Frenzied Fiction | Page 5

cannot reveal, without paying my account, has

occasioned unnecessary and dangerous comment. I connect it, in fact,
with the singular attitude adopted by the B. hotel on my arrival in New
York, to which I have already referred.
I have therefore been compelled to fall back on revelations and
disclosures. Here again I find the American atmosphere singularly
uncongenial. I have offered to reveal to the Secretary of State the entire
family history of Ferdinand of Bulgaria for fifty dollars. He says it is
not worth it. I have offered to the British Embassy the inside story of
the Abdication of Constantine for five dollars. They say they know it,
and knew it before it happened. I have offered, for little more than a
nominal sum, to blacken the character of every reigning family in
Germany. I am told that it is not necessary.
Meantime, as it is impossible to return to Central Europe, I expect to
open either a fruit store or a peanut stand very shortly in this great
metropolis. I imagine that many of my former colleagues will soon be
doing the same!

II. Father Knickerbocker: A Fantasy
It happened quite recently--I think it must have been on April the
second of 1917--that I was making the long pilgrimage on a day-train
from the remote place where I dwell to the city of New York. And as
we drew near the city, and day darkened into night, I had fallen to
reading from a quaint old copy of Washington Irving's immortal
sketches of Father Knickerbocker and of the little town where once he
dwelt.
I had picked up the book I know not where. Very old it apparently was
and made in England. For there was pasted across the fly-leaf of it an
extract from some ancient magazine or journal of a century ago, giving
what was evidently a description of the New York of that day.
From reading the book I turned--my head still filled with the vision of
Father Knickerbocker and Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown--to examine

the extract. I read it in a sort of half-doze, for the dark had fallen
outside, and the drowsy throbbing of the running train attuned one's
mind to dreaming of the past.
"The town of New York"--so ran the extract pasted in the little
book--"is pleasantly situated at the lower extremity of the Island of
Manhattan. Its recent progress has been so amazing that it is now
reputed, on good authority, to harbour at least twenty thousand souls.
Viewed from the sea, it presents, even at the distance of half a mile, a
striking appearance owing to the number and beauty of its church spires,
which rise high above the roofs and foliage and give to the place its
characteristically religious aspect. The extreme end of the island is
heavily fortified with cannon, commanding a range of a quarter of a
mile, and forbidding all access to the harbour. Behind this Battery a
neat greensward affords a pleasant promenade, where the citizens are
accustomed to walk with their wives every morning after church."
"How I should like to have seen it!" I murmured to myself as I laid the
book aside for a moment. "The Battery, the harbour and the citizens
walking with their wives, their own wives, on the greensward."
Then I read on:
"From the town itself a wide thoroughfare, the Albany Post Road, runs
meandering northward through the fields. It is known for some distance
under the name of the Broad Way, and is so wide that four moving
vehicles are said to be able to pass abreast. The Broad Way, especially
in the springtime when it is redolent with the scent of clover and
apple-blossoms, is a favourite evening promenade for the citizens--with
their wives--after church. Here they may be seen any evening strolling
toward the high ground overlooking the Hudson, their wives on one
arm, a spyglass under the other, in order to view what they can see.
Down the Broad Way may be seen moving also droves of young lambs
with their shepherds, proceeding to the market, while here and there a
goat stands quietly munching beside the road and gazing at the
passers-by."
"It seems," I muttered to myself as I read, "in some ways but little

changed after all."
"The town"--so the extract continued--"is not without its amusements.
A commodious theatre presents with great success every Saturday night
the plays of Shakespeare alternating with sacred concerts; the New
Yorker, indeed, is celebrated throughout the provinces for his love of
amusement and late hours. The theatres do not come out until long after
nine o'clock, while for the gayer habitues two excellent restaurants
serve fish, macaroni, prunes and other delicacies till long past ten at
night. The dress of the New Yorker is correspondingly