Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 242, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 October 1914 — Popular Illusions in Manhattan [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Popular Illusions in Manhattan

SKIMMING down Fifth avenue or Broadway you frequently see enofmous “sight-seeing cars” laden with expectant tourists. One is marked "Chinatown,” and the occupants are holding their breath in anticipation of the thrills of horror they are to experience when they behold the dark wickedness of the Celestial empire, which is secretly practiced in the heart of New York. They arrivfe at a populous district where there is a fair sprinkling of Chinks to be seen about the streets, and they are allowed to peep into what they think is an opium den, but what is in reality merely a dirty little Chop suey house. ~ There are a few unprepossessing Chinamen sitting or lying around with their pipes, jtn an opium stupor. “Opium fiends,” whisper the thrilled tourists to each other, as they shudderingly gaze on the dark spectacle. But is it an opium den? And are they really smoking opium? Most assuredly not! Uncle Sam ant! the mayor of New York wouldn’t stand for It a minute. It Is • only a nicely arranged little "fake den,” run for the special bene-

fit of the too credulous tourist, who cheerfully pays his dollar to see a Chinatown that doesn’t ever exist. 1 Then he pays another dollar and joins another sight-seeing party to visit the deadly precincts of the Bowery. It Hvould be too cruel to tell them there Is no Bowery, just as there Is no Chinatown, except in ancient tystory. A Revised Bowery. For the BoWery has been revised and expurgated and fumigated, ami partially civilized, until now it is no worse to the outward eye than some portions of Fourteenth street or Sixth avenue. And the. little shops and vocations of its denizens, if not strictly clean, come safely within legal bounds. You might easily get on the Bowery, and not know it at all. Where you expect to find the abode of thugs and thieves, you find nothing more reprehensible than secondhand clothes shops. Likewise in Chinatown, where you think they are smoking opium, it isn’t opium at all—but more probably something like the rabbit tobacco or cross vine you used to smoke when you were a kid at school, and thought you were doing something very wicked. The “opium den” you pay your dollar to see is very likely a laundry—when there are no tourists , If you happen to be in tVuch with such people as newspaper editors and other fortunate beings who are on the inside of things, you will quickly learn to shun the tourists’ car. The best way to see the biggest city in America Is simply to live in It, and go about to such places as may take your fancy. If you want to be thrilled with the Bowery and Chinatown. just read stories about them, for there’s nothing to see. You don’t need a sight-seeing car. Any New York friend can show you the wonders of the museums, libraries and interior points of interest; while there are scores of cars and elevated trains covering every point of Manhattan, from which you may learn every inch of your New York —from the grandeur of the skyscrapers and the stupendous wealth of Fifth avenue, and the cosmopolitanism of Broadway, to the wretched poverty of crowded tenements and slums. That is to say, you learn It from the viewpoint of merely seeing things. To really know any phase of life or class of people, you must £o up or

down amongst them and be on« of them. v \ One Place Not Mythical. There is one place, however, which hasn’t been relegated to the mythical. There most certainly is still a Coney island. And whether you go quietly with a friend or whether you go with a crowd in a labeled and megaphoned sight-seeing car, it' is the same Coney island, with its blaze of lights and its blare of orchestras and its bewildering whirl of things to ride and things to see, and things to do, and things to eat and drink, the latter consisting chiefly of “hot dogs” and beer. But, however - genuine Coney may be, there’s no denying the spirit of graft that pervades the atmosphere of skyscraper land. On every hand some person or some organization is trying to get something for nothing, and if you are weak enough to be caught, it’s like buying 25-cent silk stockings, and serves you just right. Perhaps some evening after the theater you stop in a high-class cabaret to enjoy a dance or two and a sandwich. At the entrance you are

met by an attentive footman, whcrvery politely but most insistantly relieves you of your hat and cane, and most gracefully takes charge of your lady’s coat. Inside the cabaret a smiling waiter attaches himself to you and shadows you devotedly for the remainder of your stay. He finds just the right table for you, brings your Tom Collins and your lady’s orangeade and two small sandwiches—a modest order which should coqt about 50 cents. But does it? Just wait until he brings your check! While you are dancing .he hovers near your table, watching to see that no fashionable pirate carries off your lady’s gloves and vanity - bag, and guarding your half-eaten sandwiches from being devoured by someone else in your absence. All of which zealous service Is duly charged in your check, which Is brought to you marked $1.90! (You had paid for your table in advance, by the way.) You haven’t the nerve to put a mere two-dollar bill on the tray. Give that waiter a ten-cent tip? never. So you sigh inwardly, while outwardly smiling, you place $2.15 on the tray and carelessly wave aside the waiter’s Referential thanks. On leaving, you find the devoted footman again awaiting you with your hat a,nd cane and your lady’s coat and an air of expectancy. The air of expectancy means another 25-cent tip. You pay it like a little man, and the footman drops it in his pocket. The dances were very nice Indeed. The music was divine, but the little whisper of a sandwich left you just as hungry as ever, and you go away wondering If you had your money's worth. Then you console yourself with the thought t£at you don’t grudge the tips to thd poor waiters and hall-boys 'i/ho are on their tired feet working so hard at all hours of the dfcy and night. But the point la; Did you tip the waiters? No, indeed. The tired waiters do not get a penny of those tips. It all goes to the boss. You simply paid an extortionate price for a few cents’ worth of refreshments, and then added an extra 50 cents in tips, all to be turned in to the manager of tile cabaret. v t

"FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK