Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper/Volume 18/Number 450/Town Gossip
TOWN GOSSIP.
About May Time.
"Pity the sorrows of a poor"—landlord-ridden city.
In no other part of this wealth-bestridden land does such an execrable custom exist as that of making all renting and leasing terminate on a certain day, and that day the most uncertain of the year. To New York city alone belongs the insane custom, that could only have been derived from the King of Dahomey, of parading the household appurtenancies and goods of mankind through the streets upon a set day, and inviting all the world to look upon his poverty or his wealth. We are, perhaps, doing the before-mentioned monarch an injustice in attributing to him so disgusting a fashion, when we remember that his celebrated "custom," as it is called, or holiday of "Parading the King's Wealth," is confined to his own property, which, upon the 25th of May, is taken from the palace and borne by an army of his slaves through the streets of the city of Abomey, and then returned to its old quarters. In this "custom" the King merely parades his household utensils, but, wiser than barbarian whites, does not attempt to change their place of deposit. His civilization extends farther than that of New York landlords, and does not force upon his loving subjects a following of his "custom."
While in the country the day is ushered in
With buds and flowers, and sunny hours,
And birds in gladness singing;
With loosened streams and lovers' dreams,
And winds their perfumes flinging;
With laughing eyes and joyous cries,
Through field and homestead ringing,
To falling age its life's first page
In memoried beauty bringing.
In the city, as though intended to illustrate the old saying that God made the country and man made the town, it comes:
With smash and crash, and fearful dash
Our household gods they're flinging,
And draymen's screams, the music seems
Of loosened devils singing;
With careworn face and hurrying pace
Each wretched cit is bringing
His weary limbs, where'er their whims
His broken goods are flinging.
The enormous rise in rents, so utterly at variance with the small rise in the value of labor, has this year driven an immense per centage of New Yorkers to a change of domicile. Those who have been accustomed to pay $12 per month for rooms, find themselves charged $20, and have, consequently, sought less comfortable quarters, where they can live at the old price or somewhere near it. The same rule applies all the way up the scale, and all classes suffer alike. There is one thing in connection with this matter at which we never fail to wonder, and that is why capitalists do not esteem it worth while to enter upon suburban building on a large scale, and offer inducements to men of small means and mechanics to live in.
Country Houses.
To show how this can be done, let us enter upon a financial estimate.
Within half an hour's travel of the city by rail and steamboat upon Long island, the Passaic river, the Raritan, the East river, and a score of other places, there is plenty of good ground that can be bought for $500 an acre. What is to prevent this being cut into acre or half acre plots, the first with a house costing $1,500 and containing six rooms, the last with one of $750 and four rooms, and rented to citizens? We speak practically when we say that these houses can be contracted for and well finished at that price, and allowing a liberal estimate, rented for 10 per cent on the entire cost, which would be $200 and $100. To make the working of such a piau practical it must have the co-operation of the railroads and steamboats running to the spot, and while a low rate of commutation and swift time makes it possible for the humblest workman to spend the charge, and be at his city labor at the earliest hour, it will eventually reward them by increased travel. This can be done by an addition of $25 per annum to the family expense, and the time consumed in reaching this rural home will not be longer for the clerk and working man than now in reaching the City Hall from 40th street; time that in the cars or on the boats can be profitably employed in reading the morning papers or something else.
This is no dreamer's scheme, but only wants the action of a few practical men to become a reality.
What nobler charity could awaken the hearts of our Lennoxes, Astors, Blunts, and other rich and benevolent citizens, than that of relieving an over populated city, decreasing mortality and destroying the infamous tenant-house system, in which property we feel sure that none but Shylocks and money grabbers ever invest.
Posthumous Record of the Fair.
With the going down of the sun on the third week of its existence the Sanitary Fair went out, and the glories of its over-rated magnificence became among the key things that were. A slight effort was made to keep the Union Square Department open for a few days at a tax of 50 cents per head for those who came, but the attempt was a fallure, and scarce 100 visitors visited the "banquet ball deserted." Since that time auctions have been the order of the day, and the goods have gone at fluctuating prices, much of them at far less than their value.
Since the sober second thought has set in, after the grand splurge, our business men and shopkeepers are counting up the cost, and the opinion is generally arrived at that the great Fair has been a financial loss, and that the commercial interests of the city would have been largely gainers had a million and a quarter of money been raised and presented to the Sanitary Commission, to replace the Fair. No doubt this may be true in view of the great interruption to business it entailed, but then where would have been all the fun, flirtation, matrimony, manslaughter, memory and general happiness created by it.
The Last Come Down
is that of Broadway stages, a triumph of the public in which we believe they really rejoiced. The attempt of the different lines of omnibuses to raise their fare to 10 cents—even though it may have been warranted by increased rates of labor and produce—has met with the most signal rebuke that has ever been administered to any public wrong within our recollection. The public have contented themselves with letting them charge, and have taken to locomotion and increased overcrowding of the cars. The result has been that a Broadway stage became solitude personified, and the fact of an individual hailing one of the drivers almost terrified the deserted Jehu out of his wits, and proclaimed the hailer a countryman just arrived, or a citizen who rode once a year, did not read the papers, and darned the expense.
The Events of the Week,
in a dramatic way, are, firstly, the debut of Miss Jade Coombs, as Lady Teazle, at Wallack's, in which she made a pleasant impression, though somewhat lacking the life and fire that should be put into the gay young wife of the old Sir Peter.
Secondly, the production, by Avonia Jones, at the Winter Garden, of a new drama, entitled "The Sorceress;" the story of which is that of a mother, black Janet, the sorceress, having had her son stolen in infancy, finds that the secret of his wherabouts is known only to Miron, the King's physician, who refuses to reveal the secret. Attempting to revenge herself on Miron, she plots a fearful death for his dearest friend, Urban Delaval, but discovers that the young man is her son time enough to save him, which she does, firstly, from the hands of the assassin, and secondly, by rescue from an inundation, in which final scene she loses her own life. The piece is entirely sensational, and brings down the house. The coming week is devoted to Edwin Booth at this house, where he opens in "Hamlet."
The Olympic is running "Loyalina" on its fourth week.
Barnum announces the last week of "Cudjo's Cave," and a magnificent spectacular drama to follow it.
We are to have no more opera, perhaps, not until fall, in consequence of Mareizek's rebellion against the extortions of the chorus, who, not content with all the profit, want a bonus extra.
Another Sensation
for sightseers during the week has been the doings of the Davenport Brothers, at the Cooper Institute. These two young men have so outraged our common sense, and upset our ideas of probability and judgment, that we are forced to confess to a feeling of ridiculous non-belief in anything. The manner in which they—we beg pardon, the spirits—tie and untie their arms and legs from the strongest binding, done by such eminent binders as Judge Whitley, who has bound over a good many Jersey men, is somewhat amazing. What they do is indescribable, and will sound like nothing when described, but so far has puzzled all the wisdom and acumen of their audiences, and defied even a theory. We shall wait in patient hope for the debut of Simmons, who makes his first appearance at the New Broadway Theatre, Wallack's old house, which has been entirely refitted by Mr. Geo. Wood, late of Cincinnati, and who promises the public that he will do the same things as the Davenports, and expose the trick. Do hurry up, Simmons!