The Wit and Humor of America Volume VIII Part 14

O Le Lupe, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find: In _The Bookman_ for September, in a manner most unkind, There appears a half-page picture, makes me think I've lost my mind.

They have reproduced a window,--Doxey's window,--(I dare say In your rambles you have seen it, pa.s.sed it twenty times a day,) As "A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay."

There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore, And a little book of verses with its betters by the score, With three faces on the cover I believe I've seen before.

Well, here's matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am.

Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb.

I was never out of Boston: all that I can say is, "d.a.m.n!"

Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark, With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark, When I soloed on _The Chap-Book_, and you answered with _The Lark_!

Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing?

"Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, "and I take what it will bring.

Publishers may dread extinction--not with such fads on the string.

"There is always sale for something, and demand for what is new.

These young men who are so restless, and have nothing else to do, Like to think there is 'a movement,' just to keep themselves in view.

"There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name.

People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame; And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game."

But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve, Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve, In he comes with his "Decadence!" like a fly in my preserve.

I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now, Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow, All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your "Purple Cow."

But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard, To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard, Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.

I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned, "Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned; Poems doubtless are immortal, where a poem can be discerned!"

How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse!

How he'll wish his vogue were greater; plume himself it is no worse; Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!

Don't I know how he will pose it; patronize our larger time; "Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!"

Just let me have half an hour with the nincomp.o.o.p sublime!

I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear; When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear, "O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here.

"Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been told Of the _Larks_ we used to publish, and the _Chap-Books_ that we sold?

Where are all our first edition?" I feel damp and full of mould.

A GUEST AT THE LUDLOW

BY BILL NYE

We are stopping quietly here, taking our meals in our rooms mostly, and going out very little indeed. When I say we, I use the term editorially.

We notice first of all the great contrast between this and other hotels, and in several instances this one is superior. In the first place, there is a sense of absolute security when one goes to sleep here that can not be felt at a popular hotel, where burglars secrete themselves in the wardrobe during the day and steal one's pantaloons and contents at night. This is one of the compensations of life in prison.

Here the burglars go to bed at the hour that the rest of us do. We all retire at the same time, and a murderer can not sit up any later at night than the smaller or unknown criminal can.

You can get to Ludlow Street Jail by taking the Second avenue Elevated train to Grand street, and then going east two blocks, or you can fire a shotgun into a Sabbath-school.

You can pay five cents to the Elevated Railroad and get here, or you can put some other man's nickel in your own slot and come here with an attendant.

William Marcy Tweed was the contractor of Ludlow Street Jail, and here also he died. He was the son of a poor chair-maker, and was born April 3, 1823. From the chair business in 1853 to congress was the first false step. Exhilarated by the delirium of official life, and the false joys of franking his linen home every week, and having cake and preserves franked back to him at Was.h.i.+ngton, he resolved to still further taste the delights of office, and in 1857 we find him as a school commissioner.

In 1860 he became Grand Sachem of the Tammany Society, an a.s.sociation at that time more purely political than politically pure. As president of the board of supervisors, head of the department of public works, state senator, and Grand Sachem of Tammany, Tweed had a large and seductive influence over the city and state. The story of how he earned a scanty livelihood by stealing a million of dollars at a pop, and thus, with the most rigid economy, sc.r.a.ped together $20,000,000 in a few years by patient industry and smoking plug tobacco, has been frequently told.

Tweed was once placed here in Ludlow Street Jail in default of $3,000,000 bail. How few there are of us who could slap up that amount of bail if rudely gobbled on the street by the hand of the law. While riding out with the sheriff, in 1875, Tweed asked to see his wife, and said he would be back in a minute.

He came back by way of Spain, in the fall of '76, looking much improved.

But the malaria and dissipation of Blackwell's Island afterward impaired his health, and having done time there, and having been arrested afterward and placed in Ludlow Street Jail, he died here April 12, 1878, leaving behind him a large, vain world, and an equally vain judgment for $6,537,117.38, to which he said he would give his attention as soon as he could get a paving contract in the sweet ultimately.

From the exterior Ludlow Street Jail looks somewhat like a conservatory of music, but as soon as one enters he readily discovers his mistake.

The structure has 100 feet frontage, and a court, which is sometimes called the court of last resort. The guest can climb out of this court by ascending a polished brick wall about 100 feet high, and then letting himself down in a similar way on the Ludlow street side.

That one thing is doing a great deal toward keeping quite a number of people here who would otherwise, I think, go away.

James D. Fish and Ferdinand Ward both remained here prior to their escape to Sing Sing. Red Leary, also, made his escape from this point, but did not succeed in reaching the penitentiary. Forty thousand prisoners have been confined in Ludlow Street Jail, mostly for civil offenses. A man in New York runs a very short career if he tries to be offensively civil.

As you enter Ludlow Street Jail the door is carefully closed after you, and locked by means of an iron lock about the size of a pictorial family Bible. You then remain on the inside for quite a spell. You do not hear the prattle of soiled children any more. All the glad sunlight, and stench-condensing pavements, and the dark-haired inhabitants of Rivington street, are seen no longer, and the heavy iron storm-door shuts out the wail of the combat from the alley near by. Ludlow Street Jail may be surrounded by a very miserable and dirty quarter of the city, but when you get inside all is changed.

You register first. There is a good pen there that you can write with, and the clerk does not chew tolu and read a sporting paper while you wait for a room. He is there to attend to business, and he attends to it. He does not seem to care whether you have any baggage or not. You can stay here for days, even if you don't have any baggage. All you need is a kind word and a mittimus from the court.

One enters this sanitarium either as a boarder or a felon. If you decide to come in as a boarder, you pay the warden $15 a week for the privilege of sitting at his table and eating the luxuries of the market. You also get a better room than at many hotels, and you have a good strong door, with a padlock on it, which enables you to prevent the sudden and unlooked-for entrance of the chambermaid. It is a good-sized room, with a wonderful amount of seclusion, a plain bed, table, chairs, carpet and so forth. After a few weeks at the seaside, at $19 per day, I think the room in which I am writing is not unreasonable at $2.

Still, of course, we miss the sea breeze.

You can pay $50 to $100 per week here if you wish, and get your money's worth, too. For the latter sum one may live in the bridal chamber, so to speak, and eat the very best food all the time.

Heavy iron bars keep the mosquitoes out, and at night the house is brilliantly lighted by incandescent lights of one-candle power each.

Neat snuffers, consisting of the thumb and forefinger polished on the hair, are to be found in each occupied room.

Bread is served to the Freshmen and Juniors in rectangular wads. It is such bread as convicts' tears have moistened many thousand years. In that way it gets quite moist.

The most painful feature about life in Ludlow Street Jail is the confinement. One can not avoid a feeling of being constantly hampered and hemmed in.

One more disagreeable thing is the great social distinction here. The poor man who sleeps in a stone niche near the roof, and who is constantly elbowed and hustled out of his bed by earnest and restless vermin with a tendency toward insomnia, is hara.s.sed by meeting in the court-yard and corridors the paying boarders who wear good clothes, live well, have their cigars, brandy and Kentucky Sec all the time.

The McAllister crowd here is just as exclusive as it is on the outside.

But, great Scott! what a comfort it is to a man like me, who has been nearly killed by a cyclone, to feel the firm, secure walls and solid time lock when he goes to bed at night! Even if I can not belong to the 400, I am almost happy.

We retire at 7:30 o'clock at night and arise at 6:30 in the morning, so as to get an early start. A man who has five or ten years to stay in a place like this naturally likes to get at it as soon as possible each day, and so he gets up at 6:30.