gay and lively, you will make it an excellent joke; if softly sentimental, you must woo her in a strain of highwrought romance."

Big Tom will scratch his head over that!

"If in the country," the book continues, "the lover is taking a romantic walk with the lady of his love, he talks of the beauty of the scenery, and exclaims, 'Ah, Julia, how happy would existence prove if I always had such a companion!'"

Too many frills here for Big Tom; his lips will twitch with disgust - his stomach fairly turn.

"She leans more fondly on the arm that tremblingly supports her," again the book. "My dearest Julia,' he says, 'be mine forever!' That is usually a settler. Or, Take pity on a forlorn bachelor,' says another, in a manner which may be either jest or earnest; 'marry me at once and put me out of my misery.' 'With all my heart,' replies the laughing fair. A joke carried this far is easily made earnest. And so this interesting and terrible process is varied in a hundred ways."

If Big Tom Slattery is wise, he will go about the business in his own frank way. That way is good enough, at any rate, to persuade the drivers of delivery wagons which get tangled with the truck that he is the only aggrieved party. How, then, could the little milliner of Division Street resist it?

Albertus Magnus, the "Ape of Aristotle" and distinguished Dominican of the thirteenth century, is popular in the tenements. The East Side believes in dreams and witches and evil eyes and incantations. In superstition it is not far removed from the age of Albertus; hence the popularity of the learned Doctor, who here speaks with the tongue of a magician. The book is, no doubt, a free translation (not unmixed with presentday slang) of one of the apocryphal works. The publishers have sold one hundred thousand copies, spite of a "fake edition at half the price," which is one dollar.

in the manner of those old days: "Being the Approved, Verified, Sympathetic, and Natural Egyptian Secrets; or, White and Black Art for Man and Beast.

By that Celebrated Philosopher, Chemist, Naturalist, Psychomist, Astrologer, Alchemist, Metallurgist, Sorcerer, Explanator of the Mysteries of Wizards and Witchcraft."

"Oh, I recommend it," says the salesman. "The Book of Fate and the Gypsy Fortune-Teller ain't in its class."

If the reader wishes to banish Wicked People forever from the house, he is advised to say (for the formula has been found excellent in many hundred cases): "Bedgoblin and all ye evil spirits, I forbid you my bedstead, my couch. I forbid you, in the Name of the Holy Trinity, my blood and my flesh, my body and soul. I forbid you all the nail holes in my house and my home, till you have travelled over every hillock, waded through every water, have counted all the leaflets of the trees, and counted all the starlets in the sky." If he is troubled by a witch, he must "let the sweepings which are swept together in a house for three days remain in a heap, and on the third day cover it with a black cloth made of drilling. Then take the stick of an elmtree and flog the dirt-heap bravely, and the sorceress must desist, or you will batter her to death. Probatum est." If he wishes to discern all secrets and invisible things, then-“ if you find a white adder under a hazlenut shrub, which has twelve other vipers as its twelve guardsmen, and the hazlenut bush under which they lay bears commonly medlers, you must eat the white adder with your other food. Then hidden things will be revealed."

When you discover, by further reading, that Albertus Magnus, who went to Paris for his Doctorate in 1245, roundly curses the book-pirates and draws a moral from the Thirty Years' War, you are disposed to doubt his authority.

La Trovatella dei Cinque Punti?" cries the keeper of the book-store in Mulberry Bend.

You nod your wish to possess that work -or, I Delitti dei Bosses; or, I Misteri di

whereupon the smile grows broader still.

"Ciambelli !" with a gesture expressive of infinite space. "He great-a man!"

With what distraction, then, has Bernardino Ciambelli provided the people of Mulberry Park, that he is so beloved? With a whirl of intrigue and adventure and passion-a series of New York police novels, from the Mulberry Bend point of view: from one of which (I Delitti dei Bosses) I transcribe the scene wherein the hero accomplishes his vengeance:

"Sir, it was not I! My"Be silent, scoundrel! Your crime has no excuse. You will be punished.' "Give me over to justice. I will not defend myself.'

