a born New Yorker, you know very little indeed of the great city you
live in. You know the narrow path you tread, coming and going, from your
house to your office, and from your office to your house. It follows, as
closely as it may, the line of Broadway and Fifth Avenue. The elevated
railroads bound it downtown; and uptown fashion has drawn a line a few
hundred yards on either side, which you have only to cross, to east or
to west, to find a strange exposition of nearsightedness come upon your
friends. Here and there you do, perhaps, know some little by-path that
leads to a club or a restaurant, or to a place of amusement. After a
number of books have been written at you, you have ventured timorously
and feebly into such unknown lands as Greenwich Village; or that poor,
shabby, elbowing stretch of territory that used to be interesting, in a
simple way, when it was called the French Quarter. It is now supposed to
be the Bohemian Quarter, and rising young artists invite parties of
society-ladies to go down to its table d'hote restaurants, and see the
desperate young men of the bachelor-apartments smoke cigarettes and
drink California claret without a sign of trepidation.

[Illustration]

As I say, that is pretty near all you know of the great, marvellous,
multitudinous town you live in--a city full of strange people, of
strange occupations, of strange habits of life, of strange contrasts of
wealth and poverty; of a new life of an indescribable crudity, and of
an old life that breeds to-day the very atmosphere of the historic
past. Your feet have never strayed in the side paths where you might
have learned something of the infinite and curious strangeness of this
strange city.

But, after all, this is neither here nor there. You have accustomed
yourself to the narrow dorsal strip that is all New York to you. Therein
are contained the means of meeting your every need, and of gratifying
your every taste. There are your shops, your clubs, your libraries, your
schools, your theatres, your art-galleries, and the houses of all your
friends, except a few who have ventured a block or so outside of that
magic line that I spoke of a little while ago. And now you are not only
going to cross that line yourself, but to pass the fatal river beyond
it, to burn your boats behind you, and to settle in the very wilderness.
And you ask me if you will like it!

No, Modestus, you will not. You have made up your mind, of course, to
the te