net receipt of $15 per night, to which is to be added the profits of a bar, where the vilest whiskey is retailed in 'dime nips.' The business of a lodging house seldom commences before ten o'clock, and its greatest rush is just after the closing of the theatres; but all through the night, till three o'clock in the morning, they are receiving such of the outcast population as can offer the price of a bed. To any one interested in the misery of the city, the array presented on such an occasion is very striking. One sees every variety of character, runaway boys, truant apprentices, drunken mechanics and broken-down mankind generally. Among these are men who have seen better days. They are decayed gentlemen who appear regularly in Wall street, and eke out the day by such petty business as they may get hold of, and are lucky if they can make enough to carry them through the night. In all lodging houses the rule holds good 'first come, first served,' and the last man in the room gets the worst spot. Each one sleeps with his clothes on and his hat under his head to keep it from being stolen. At eight o'clock in the morning all oversleepers are awakened and the rooms got ready for the coming night. No one is allowed to take anything away, and if the lodger has a parcel he is required to leave it at the bar. This prevents the theft of bed- clothes. As the expenses connected with lodging houses are very light, they are generally profitable, and in some instances large fortunes have been made at the business. The one recently burned was a correct illustration of the vices and miseries of the poor; a lodging house up stairs and in the basement a concert-saloon, so that the poverty engendered by the one could be sheltered by the other."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

BLACK-MAILING.

The detectives are constantly at work in attempts, which are generally successful, to protect persons of respectability from the clutches of that unscrupulous class known as black-mailers. These individuals are very numerous in the city, and are generally to be found amongst the most desperate and wicked of the disreputable classes. Street-walkers and fast women of all classes are most commonly engaged in it. The woman is the visible actor, but she is generally sustained by a rough, or professional thief, or pickpocket. They are not content with making victims of those who have really committed indiscretions which have come to their knowledge, but they fasten upon the innocent and really virtuous, well knowing that nine persons out of ten, though really guiltless of any fault, will rather comply with their demands than have their names connected with a scandal. Such persons think that the wretch will not dare to charge them with the offence, or endeavor to extort money a second time, and do not regret the first outlay. They ought never to yield, whether innocent or guilty, for the wretches are sure to make repeated demands upon those who are weak enough to comply with them. The law makes it a crime for any one to endeavor to extort money in this way, and no one so threatened should hesitate for one moment in applying to the police.

A MINISTER BLACK-MAILED.

A minister, who shall be nameless, was coming out of his robing-room one Sabbath night, after service, and was passing down the aisle on his way out of the building, when he was accosted by a well-dressed and rather handsome woman, who asked him to allow her a few moments' conversation with a him. He granted her request, and she said she had come to ask him to go with her to see her sister, who was lying at the point of death at a boarding-house in———street. She seemed very much distressed, and declared she would "go deranged" if her sister should die without seeing a clergyman. She added that her sister and herself were both strangers in the city, and that as they had never been to any other church but that in charge of the gentleman she was addressing, they would prefer his ministrations to those of any other person. The woman's story was so simple and straightforward that the minister did not hesitate to believe her, and accompanied her to a plain but respectable-looking house in———street. He noticed, while in the cars—for they took this means of conveyance in order to save time— that a number of persons looked at his companion and himself rather strangely, but still he suspected nothing.

On reaching the house, the woman rang the bell, and they were admitted. She asked him to wait a moment in the parlor. The room was flashy, and the appearance of the men and women, who were grouped about in it, was far from being respectable, though there was nothing improper in their conduct. The minister's suspicions were aroused at once by the general appearance of things, and were increased as he saw the whispered conversation going on between the other occupants of the room, and of which he was evidently the subject. In a few minutes his companion returned, and asking him to follow her, led the way up to her room. He went with her, still thinking that his suspicions might have been misplaced. Several women passed him on the stairway each of whom greeted him with an impudent laugh. Upon reaching the room, the minister found that he had been deceived. There was no sick woman present, and he was alone with his infamous companion. As she closed the door, she came up to him, and put her arm around him. He threw her off sternly.

"What does this mean," he asked.

"I wanted to have the pleasure of your society," said the woman, laughing. "Now that you are here, you had better stay."

Without a word, the clergyman turned towards the door, but the woman sprang before him.

"You don't leave me in this way," she said. "I want money, and I must have it."

"I have none for you," said the minister. "Let me pass."

"Listen to me," said the woman: "I want two hundred dollars. Pay the money, and I will never tell of your visit here. If you refuse me, I'll tell the story all over town."

"Do so," was the reply. "I will tell how I was led here, how I was deceived, and I will have you arrested."

"My tale's the best," said the woman, defiantly. "I can prove your presence in the parlor by every girl in the house, and those who saw you in the hall will swear you came to my room with me. They will swear to no lie, either, and nine people out of ten will believe my story against yours. To say the least," she added, "it will fasten such a suspicion on you as will ruin you with your congregation; so you'd better pay me my money."

The minister was silent for a moment. He felt that his presence in that place would give rise to a terrible suspicion, and he knew that a man in his position could not afford to be suspected. However innocent he might be, the faintest breath of scandal would injure him greatly. He thought over the matter rapidly, and at last said:

"The sum you name is a very large one to me, and I could not pay you to-night, were I inclined to do so. Give me until to-morrow to think of it."

The woman's eyes sparkled, for she thought her victim would surely yield.

"Where can I see you to-morrow?" she asked.

"At my residence, No.—W——street, at twelve o'clock," he said. "Send in your name as Mrs. White, and I will see you at once."

"You had better do so," said the woman, emphatically. "Now you can go."

She led the minister down the stairs, and allowed him to leave the house. Instead of going home, he went straight to the Police Headquarters, and made his statement to the officer in charge, and was advised as to the course he should pursue. Then he went home, and told his wife of the whole affair, and of the course of action he had marked out.

The next day, precisely at noon, the so-called Mrs. White, accompanied by a villainous-looking man, arrived at the minister's residence, and the two were shown into his study. He received them calmly, and the woman introduced the man, as "her friend, who had come to see fair play." This announcement did not in the least disconcert the minister, who proceeded to state in plain terms the events connected with the affair of the previous night.

"You acknowledge this to be a true statement," he said to the woman.

"Yes, it is the truth," she said, "but your innocence will not keep people from suspecting you."

"You demand the sum of two hundred dollars as the price of your silence on the subject," he continued.

"That's my price."

"If I make it three hundred will you sign a paper acknowledging your deceit and my innocence?" he asked, producing a roll of notes.

"Yes," she replied, after consulting with her companion.

"Then sign that," he said, handing her a written paper and a pen.

The man read it, and nodded his head, and she signed it.

"Now, gentlemen," said the minister, raising his voice, and drawing the paper to him, "you can enter, and witness the signature."

As he spoke the door of an adjoining room opened, and a detective and one of the wardens of the minister's church entered. They had been concealed in the next room, and had heard and witnessed the whole transaction.

"Who are these men?" asked the woman, springing up.

"Why, don't you know me, Eliza?" asked the detective, coolly. "This isn't the first time I've put a stop to your villainy. I guess you'll go in for a few years this time."

"Give me my money, and let me go," said the woman, fiercely, turning her back on the detective and facing the minister.

"Eliza," said the detective, "you'll not get one cent. This gentleman wants the matter dropped here, and if you are not a fool you'll go about your business. You have signed a paper clearing Mr.——-from all suspicion, and you can't do him any further harm. The case is in my hands. If you will leave New York for Boston or Philadelphia to-night, I'll be quiet—I shall watch you, and if you're in town to-morrow, you'll be in Sing Sing before two months are out. Now go home and pack your trunk."

"I've been a fool," said the woman, bitterly.

"So you have, my dear," said the detective. "Now go home, and take this interesting young man with you."

The guilty pair departed in silence, and the minister was not troubled with them again. The courage and prudence of an innocent man enabled him to defeat this deep laid scheme for his ruin. Had he yielded and paid the money, the demand would have been renewed, and he would in the end have been ruined and disgraced without ever having committed a crime.

