I was standin’ in front of my little theatre the other evenin’, about twilight, thinkin’ over matters and things, and thinkin’ after all how few things there were that were worth thinkin’ about–thinkin’ for instance it really didn’t make any difference to the world which of the three, Sullivan, Slade or a Mitchell, was the best man; or whether Dana had killed Hancock, or whether Tilden was goin’ to be nominated; or whether Arthur was goin’ to be abducted; or whether anybody would remember poor old Uncle Bill Tovee a year hence; or whether anybody ever did swim across the whirlpool at Niagara, or–or–when one of my barkeepers came up to me, and tappin’ me on the shoulder, pointed to a party on the sidewalk. The party consisted of six, a man, a woman and four children, all from the country, all poorly dressed, all country bumpkins and no mistake.
The man was a big burly chap with a prize ox sort of a look, the woman as thin and sour as he was fat and stupid. The children were of varyin’ ages, anywhere from five to thirteen or fourteen years, two of ‘em girls as fat and “loggy” lookin’ as their father, the other two, boys, as thin, if not as sour, as their mother.
The whole six were clad in one dress or suit–at least, all their dresses or suits seemed made of one piece. Each looked like a part of the rest, and as if there was only one rig between ‘em, worn in bits or installments.
Some of the children were munchin’ bread and the rest were munchin’ apples when I saw ‘em, and they were all lookin’ kind of curiously and awestruck at my buildin’, as if they expected that it might tumble down upon ‘em at any moment. They were all huddled together as if they were emigrants, and when I stepped up to ‘em they started as if they were “crooked” and I was a “cop.”
I have always liked downright country people, and there was no doubt about these bein’ genuine “countries.” So I strolled along the sidewalk till I got alongside of the father of this interestin’ family group, and then I asked him what he wanted and if I could do anythin’ for him. “Be this Harry Hill’s?” he asked, with a kind of snigger. “Yes,” I answered without a snigger. “We want to see Harry Hill,” the man said. “Well, you can see him in there about eight or nine o’clock,” I said, pointing to my theatre entrance.
“In there? Can we get in there?” asked the man of me, still with his snigger. Some folks are always sniggerin’; he was one of ‘em.
“Yes,” I answered, “that place was made to go in.”
“Do you have to pay anythin’ to go in there?” asked the man with evident anxiety.
I thought of Artemis Ward’s joke, that he could pay without goin in but couldn’t go in without payin’, but I simply contented myself with remarkin’ that the price of admission was twenty-five cents, and very cheap at that.
But cheap as it was the man’s face fell, and the woman’s face fell, and the children’s faces fell. They all fell over that one stumblin’ block–that twenty-five cents admission. They looked at each other and then turned sorrowfully away.
My bowels of compassion were loosened, my sympathies were aroused. Poor devils, they had evidently walked a long distance just to see me and my place, and now they had to walk back again without seein’ anythin’ but the outside of a rather neat white buildin’. The buildin’ alone wasn’t worth the walk, so I winked to my doorkeeper not to charge ‘em any admission, and then I told ‘em to walk in and go upstairs and sit down till the show began.
At this the party began to show some signs of life, then turned back considerably less sorrowful than they were a minute before, and lookin’ at me suspiciously, as if there was some hocus pocus about my invitation, yet accepted it, and walked upstairs and took seats, all sniggerin’ now together. For a minute they sat as if expectin’ at any minute to be bounced, or to wake and find it all a dream. But seein’ that they were undisturbed, they soon plucked up courage and gazed contentedly and open mouth at everythin’.
It was early yet, not half past seven, so they had plenty of time to look around before the show.
If they were pleased before the performances commenced they were delighted beyond measure when the show began. But they were none of them very demonstrative of their delight. They made no loud noises, did no clappin’ or applaudin’; that wasn’t their way; but they kept on sniggerin’ more and more. It was as good as a play to me just to sit and watch ‘em, which I did from my little place back of the entrance door.
It wasn’t the first time that a manager has found his audience more interestin’ than his actors, and I chuckled inwardly every now and then at my sniggerin’ “countries.” In fact, I got dry lookin’ at ‘em, and treated myself to a drink, a thing I seldom do durin’ business hours. And then that made me think that probably my visitors were by this time gettin’ dry too. I had it first cherished the idea that the old man might order drinks, lemonade or somethin’ for the crowd, but that idea soon was banished by observation and reflection. “That old party,” I said to my lady cashier, “don’t know enough to order anythin’. The bare notion that he can get somethin’ to drink don’t ever enter his thick head. So I guess I’ll send ‘em something to wet their whistles with anyway–the little children at any rate.” So I sent an attendant round to ask the children and their mother whether they would have coffee or lemonade or a glass of ale. It took some time and hard work to get into their heads that I was goin’ to treat ‘em to somethin’ to drink, but when they once got the idea I must say they did it justice–the old woman, especially. She took coffee and lemonade and ale–all three, one after the other, and didn’t get sick, either. As for the old man, I didn’t send him anythin’ at first, thinkin’, perhaps, he might take the hint. But, instead, he took some of the refreshments intended for the children. So, in sheer defense of the young ‘uns, I had to send the old man some of his favorite tipple, which turned out to be applejack, and a very stiff horn he could swallow.
