ould never have said it. He
knew enough of London to know that no one human mind, no one mortal life
can take in the complex intensity of a metropolis. Try to count a
million, and then try to form a conception of the impossibility of
learning all the ins and outs of the domicile of a million men, women,
and children. I have met men who thought they knew New York, but I have
never met a man--except a man from a remote rural district--who thought
he knew the Bowery. There are agriculturists, however, all over this
broad land who have entertained that supposition and acted on it--but
never twice. The sense of humor is the saving grace of the American
people.

I first made acquaintance with the Bowery as a boy through some
lithographic prints. I was interested in them, for I was looking forward
to learning to shoot, and my father had told me that there used to be
pretty good shooting at the upper end of the Bowery, though, of course,
not so good as there was farther up near the Block House, or in the wood
beyond. Besides, the pictures showed a very pretty country road with big
trees on both sides of it, and comfortable farm-houses, and, I suppose,
an inn with a swinging sign. I was disappointed at first, when I heard
it had been all built up, but I was consoled when the glories of the
real Bowery were unfolded to my youthful mind, and I heard of the
butcher-boy and his red sleigh; of the Bowery Theatre and peanut
gallery, and the gods, and Mr. Eddy, and the war-cry they made of his
name--and a glorious old war-cry it is, better than any college cries
ever invented: "_Hi_, Eddy-eddy-eddy-eddy-eddy-eddy-eddy-eddy-eddy!" of
Mose and his silk locks; of the fire-engine fights, and Big Six, and
"Wash-her-down!" of the pump at Houston Street; of what happened to Mr.
Thackeray when he talked to the tough; of many other delightful things
that made the Bowery, to my young imagination, one long avenue of
romance, mystery, and thrilling adventure. And the first time I went in
the flesh to the Bowery was to go with an elderly lady to an optician's
shop.

"And is this--Yarrow?--_This_ the stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!
O that some minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!"

But the study of the Bowery that I began that day has gone on with
interruption for a good many