We recently heard of a case of an opposite character. A minister, settled over a large and wealthy congregation, was approached by one of these women, and charged with a crime of which he was entirely innocent. The woman professed to have an abundance of proof against him. He was a weak, vain man, proud of his reputation, and afraid of the slightest whisper of scandal, and he was terrified by the woman's bold assertions. In order to get rid of her, he paid her the sum she demanded, and received her promise not to trouble him again. In a few weeks she returned, and demanded a larger sum, which was paid. These demands then became so frequent and heavy that the minister could hardly support his family on what was left of his salary. He resigned his charge, and accepted a call to a distant city, hoping to escape his persecutors, for he could not doubt that the woman was urged on by others; but they followed him to his new home, and so harassed and plundered him that he was forced to ask the aid of the police, who discovered and arrested his tormentors. This ended the demands upon his purse, but he had been plundered of over eight thousand dollars, which was entirely lost to him. Had he acted as a sensible man at first, he would have been saved his losses and his sufferings.

A BRIDE IN THE TOILS.

Not long since a young lady of fashion, about to be married to a wealthy gentleman of this city, was called on by a woman who was unknown to her. The stranger stated her business without delay. She had heard that the young lady, whom we will call Miss R——, was about to marry Mr. F——.

"I have come to say," she added, "that I am in need of money. I want five hundred dollars, which is a small sum to a woman as rich as you. I intend to make this marriage the means of raising it. If you do not pay me the money, I shall go to Mr. F——, and tell him that you are not a virtuous woman. He will not believe me, at first, but I shall set a rumor afloat which will soon be known amongst all your fashionable friends."

"But, by your own story, there will be no truth in it," said Miss R——, amazed at the woman's effrontery.

"That is true," said the woman, "but you know that a false rumor will accomplish as much as a true one. I will take care that the rumor is well spread, and if you refuse me the money, it will be said all over New York that your virtue is a matter of doubt. Your character will be stained, and your marriage will be broken off."

Miss R——was astounded at such cool villainy, but fortunately her courage and self-possession did not desert her. Bidding the woman await her return, she left the room, and went straight to her lover, who was fortunately in the house at the time. She told him all that had occurred, and they at once sought her father, and laid the matter before him. The old gentleman advised them to go to the parlor and confront the woman, and at the same time sent for the policeman on that "beat." The woman seemed surprised, when she saw the lovers enter the room, and she rose to her feet in alarm. "This is Mr. F——," said Miss R——, calmly, "and I have just told him of your infamous proposition."

"You have beaten me," said the woman, "but I'll take care that you suffer for it."

She was about to leave the room, when Mr. F——placed himself before the door.

"You cannot leave this house," he said, sternly. "We have sent for a policeman, and you must wait till he comes."

The woman sat down without a word, and in a few minutes the policeman arrived. He recognized her as an old offender, and after congratulating Miss R——upon her coolness and good sense, led the woman away. The black-mailer was sent to prison, and the wedding proceeded without interruption.

DESPERATE CHARACTERS.

The incidents already given, will show how this system is conducted. As a general rule, the wretches are easily disposed of with the aid of the police, but sometimes it requires all the ingenuity of the most experienced detective to ferret out and foil the plot. These wretches know that respectable people dread scandal, and they profit by this knowledge. They are sometimes bold and unscrupulous in their way of conducting their business, and at other times endeavor to palm themselves off as injured innocents. They rarely meddle with women, for the difficulties in their way are greater; but, as they know that almost any story about a man will be believed, they fasten themselves like leeches upon the male sex. Young men about to make rich marriages are bled freely, for few will care to risk a scandal which might break off the whole affair. If a young man refuses one of them on such occasions, she goes boldly to the lady he is to marry, and declares herself the innocent and wronged victim of the aforesaid young man. This is her revenge, and the majority of young men, knowing them to be capable of such a course, comply with their demands on the spot. There is nothing these wretches will not do, no place they will not invade, in order to extort money from their victims.

Persons from the country, stopping at the hotels of the city, are frequently the objects of the attacks of the black-mailers. A man's name is learned from the hotel register, and he is boldly approached and charged with conduct he never dreamed of being guilty of. The scoundrel professes to know him and his whole family, and names the price of his silence. Too often the demand is complied with, and the money paid. The proper course to pursue when accosted in such a manner, is to call upon the nearest policeman for assistance in shaking off the wretch.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

CHATHAM STREET.

