The Secrets of the Great City Part 24

"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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.sed that girl's lips for eight and forty hours was the snow that she sc.r.a.ped 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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sed 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 cla.s.s about, whom this article is written."

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

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, ent.i.tled "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 gla.s.ses, 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 ent.i.ty appertaining to the shady side of New York life which we have been unable to fathom, a.n.a.lyze, 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 wors.h.i.+p. 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 a.s.sa.s.sinated, 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 h.e.l.l--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 cla.s.s. But usually there is a 'saloon' in the rear of the bar-room.

Pa.s.sing out of the bar-room by a door opening in a part.i.tion 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 s.h.i.+pmates 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 h.e.l.l 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?'