"To justice? thundered Antonio, foaming at the mouth. 'To justice? No! I'll be your judge and executioner!' "Help! Help!'

"Gag him,' Antonio ordered, 'so that he'll shout no more. Listen!' he continued. Shooting would be too great an honor for you. I'll not put a bullet in your head. The dagger, too, is as yet a noble weapon, not suited to such wretches as you. What you deserve is the rope. By hanging you must die, and I'll be the hangman. Fear not! My hands are capable, my muscles strong. If you have a prayer, let it ascend. In ten minutes you will be dead!'

"Antonio was impassive now. His face was like that of a marble statue of Vengeance. He picked a rope from the ground, and with the skill of a cowboy made a noose and flung it over the head of his victim. He drew it—”

But that is enough: the particularity with which the author has described the strangulation of the villain is revolting. In the Quarter you may buy Il Decamerone, Don Chisciotte della Mancia, Il Conte di Montecristo, Lucia di Lamermoor, and from the push - carts of the Bend you may take Fra Diavolo, Cristoforo Colombo, Gli Ultimi Giorni di Pompei (Bulwer), and La Capanna dello Zio Tom (Harriet Beecher Stowe). But great also is Ciambelli ! He would put the cheek of the young person to the blush, it is true, and drive the cultivated one to the last resort of profanity; but he provides the thrill and the happy ending -death to the villain, and the lady to the hero. Great, then, is his reward! The people of the tenement-Jew and Gentile,

Christian and Mohammedan-ask that much of their authors: that much, if nothing more.

As everybody knows, Lord Valdern's Crime and Diamond Dick's Doings in Denver distinguish the imprint of Print'emquick & Sell'em. Opium-eaters and faded ladies and scowling newspaper reporters and mild old men of a shabby gentility take their wares to that establishment; so also do a host of brisk young gentlemen who say with a laugh that they "need the money." The door is thrown wide to the popular authoress of The Ashes of Love, whose diamonds and haughty question overawe the lad at the wicket window, himself of a haughty turn when occasion permits; but the riffraff of mediocrity is directed to a box of a room, into which, some time later, bounces a spectacled, fat, frowsy man, who makes no secret of his greatness.

"Oh, come, now," says he to the faded lady, "this won't do. It ain't up to Sir Jasper's Secret. Try again!"

When the faded lady has restored her manuscript to a shabby bag and departed, the frowsy little man turns to the newspaper reporter.

"That last thing's all right, Mr. Goodstory," he says. "Give us another like The Bloody Trail. Makin' a good thing out of us, ain't you?" with a genial smile. "Pushin' your typewriter pretty hard, ain't you? Well, you'll get your fifty dollars pay-day."

Meantime, the Firm is in another little box, busily removing the taint of immoral suggestion from manuscripts and proofsheets; the scrutiny of the Firm is so practised, the mind of the Firm so sensitive to the proscribed thing, that, however innocent of intention it may be, and however obscure, it is at once discovered and cast out. When not thus or otherwise engaged, the Firm takes up the labor of raking all written things for thrilling situations-searching the good and the bad, the known and the forgotten, of all times and languages, for pegs upon which to hang a Gertrude Gabby novel or a Boy Bandit tale. When found, the situations are distributed for working up" to the talented write-it-while-youwait authors, all of whom cheerfully sign the name of Miss Gabby (now deceased,

poor lady! but copyrighted) and of Captain Daring (who never was more than a composite).

