In New York

To the provincial coming to New York for the first time, ignorant and unknown, the city presents a notable mingling of the qualities of cheeriness and gloom. If he have any eye at all for the beautiful, he cannot help experiencing a thrill as he crosses the ferry over the river filled with plying craft and catches the first sight of the spires and buildings of New York. If he have the right stuff in him, a something will take possession of him that will grip him again every time he returns to the scene and will make him long and hunger for the place when he is away from it. Later, the lights in the busy streets will bewilder and entice him. He will feel shy and helpless amid the hurrying crowds. A new emotion will take his heart as the people hasten by him⁠—a feeling of loneliness, almost of grief, that with all of these souls about him he knows not one and not one of them cares for him. After a while he will find a place and give a sigh of relief as he settles away from the city’s sights behind his cosy blinds. It is better here, and the city is cruel and cold and unfeeling. This he will feel, perhaps, for the first half-hour, and then he will be out in it all again. He will be glad to strike elbows with the bustling mob and be happy at their indifference to him, so that he may look at them and study them. After it is all over, after he has passed through the first pangs of strangeness and homesickness, yes, even after he has got beyond the stranger’s enthusiasm for the metropolis, the real fever of love for the place will begin to take hold upon him. The subtle, insidious wine of New York will begin to intoxicate him. Then, if he be wise, he will go away, anyplace⁠—yes, he will even go over to Jersey. But if he be a fool, he will stay and stay on until the town becomes all in all to him; until the very streets are his chums and certain buildings and corners his best friends. Then he is hopeless, and to live elsewhere would be death. The Bowery will be his romance, Broadway his lyric, and the Park his pastoral, the river and the glory of it all his epic, and he will look down pityingly on all the rest of humanity.

It was the afternoon of a clear October day that the Hamiltons reached New York. Fannie had some misgivings about crossing the ferry, but once on the boat these gave way to speculations as to what they should find on the other side. With the eagerness of youth to take in new impressions, Joe and Kitty were more concerned with what they saw about them than with what their future would hold, though they might well have stopped to ask some such questions. In all the great city they knew absolutely no one, and had no idea which way to go to find a stopping-place.

They looked about them for some coloured face, and finally saw one among the porters who were handling the baggage. To Joe’s inquiry he gave them an address, and also proffered his advice as to the best way to reach the place. He was exceedingly polite, and he looked hard at Kitty. They found the house to which they had been directed, and were a good deal surprised at its apparent grandeur. It was a four-storied brick dwelling on Twenty-seventh Street. As they looked from the outside, they were afraid that the price of staying in such a place would be too much for their pockets. Inside, the sight of the hard, gaudily upholstered instalment-plan furniture did not disillusion them, and they continued to fear that they could never stop at this fine place. But they found Mrs. Jones, the proprietress, both gracious and willing to come to terms with them.

As Mrs. Hamilton⁠—she began to be Mrs. Hamilton now, to the exclusion of Fannie⁠—would have described Mrs. Jones, she was a “big yellow woman.” She had a broad good-natured face and a tendency to run to bust.

“Yes,” she said, “I think I could arrange to take you. I could let you have two rooms, and you could use my kitchen until you decided whether you wanted to take a flat or not. I has the whole house myself, and I keeps roomers. But latah on I could fix things so’s you could have the whole third floor ef you wanted to. Most o’ my gent’men’s railroad gent’men, they is. I guess it must ’a’ been Mr. Thomas that sent you up here.”

“He was a little bright man down at de deepo.”

“Yes, that’s him. That’s Mr. Thomas. He’s always lookin’ out to send someone here, because he’s been here three years hisself an’ he kin recommend my house.”

It was a relief to the Hamiltons to find Mrs. Jones so gracious and homelike. So the matter was settled, and they took up their abode with her and sent for their baggage.

With the first pause in the rush that they had experienced since starting away from home, Mrs. Hamilton began to have time for reflection, and their condition seemed to her much better as it was. Of course, it was hard to be away from home and among strangers, but the arrangement had this advantage⁠—that no one knew them or could taunt them with their past trouble. She was not sure that she was going to like New York. It had a great name and was really a great place, but the very bigness of it frightened her and made her feel alone, for she knew that there could not be so many people together without a deal of wickedness. She did not argue the complement of this, that the amount of good would also be increased, but this was because to her evil was the very present factor in her life.

Joe and Kit were differently affected by what they saw about them. The boy was wild with enthusiasm and with a desire to be a part of all that the metropolis meant. In the evening he saw the young fellows passing by dressed in their spruce clothes, and he wondered with a sort of envy where they could be going. Back home there had been no place much worth going to, except church and one or two people’s houses. But these young fellows seemed to show by their manners that they were neither going to church nor a family visiting. In the moment that he recognised this, a revelation came to him⁠—the knowledge that his horizon had been very narrow, and he felt angry that it was so. Why should those fellows be different from him? Why should they walk the streets so knowingly, so independently, when he knew not whither to turn his steps? Well, he was in New York, and now he would learn. Someday some greenhorn from the South should stand at a window and look out envying him, as he passed, red-cravated, patent-leathered, intent on some goal. Was it not better, after all, that circumstances had forced them thither? Had it not been so, they might all have stayed home and stagnated. Well, thought he, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, and somehow, with a guilty underthought, he forgot to feel the natural pity for his father, toiling guiltless in the prison of his native State.