Chatham street begins at City Hall Place and ends at Chatham square. It is not over a fourth of a mile in length, and is narrow and dirty. It is taken up, principally, with Jews and low class foreigners. There are also some cheap hotels and lodging houses, several pawnbroker's shops, and half a dozen concert saloons in the street. The lowest class Jews abound in this quarter, and vile, filthy wretches they are. They deal in imitation jewelry, old clothes, and cheap clothing. There is little, if any, honesty in the street, and any one buying an article within its limits must expect to be cheated. The streets running off to the right and left, lead to the Five Points and kindred districts, and it is this wretched part of the city which furnishes the greatest number of customers to Chatham street. The buildings are generally constructed in the old style, a new house being a rarity in this locality, and are foul and dingy. The shops are low and dark, and smell horribly. The men and women who frequent them look like convicts, and as they sit in their doorways watching for custom, they seem more like wild beasts waiting for their prey, than like human beings. They have no respectable customers, except the poor, who come into the neighborhood hoping to save money in their purchases. They fall victims to the sharpers who line the street, and the articles they buy are dear at whatever price they may pay for them. It is said that stolen goods frequently find their way to Chatham street, and that a very large part of the traffic of that locality is carried on in violation of the law. However this may be, we have but one simple warning for all persons visiting the great city. Buy nothing in Chatham street, and keep out of it after dark.

FORCED SALES.

When business is dull in this locality, the "merchants" resort to many artifices to fill their coffers. One of their manoeuvres is called a "forced sale." A man walking along the street, will be seized and dragged into a clothing shop. He may protest that he does not wish to buy anything, but the "merchant" and his clerks will insist that he does, and before he can well help himself, they will haul off his coat, clap one of the store coats on his back, and declare it a "perfect fit." The new coat will then be removed and replaced by the old one, and the victim will be allowed to leave the shop. As he passes out of the door, the new coat is thrust under his arm, and he is seized by the proprietor and his assistants, who shout "stop thief!" and charge him with stealing the coat. Their noise, and the dread of being arrested upon a charge of theft, will frequently so confuse and frighten the victim that he will comply with their demand, which is that he shall buy the coat. This done, he is suffered to depart. A refusal to yield would not injure him, for the scoundrels would seldom dare to call in the police, for fear of getting themselves into trouble, as their tricks are well known to the officers of the law.



CHAPTER XL.

THIEVES.

Thieves are numerous in New York. As a general rule, they herd together in the worst quarters of the city—in the Five Points and along East River—where they can rapidly and easily communicate with each other, and where they can hide from the police without fear of discovery. There are many blunderers in the fraternity, but there are also many experienced hands, who do a great deal of damage, and give a world of trouble to the authorities. These are generally well known to the police.

THE THIEF LANGUAGE.

The thieves of the city have a language, or argot, peculiar to themselves. Those who have been raised to the business use this argot to such an extent, that a stranger finds it as impossible to understand them as he would if they were speaking in a foreign tongue. The Detectives' Manual gives a glossary of this language, from which we take the following specimens, to be found in that work, under the head of the letter B.:

Badger.—A panel-thief.

Bagged.—Imprisoned.

Bag of nails.—All in confusion.

Balram.—Money.

Bandog.—A civil officer.

Barking irons.—Pistols.

Bene.—Good, first-rate.

Benjamin.—A coat.

Bilk.—To cheat.

Bill of sale.—A widow's weeds.

Bingo.—Liquor.

Bingo boy.—A drunken man.

Bingo mort.—A drunken woman.

Blue-billy.—A strange handkerchief.

Blue ruin.—Bad gin.

Boarding-school.—The penitentiary.

Bone box.—The mouth.

Bowsprit in parenthesis.—A pulled nose.

Brother of the blade.—A soldier.

Brother of the bolus.—A doctor.

Brush.—To flatter, to humbug.

Bug.—A breast-pin.

Bugger.—A pickpocket.

Bull.—A locomotive.

Bull-traps.—Rogues who personate officials to extort money.

We could multiply these examples, but the above are sufficient to illustrate this branch of our subject.

PROFESSIONAL THIEVES.