It is in Ludlow Street-top floor back: a gasping ascent indeed, through the gloom and stale air of the halls, with babies to stumble over and stout women to block the way. It is a florid little room, in greasy, musty plush, but all tidied of the day's litter-a place remote from the cry and clatter of the street, but not shut off, you must know, from the companionable hum of the swarm within. The red sky seeks it out through a confusion of chimneys and multicolored family washing; so old Jacob Levy, of the ear-locks and forked gray beard—a lover of wisdom and old ways-sits by the window, where the evening light may fall upon the page of the book. He singsongs the words of the Rabbis to his household, that they may daily be instructed; and they listen, dutifully, if sleepily, from the melancholy shadows where they sit; for the words are wise, and concern the things that abide forever. "Samuel the younger said: When thine enemy falleth, rejoice thou not, and when he stumbleth, let not thine heart be glad, lest the Eternal see it, and it be displeasing in his sight," Jacob reads. "Elisha Ben Abuyah said: To what may he be likened who learneth when a boy? To writing in ink upon a virgin sheet. And whereto may he be likened who learns when an old man? To writing in ink upon a blotted paper. Rabbi Jose Ben Judah of Kephar-hababli said: To what may we compare one who learneth from children? To one who eateth sour grapes, and drinketh wine fresh from the press. To what may he be compared who learneth from old men? To one who eats ripe grapes and drinks old wine."

But now the attention of Morris, a lad of the public schools and a new way, wanders. There is that in his hip pocket to lure him to more enlivening thought:

66

With a shriek, Bertie dashed toward the door, just in time to hear the heavy bolt shot into place.

"Ha, ha!' laughed Rawson.

"And then he brought over some of the lighter furniture and piled it against the door. Over this he poured oil. He struck a match. . . ."

Morris wonders what came after that. There had been no time to find out, when the call for devotions came. His mind has wandered very far indeed from the wise words of the Rabbis. He yawns-it is too late to conceal it! "Morris!"

Jacob Levy looks up from the pageindignant and reproachful; the evening light is on his gray hair, his face is solemn, his eyes angry. "Morris!"

Morris simulates deep attention. For a moment the old man's eyes linger upon him in reproach. Then the reading continues to the end; whereupon Morris scampers off to the street with a whoop. In the seclusion that two garbage-barrels provide, and by the light of the street lamp overhead, he opens the creased and thumb-soiled book.

"Holy Smoke!" he ejaculates, looking up, breathless, at the end of the chapter. "Bold Bertie wuz a peach!" He reads on.

Cherry Hill way, the street clatter had struck a joyous note: the twitter of sparrows, the laughter of children, a cheery gossip from window to window. It was the first warm day of spring, near noon, with the air all washed clean, and the sunlight thick and yellow. The Com

slimy passage: now naked to the light o'

day. The Secretary pointed to the place where the rear tenement had been-then to the Row; an abandoned haunt, into the staring windows of which the sunshine was striking unafraid.

"Nobody living there now," said he, gleefully. "It has been ordered vacated. Down it comes, too!"

The Row was desolate-all forsaken of clamor and vice; the roof was broken, the eaves sagged, the walls gaped, the sashes were torn from the windows. It was a wreck-a place for the ghosts of murdered men.

"Go through?" was the brisk invitation.

"All cleaned out, you see. Not a soul in the place."

But there was one soul, a skinny, flat-breasted slattern, in patched clothes which hung in rags to the tops of her broken shoes. She was all alone. Young? I think she was young. When the commissioners came upon her, she started back, frightened — timidly retreated then to a corner, where she stood by a heap of fallen plaster, blinking vacantly. A three-legged chair, a table, and a rusty stove made the place a home; there was nothing else; but on the table, beside a pan into which a crust of bread had been cast, was spread a copy of the Hearth and Companion.

"She has been reading!"

It was a dirty copy - ragged at the corners, crumpled, spotted with grease. Lord Earlscourt's Sweetheart, was the title I read.

The Commission trooped out. As we passed on the return I observed that the girl was again seated at the table, full in the broad, warm beam of sunshine-bending over the greasy story, with her eyes close to the page, and one finger laboriously following the lines, word by word.

