Everybody knows how popular billiards are to-day in New York. But comparatively few people perhaps remember the fact that at one time in this city billiards were at a discount, and bowlin’ alleys were more numerous and more popular than billiard saloons.
Some of the goody-good people of the great city tried to protest against this fondness for bowlin’ alleys. In fact these “scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites” went so far as to get a “snide” law passed that people shouldn’t be permitted, under certain conditions, to play at nine-pins. But the law didn’t amount to “a row of pins” in this case, for the proprietors of the saloons just altered the number of the pins in the game, makin’ ‘em ten pins, instead of nine-pins, and the “law” couldn’t interfere. “Some” things are always to be done, as well as “other” things, you know.
Bowlin’ alleys used to be the very places to find anybody in. Country merchants, city clerks, rich Southerners, seedy Northerners, Western greenhorns, used to meet on the “cheek by jowl” principle. The great majority of these bowlin’ alleys employed regular decoys or stool-pigeons, who got their drinks and lunches free, and weren’t charged anythin’ for any games they wanted to play or happened to lose, on condition of roping in greenhorns who did pay.
The bowlin’ alleys, or saloons, were very fine and showy affairs indeed. Some of them had as much plate glass and fancy furniture as if they were “gamblin’ hells.” They opened about noon and didn’t close until long after midnight. Several of these places contained as many six, or even eight, separate alleys, goin’ most of the time.
A young swell named Clement Parker used to be a great bowlin’ alley “expert,” as they would call him now. He played a splendid game, and knew all the points and regulations about it. So it got to pass that his word was law, and people would refer to him about every dispute.
He was a queer sort of a chap, and though by no means a high-toned fellow, on the contrary rather of a mean sort in ordinary affairs, he was as square as a die on everythin’ about ten pins. You couldn’t have tempted him to give a wrong decision for the world. Every man has his strong point as well as as his weak one, and bowlin’ was the strong point of Clement Parker.
William T. Porter, the sportin’ editor, was another crack bowler, and had his own particular style of playin’, very different from that of Parker. “Frank Forrester” was very fond of ten pins, and played the game pretty well. Parker and Herbert used to play generally either at Frank’s, on Barclay street, or Graves’s saloons.
It was somewhat strange, but although one would think that playin’ ten pins was simply playin’ ten pins, yet hardly two men played the game exactly alike. Parker, for instance, used to roll his balls very strong, yet very easy. Herbert would dash his balls along with a good aim, but a good deal too much force and fuss. Clarke, another noted player, rolled his balls gently, just a little too gently, while a chap called DeWitt Thompson rolled his balls sort of sideways, and so on. No two rolled exactly alike.
Bassford’s billiard saloon on Ann street, and Otis Field’s rooms up Broadway, were the two “crack” billiard rooms then, and the competition between them and Graves’s and Frank’s bowlin’ alleys was very keen.
Horace Greeley once had a hobby for playin’ ten pins. Somebody told Horace that it was a very “bracin’” game–quite as much so as wood-choppin’, and a great deal more excitin’. They gave it to Horace, too, that bowling was such a “pure-minded game” there couldn’t be any humbug or imposition about it. So Horace one day tried his hand at a game.
He might have played pretty well, too, if he hadn’t been for his pantaloons. You see, Horace didn’t believe in wearin’ suspenders, so his pantaloons dropped down on him as he pegged away at the balls, and so interfered with his movements that his balls, instead of rollin’ straight rolled every which way, puttin’ the boys who ‘tended to the balls in bodily fear for their legs, one of the boys threatenin’ to “resign if ever that ere cove Greeley bothers those balls again.”
A Doctor Collyer, who made quite a hit in introducin’ model artist shows, was considered quite an expert at billiards. But findin’ more money in legs than ivory, he turned his attention from the latter.
There had been plenty of model artist exhibitions in New York before Collyer’s time, but then these had been all men. Some then dressed ‘emselves, it is true, to look like women, but there were no women known in Gotham as “model artists” till Collyer brought a lot over with him from London.
Of course all the female “model artists” were ugly. A really handsome woman had somethin’ better to do than to show herself for fifty cents.
But they took for a while like a house on fire. New York couldn’t get enough of ‘em. Then the police raided ‘em, and then popular taste for ‘em died away. New York didn’t want any more at all.
The first man who introduced model artists into New York–male model artists I am now speakin’ of–was a chap called Frimbley. He was a little Englishman, and had been all sorts of things in his life, dancer, fencer, sailor, Jack of all trades. He had a pretty good figure, and by putting flour over him and padding’and fixing up, and then throwin’ himself into all sorts of attitudes, he contrived to imitate the “dyin’ gladiator,” and all the rest of the “livin’ statues.”
For a while Frimbley’s style of show made money, and he might have kept himself alive in comfort by it, if it hadn’t been for his fondness for drink. One day he had a big audience, but as he was “posin’, the liquor he had been swallowin’ all day began to tell on him, and along with some unhealthy stuff he had been eatin’ gave him the colic. He writhed about in agony. This rather helped him in doin’ his dyin’ gladiator business, but it when he came to tryin’ on “Ajax defyin’ the lightnin’” it didn’t do a bit. Instead of defyin’ the lightnin’ he had to bend so that it worked as if he was afraid of it. He spoiled “the illusion” completely and disgusted his audience. And then instead of repentin’ and reformin’ he went and got drunk worse than ever.
Pretty soon he could not “pose” for a cent. All he could do was pour bad liquor down his throat. He had to give up his model artist line of business, and as he wasn’t fit for any other line of business, fate soon settled the business for him by lettin’ him die of combined hunger and delirium tremens.