The poor wretches who steal a few dollars' worth in open day, from stores and stands, are not considered by professional thieves as amongst the "fraternity," which embraces house-breakers, pick-pockets, and burglars. These persons are carefully trained by "old hands," and are by practice made as perfect as possible in their arts. Indeed, to be an accomplished burglar requires a very great degree of intelligence, courage, strength, and ingenuity. These men all have certain distinct methods of performing their work, so that after they have been operating a short while, a detective can, by examining the traces, tell, with absolute certainty, the name of the burglar. Besides this, the life which these persons lead stamps their countenances and general bearing with marks which an experienced officer will recognize at a glance. The sneak-thief, the pickpocket, and the burglar, have certain habits, attitudes, haunts; they act in certain ways when placed in certain positions, which reveal them and their occupations to a practiced eye, with almost as much certainty as the form and aspect of a blade of grass reveals its genus and species to the eye of a practiced botanist. A skilled detective will stand at the corner of a street, in a strange city, that he has never entered before, and will pick out, almost unerringly, the passers-by who belong to this criminal class. He will say, "This is a sneak-thief;" "This is a pickpocket;" "This man has just been released from the State prison;" "This one is a gambler, stool-pigeon," etc., etc.; being guided in his judgments by certain indications which the criminal involuntarily displays by the sheer force of habit.

A sneak-thief will pass along with that rapid, rolling glance of the eyes which distinguishes the tribe; now he checks himself in his career; it is but for an instant; no unprofessional eye directed towards him would notice it; but the sudden pause would speak volumes to an experienced police officer. He knows that the thief's eye has caught the sight of silver lying exposed in the basement. In an hour after he hears that the basement has been entered, and the silver in it carried off. He knows who has taken it, as well as if he had seen the man take it with his own eyes; but if the thief has had time to run to the nearest receiver's den, the silver is already in the melting-pot, beyond the reach of identification.

HOW FINE HOUSES ARE ROBBED.

Families living in the city cannot, of course, know who they are taking into their midst as servants, and it frequently happens that these girls are the confederates of burglars. They come for the purpose of spying out the premises, and from time to time report the internal arrangements to their "men." At the proper moment, the burglar, who has thus acquired a sufficient familiarity with the house, is admitted by the girl. He performs his work sometimes without detection, but sometimes adds murder, or attempts at murder, to his crime. These men are well known to the police, but as they are to be deemed innocent until proved guilty, it is hard, if not impossible, to prevent their crimes. A servant girl is seen in the area, towards evening, with a broom in her hand; by her side is a man who is conversing earnestly with her. The policeman, as he passes along, recognizes him as a notorious burglar. That night the house is broken open and robbed, and perhaps some of the family murdered. The officer knows perfectly well who did it, but this knowledge goes for nothing in law. The man must be regularly tried, and proved guilty. Although the officer feels sure the man and woman are planning a burglary, when he sees them in the area, he cannot prevent it by arresting the man.

An incident in point has transpired of late, in illustration of this familiar danger. A gentleman's house, situate on Fifth Avenue, near Thirty-second street, was entered on the night of March 24th, by a brace of burglars, who were, as subsequent investigation proved, admitted at the basement, or servant's entrance, by one of the chambermaids.

The burglars succeeded in obtaining a considerable amount of plunder, but were alarmed by the unexpected awakening of some of the inmates of the house, and hastily departed. Suspicion fell upon the delinquent maid, who was examined, confessed her guilt, stated that the principal burglar was her sweetheart, and promised that if she was permitted to escape the deserved public punishment of her crime, she would see that the missing property was restored to its rightful owners. This 'arrangement' was accepted, the girl fulfilled her part of the contract, and every article that had been stolen was promptly restored. The chambermaid was dismissed, and any further prosecution of the affair was summarily closed. In this particular instance, it will be seen that matters terminated favorably, but it would be well if wealthy citizens would be warned against the 'family' risk to which their property is exposed, and led to adopt the most stringent precautions against these dangers, especially when summer pleasures will entice the majority of the votaries of gayety and fashion 'out of town,' leaving their dwellings almost wholly to the 'care' of not always reliable domestics.

A HAIR THIEF.