It is evening-the evening of a soft June night, when the magic of such hours, subtle and beneficent, attunes the heart to all the life of a tenement street. The Man of Learning has written another book-the people know it; for there he sits with his back to the open door of a coffee-room near the Battery, himself disposing of his work at twenty-five cents a copy, with a smile and a word thrown in. Beshara Saba, the merchant, being a subscriber he is, indeed, the patron of

6

the Man of Learning,-takes his copy. without payment, and seeks the seclusion of the back room, where, stretched out on a divan, he may read in peace. The tales are old, but now newly translated from the classic Arabic into the dialect of the Quarter; and Beshara reads: "Now, the Governor of Al Erock was a man accounted most wise and humble, though to his power there was no end. It came about that a Bedouin, to whom the report of his condescension had spread, sought to try him; and seven days thereafter he thrust himself into the presence of the wise prince. Do you remember the day when your bed-cover was the skin of a sheep,' said he, and your shoes the skin of a camel?' 'I shall be wise,' said the Governor of Al Erock, if I remember that day.' Then said the Bedouin, 'Do you glorify God because He has given you a kingdom and sat you upon a throne?' 'Glory be to Him, at any rate,' answered the Governor of Al Erock. The Bedouin, sneering, said, 'Shall I salute the son of your father as I salute a prince? Salutation is the custom of the people,' answered the Governor of Al Erock; therefore, if you salute me, I will greet you.' 'Behold the prince,' said the Bedouin, 'who eats of delicious meats in secret and gives barley bread to his guests!' Answered the Governor of Al Erock, The food is ours to eat and to give away.' Said the Bedouin, 'I should like to leave the country where the poor are robbed by their princes.' 'If you stay, you are welcome,' answered the Governor of Al Erock, and if you go, still we say, God be with you!' 'Oh, thou Stingy One,' cried the Bedouin, 'give me money that I may depart!' And the prince said, 'Give him one thousand pieces of money.' 'What you have given me is too little,' said the Bedouin, for I am greedier even than thou.' 'Give him two thousand,' said the Governor of Al Erock, that he may have enough.' Then the Bedouin cast himself at the feet of this wise prince, saying, 'I pray God that he may preserve you as a treasure for the sons of men, for there is no man like unto you.' The prince said, 'I gave him two thousand pieces of money when he treated me with disrespect. Give him four thousand, now that he has praised me.'"

It is late. Miriam is home from the factory. The day's work is over; the monotonous hours listlessly lived, the heat, the fetid air, the whir of the machine, the dull-eyed effort, the rasping voice of the foreman-there is no more of it until to-morrow. Under the windowfar below-the night murmur of the street is charged with complaint: the cries of the children at play have ceased; only the wailing of sick babies breaks from the low mutter. It is hot: so Miriam shakes loose her hair and bares her bosom; it is very hot. She turns the page of Her Only Sin-a flash of animation in her eyes at last.

"I have no fortune, Sir Marc,' says Veronica, timidly.

"What care I about fortune, darling!’ cries Sir Marc. 'I am a rich man-so rich that I am troubled at times to know how to spend my money. I lay it all at your feet. Veronica, will you be mine?'

The dark eyes of Miriam have in them, at last, the "radiance of full and perfect content." Her "passionate loveliness deepens into something more lovely still," as Veronica's did.

"Marc, my king, I have loved you always!'"

So Miriam is taken to her lover's heart-clasped to the breast of the proudest gentleman of England. The "beautiful, solemn summer night" now "lies brooding over the fair, sleeping earth.” Anon, a "flood of silvery moonlight is poured over the vast estate." Miriam is far away from the tenement. In her evening dress of black lace with crimson flowers she walks hand in hand with Sir Marc in the cool gardens. In her ears are his love whispers. On her fair bosom flames a new cross of rubies and diamonds. On her finger gleams—

Hush! Let her read on! She has escaped!

It is true that the inspired word is written in the tenement-by the hands of the poor for the hearts of the humble, by whom it is received as into a treasurehouse. It is true that a flicker of aspiration in the breast of the boy-or the open-eyed love of the parent, who lifts her son out of the pit-takes the wise book to the tilted, taggy tenement shelf. It is true, too, that the books which are familiar to your hand find a way to unexpected places east of the Bowery-that rare hearts brooding there possess and treasure them. Benevolent folk-kindly, tactful people--take care of that. But, as saith the Arabian proverb, "Though men build an habitation in a lonely place, the wilderness knows it not." Let the outer love for the tenement be as strong and tactful as it may, the mass is not changed; the sullen swarm goes its own way, seeking that which it knows and loves best.