Whom the Gods wish to destroy they first make mad. The first sign of the demoralisation of the provincial who comes to New York is his pride at his insensibility to certain impressions which used to influence him at home. First, he begins to scoff, and there is no truth in his views nor depth in his laugh. But by and by, from mere pretending, it becomes real. He grows callous. After that he goes to the devil very cheerfully.

No such radical emotions, however, troubled Kit’s mind. She too stood at the windows and looked down into the street. There was a sort of complacent calm in the manner in which she viewed the girls’ hats and dresses. Many of them were really pretty, she told herself, but for the most part they were not better than what she had had down home. There was a sound quality in the girl’s makeup that helped her to see through the glamour of mere place and recognise worth for itself. Or it may have been the critical faculty, which is prominent in most women, that kept her from thinking a five-cent cheesecloth any better in New York than it was at home. She had a certain self-respect which made her value herself and her own traditions higher than her brother did his.

When later in the evening the porter who had been kind to them came in and was introduced as Mr. William Thomas, young as she was, she took his open admiration for her with more coolness than Joe exhibited when Thomas offered to show him something of the town some day or night.

Mr. Thomas was a loquacious little man with a confident air born of an intense admiration of himself. He was the idol of a number of servant-girls’ hearts, and altogether a decidedly dashing back-areaway Don Juan.

“I tell you, Miss Kitty,” he burst forth, a few minutes after being introduced, “they ain’t no use talkin’, N’Yawk’ll give you a shakin’ up ’at you won’t soon forget. It’s the only town on the face of the earth. You kin bet your life they ain’t no flies on N’Yawk. We git the best shows here, we git the best concerts⁠—say, now, what’s the use o’ my callin’ it all out?⁠—we simply git the best of everything.”

“Great place,” said Joe wisely, in what he thought was going to be quite a man-of-the-world manner. But he burned with shame the next minute because his voice sounded so weak and youthful. Then too the oracle only said “Yes” to him, and went on expatiating to Kitty on the glories of the metropolis.

“D’jever see the statue o’ Liberty? Great thing, the statue o’ Liberty. I’ll take you ’round someday. An’ Cooney Island⁠—oh, my, now that’s the place; and talk about fun! That’s the place for me.”

“La, Thomas,” Mrs. Jones put in, “how you do run on! Why, the strangers’ll think they’ll be talked to death before they have time to breathe.”

“Oh, I guess the folks understan’ me. I’m one o’ them kin’ o’ men ’at believe in whooping things up right from the beginning. I’m never strange with anybody. I’m a N’Yawker, I tell you, from the word go. I say, Mis’ Jones, let’s have some beer, an’ we’ll have some music purty soon. There’s a fellah in the house ’at plays ragtime out o’ sight.”

Mr. Thomas took the pail and went to the corner. As he left the room, Mrs. Jones slapped her knee and laughed until her bust shook like jelly.

Mr. Thomas is a case, sho’,” she said; “but he likes you all, an’ I’m mighty glad of it, fu’ he’s mighty curious about the house when he don’t like the roomers.”

Joe felt distinctly flattered, for he found their new acquaintance charming. His mother was still a little doubtful, and Kitty was sure she found the young man “fresh.”

He came in pretty soon with his beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag.

“Thought I’d bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer.”

Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty.

“No, thanks,” she said with a surprised look.

“What, don’t you drink beer? Oh, come now, you’ll get out o’ that.”

“Kitty don’t drink no beer,” broke in her mother with mild resentment. “I drinks it sometimes, but she don’t. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed.”

Joe felt as if the “chillen” had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose.

The ingratiating “N’Yawker” was aghast.

“Oh, let ’em stay,” said Mrs. Jones heartily; “a little beer ain’t goin’ to hurt ’em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain’t none the worse fu’ it.”

“They’ll git out o’ that, all right, if they live in N’Yawk,” said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. “You neither?”

“Oh, I drink it,” said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother.

“Joe,” she cried to him, “you must ricollect you ain’t at home. What ’ud yo’ pa think?” Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment.

“Yes, that’s it, Miss Kitty, sing us something,” said the irrepressible Thomas, “an’ after while we’ll have that fellah down that plays ragtime. He’s out o’ sight, I tell you.”

With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas.

“I say, that’s singin’ now, I tell you,” he cried. “You ought to have some o’ the new songs. D’jever hear ‘Baby, you got to leave’? I tell you, that’s a hot one. I’ll bring you some of ’em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o’ yourn. I got a frien’ in one o’ the comp’nies an’ I’ll speak to him about you.”

“You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th’atre some night. He goes lots.”

“Why, yes, what’s the matter with tomorrer night? There’s a good coon show in town. Out o’ sight. Let’s all go.”

“I ain’t nevah been to nothin’ lak dat, an’ I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hamilton.

“Aw, come, I’ll git the tickets an’ we’ll all go. Great singin’, you know. What d’ you say?”

The mother hesitated, and Joe filled the breach.

“We’d all like to go,” he said. “Ma, we’ll go if you ain’t too tired.”

“Tired? Pshaw, you’ll furgit all about your tiredness when Smithkins gits on the stage. Y’ought to hear him sing, ‘I bin huntin’ fu’ wo’k’! You’d die laughing.”

Mrs. Hamilton made no further demur, and the matter was closed.

Awhile later the ragtime man came down and gave them a sample of what they were to hear the next night. Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Jones two-stepped, and they sent a boy after some more beer. Joe found it a very jolly evening, but Kit’s and the mother’s hearts were heavy as they went up to bed.

“Say,” said Mr. Thomas when they had gone, “that little girl’s a peach, you bet; a little green, I guess, but she’ll ripen in the sun.”