During the summer of 1868, a young lady residing in a respectable part of the city, was decoyed by an elderly woman, (under the pretence of being able to introduce the young lady to a cheap dressmaker,) into a low neighborhood, where she was seized by two men, dragged into a hovel, and there held by the ruffians, while the old hag who had decoyed her thither, with a pair of shears cut off the larger portion of her luxuriant hair—to fill, as she coolly informed her victim, 'an order from a wig-maker.' The screams and struggles of the poor dupe were of no avail, and when finally thrust out of doors by her tormentors, she was so frightened that she wandered mechanically along, up and down streets, until she met a policeman, who, on hearing her story, called a carriage and had her conveyed home, but was not able from her incoherent and inaccurate description, either to identify the place where the outrage was committed, nor the people by whom it was perpetrated.



THE THIEVES' EXCHANGE.

There is, in the Eighth Ward of the City, an "Exchange," where the light-fingered gentry congregate and interchange confidential intelligence, the news of their profession, and exchange the stolen goods temporarily in their possession. Attached to this is the wareroom of the proprietor, who is simply a receiver of stolen goods. There are many of these places in the city.

The agent of the New York Prison Association, in one of his reports, says:

When a burglar has successfully entered a store, and carried off a large amount of property, in the form of fine goods, this property itself is of no more use to him than the dust of the street. He does not want to wear lace or jewelry. He does not need watches or pencil- cases. He cannot eat cameos or vases. He, therefore, at once takes his plunder to his 'fence,' and receives from him, in money, such a price as is usually agreed upon. It is very difficult to ascertain, with any degree of exactness, what proportion of the value of the plunder is realized on the average by the thief; but from the best information we could obtain, we feel confident it does not exceed one sixth.

A man whom we met in one of the jails, told us he was unsuccessful at first, because he had received no instructions in the art. We asked him what he deemed the most important information to be obtained by a tyro in the business. He answered promptly: 'To know the names and characters of all the "fences" within a circle of thirty miles.' He could do little or nothing without this knowledge.

In the rural districts, these receivers of stolen goods are quite unknown, except among the thieves themselves, unless some unusually active deputy sheriff makes the discovery; but in the cities, especially in New York and Brooklyn, they are as well known to the police officers as the city halls of those places. These officers are sure that everything they have in their warehouses is stolen; they are acquainted with their ways of doing business; and they know what thieves resort to each, and where they dispose of their ill-gotten property. Yet this knowledge avails but little in promoting the ends of justice. It is but rarely that any of this class are convicted of their offences. The reason is that strict legal proof of their guilt can very seldom be procured.

The study of the means of rapidly and effectually removing the marks by which the property in their hands can be identified, is the main business of their lives, and they acquire a degree of skill and dexterity in altering or effacing these marks, which is truly surprising. A melting-pot is always over the fire, to which all silver ware is consigned the instant it is received. The marks on linen, towels, and handkerchiefs, are removed, sometimes by chemicals, sometimes by fine scissors made expressly for the purpose. Jewelry is at once removed from its settings, and the gold is either melted or the engraving is burnished out, so as in either case to make identification impossible. Rich velvet and silk garments are transmogrified by the removal and re-arrangement of the buttons and trimmings. Pointed edges are rounded, and rounded edges are pointed, entirely changing the whole aspect of the garment, with such celerity that the lady who had worn the dress in the morning would not have the slightest suspicion that it was the same in the evening. Cotton, wool, rags, and old ropes, require no manipulation. When once thrown upon the heap, they defy the closest scrutiny of the owners. There is scarcely an article which can be the subject of theft, which the resources of these men do not enable them, in a very short time, to disguise beyond the power of recognition. Their premises are skilfully arranged for concealment. They are abundantly provided with secret doors and sliding panels, communicating with dark recesses. Apertures are cut in the partitions, so that a person coming in from the front can be distinctly seen before he enters the apartment. The 'fence' is as well skilled as any lawyer in the nature of evidence. He knows the difference between probability and proof as well as Sir William Hamilton himself. He does not trouble himself about any amount of probabilities that the detectives may accumulate against him; but the said detective must be remarkably acute if he is ever able to get anything against him which will amount to strictly legal proof.