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We meant this in its application to the deepest springs of his character; but it is also, and perhaps equally, applicable to the external manifestations of those deepest springs. Has the reader any notion of a Water street dance-house? Concretely stated, it is a breathing hole of hell trap-door of the bottomless pit.
When we reflect that this dance-house, whatever it was, was unquestionably sustained for the gratification of men, rather than of women; when we consider that every one of these fifty-two men came there, in all probability, by his own free will, and to spend money, not to earn it; and that probably a majority of the women were driven there by necessity or betrayal, or force or despair, it would seem that even an equal punishment would have been cruel injustice to the women.
The only girl we ever saw in a dance-house, in whom we could detect the slightest vestige of comeliness or refinement, had been there but a few hours, and was reputed to be the daughter of a former Lieutenant- Governor of a New England State. The first time we entered John Alien's dance-house we found it in full blast. The hour was eleven in the evening.
The detective had frequently heard of the character of a dance-house in the far west, and here was an opportunity to view one in full blast. Elbowing their way through the crowd, Manning and his companion soon found themselves in a large, brilliantly lighted room, almost entirely bereft of furniture.
Glancing in that direction he saw the brilliantly lighted dance-house and saloon, whose blare of brassy instruments reached his unwilling ears at that distance; the still, cold air of an Arctic night being a perfect conductor of sound. Under the sheltering, furry fringe of his cap his forehead gathered itself into a scowl. "What fools!" he muttered. "If one must carouse why come here?
As many of our readers may not have seen this article, we give portions of it, referring them to the magazine for the rest. The Wickedest Man in New York goes by the name of John Allen. He lives at No. 304 Water street. He keeps a dance-house there. He is about forty-five years old.
.... The dance-house at the corner of Moll Duncan Street and Fish-trap Avenue has been broken up. Our friend, the editor of the Jamboree, succeeded in getting his cock-eyed sister in there as a beer-slinger, and the hurdy-gurdy girls all swore they would not stand her society; and they got up and got.
The captive in his tight-binding rawhide ropes hangs in hopeless despair. Close about him the gloom of night is slowly crouching. Yet the last red, crackling embers cast a faint light upon his long black hair, and, shining through the thick mats, caress his wan face with undying hope. Still about the dance-house the old woman prowls. Now the embers are gray with ashes.
"An' you think they're worth a hundred thousan'?" Jim asked, pausing and looking up from the unlacing of his shoe. "Sure," was the answer. "I seen a dance-house girl down in Arizona once, with some big sparklers on her. They wasn't real. She said if they was she wouldn't be dancin'. Said they'd be worth all of fifty thousan', an' she didn't have a dozen of 'em all told."
Some of our American folks don't know what he is about, not understanding his language and imagine that he's selling popcorn or advertising the dance-house, or maybe calling for somebody to come and help him down." "How, Uncle Wal?" asked Neddie. "With a ladder, I suppose." "Do they bring it to him?" "I don't think they have yet, Neddie; at least I haven't heard of it.