Frenzied Fiction | Page 6

gay. In the other
provinces the men wear nothing but plain suits of a rusty black,
whereas in New York there are frequently seen suits of brown,
snuff-colour and even of pepper-and-salt. The costumes of the New
York women are equally daring, and differ notably from the quiet dress
of New England.
"In fine, it is commonly said in the provinces that a New Yorker can be
recognized anywhere, with his wife, by their modish costumes, their
easy manners and their willingness to spend money--two, three and
even five cents being paid for the smallest service."
"Dear me," I thought, as I paused a moment in my reading, "so they
had begun it even then."
"The whole spirit of the place"--the account continued--"has recently
been admirably embodied in literary form by an American writer, Mr.
Washington Irving (not to be confounded with George Washington).
His creation of Father Knickerbocker is so lifelike that it may be said to
embody the very spirit of New York. The accompanying
woodcut--which was drawn on wood especially for this
periodical--recalls at once the delightful figure of Father Knickerbocker.
The New Yorkers of to-day are accustomed, indeed, to laugh at Mr.
Irving's fancy and to say that Knickerbocker belongs to a day long
since past. Yet those who know tell us that the image of the amiable old
gentleman, kindly but irascible, generous and yet frugal, loving his
town and seeing little beyond it, may be held once and for all to typify
the spirit of the place, without reference to any particular time or
generation."

"Father Knickerbocker!" I murmured, as I felt myself dozing off to
sleep, rocked by the motion of the car. "Father Knickerbocker, how
strange if he could be here again and see the great city as we know it
now! How different from his day! How I should love to go round New
York and show it to him as it is."
So I mused and dozed till the very rumble of the wheels seemed to
piece together in little snatches. "Father Knickerbocker--Father
Knickerbocker--the Battery--the Battery--citizens walking with their
wives, with their wives--their own wives"--until presently, I imagine, I
must have fallen asleep altogether and knew no more till my journey
was over and I found myself among the roar and bustle of the
concourse of the Grand Central.
And there, lo and behold, waiting to meet me, was Father
Knickerbocker himself! I know not how it happened, by what queer
freak of hallucination or by what actual miracle--let those explain it
who deal in such things --but there he stood before me, with an
outstretched hand and a smile of greeting, Father Knickerbocker
himself, the Embodied Spirit of New York.
"How strange," I said. "I was just reading about you in a book on the
train and imagining how much I should like actually to meet you and to
show you round New York."
The old man laughed in a jaunty way.
"Show me round?" he said. "Why, my dear boy, I live here."
"I know you did long ago," I said.
"I do still," said Father Knickerbocker. "I've never left the place. I'll
show you around. But wait a bit--don't carry that handbag. I'll get a boy
to call a porter to fetch a man to take it."
"Oh, I can carry it," I said. "It's a mere nothing."
"My dear fellow," said Father Knickerbocker, a little testily I thought,

"I'm as democratic and as plain and simple as any man in this city. But
when it comes to carrying a handbag in full sight of all this crowd, why,
as I said to Peter Stuyvesant about--about"--here a misty look seemed
to come over the old gentleman's face--"about two hundred years ago,
I'll be hanged if I will. It can't be done. It's not up to date."
While he was saying this, Father Knickerbocker had beckoned to a
group of porters.
"Take this gentleman's handbag," he said, "and you carry his
newspapers, and you take his umbrella. Here's a quarter for you and a
quarter for you and a quarter for you. One of you go in front and lead
the way to a taxi."
"Don't you know the way yourself?" I asked in a half-whisper.
"Of course I do, but I generally like to walk with a boy in front of me.
We all do. Only the cheap people nowadays find their own way."
Father Knickerbocker had taken my arm and was walking along in a
queer, excited fashion, senile and yet with a sort of forced youthfulness
in his gait and manner.
"Now then," he said, "get into this taxi."
"Can't we walk?" I asked.
"Impossible," said the old gentleman. "It's five blocks to where we are
going."
As we took our seats I looked again at my