Then, some time after, I saw one of the children of the party lookin’ rather wistfully at somethin’ somebody was eatin’ at the next table, and this gave me the idea that the young ones and their mother might be hungry as well as thirsty. They might be both together, for the all the old man seemed to know or care, not from cruelty, but stupidity; so I asked and attendant to send the mother and children some sandwiches and things. As soon as he saw the children and his wife gettin’ somethin’ to eat, the old man spoke out, kind of bold like, to the girl and ordered a bit of cold ham and a boiled egg. Now, thinks I, at last, the old man has come to his senses and understands where he is. He had ordered somethin’ and will pay for it like a man, but though he ate it like a man, and a very hungry one, he seemed to count it as part of the “treat” and never even hinted at payment, so I let his ham and eggs go with the rest.
Finally, it got to be late, nearly twelve o’clock, and the children, one by one, had fallen asleep from sheer weariness and fullness, after their eatin’ and drinkin’. I pitted the poor, tired youngsters and their mother, and even kind of pitied the thick-headed husband and father, who seemed to be about as unfitted for New York life, or any life except, perhaps, a very rustic one, as any male bein’ I had ever seen. How were they all going to get home for the night? Where did they live anyway?
I determined to find out and to send ‘em off. So I rose and walked over to where the father and mother were seated, with their young ones sleepin’ all around ‘em.
“Well, how do you like it as far as you’ve got?” I asked.
“Oh, pretty well,” said the man with the everlastin’ snicker, “but I want to see Harry Hill.”
“All right,” says I, ”look at me.”
“Be you Harry Hill?” asks he.
“I be,” answers I.
“Why, you be’ant such a wonderful man to look at, after all,” says he.
“Humph!,” says I; wonder what kind of a wonderful man he had expected to find me–two heads, three legs, four arms, I suppose, and so on.
“And now,” I continued, “that you have seen Harry Hill, how are you and your family goin’ to get home to-night?
“Oh, I guess the old woman and I will manage it somehow between us,” said the man with the snicker.
“Yes, we’ll manage it somehow, Mr. Hill,” said the woman, with her snicker.
“But how about the children?” I asked, lookin’ at the sleepin’ little ones.
“Oh,” said the man, “two of ‘em can walk and the other two the old woman and I can carry along.”
“But how far from here do you live?” I asked. “Where do you put u–what hotel or lodgin’ house?” for of course I could see they were strangers to the city.
“Oh, we have got a room at McNully’s tavern”–I think that was what he called the place– “down in Greenwich street.”
The idea of two of those children havin’ to walk all the way down to Greenwich street at that time of night, and of the two old duffers trudgin’ along, carryin’ the other two in their arms through the streets at midnight! I didn’t like the idea a bit.
I called one of my men and, takin’ him aside, told him to go downstairs and get a coach. Then I called the man back and determined to go get a coach for the party myself. I could make a better bargain with the hackman then my man could, and if I was a-goin’ to do a little bit of charity, I might as well do it prudently as possible.
So I went down to the street and, meetin’ a pretty decent sort of a “nighthawk” with his old hack, near the corner of Broadway and Houston, I made a bargain with him to carry the party wherever they wanted to go for a dollar and a half. Then, bein’ by this time pretty tired of the affair, and wantin’ to get it off my hands, I hurried back and hustled the party downstairs, with their half-awake children, into the coach.
And just as the party were comin’ down the stairs I met Australian Kelly comin’ up. I spoke to Kelly and Kelly spoke to me, and then Kelly looked at my party and, to my surprise, spoke and shook hands with the old duffer, the head of the family, whom he, Kelly, seemed glad to see, but who didn’t seem particularly anxious to see Kelly–rather try to dodge him, in fact.
I thought this rather funny, but hurried my party into the hack, which drove off, after the old man and the old woman had kind of clumsily thanked me and bid me good bye.
When I got back to my place again I found Australian Kelly waitin’ for me.
“‘Ow hon hearth did you strike that here party, ‘Arry?” Kelly asked.
I didn’t strike ‘em,” I answered, “they have struck me.” And then I told him all about the party.
Kelly listened attentively and then laughed heartily.
“Hi say, ‘Arry,” said he, “‘ave you been puttin’ hup this ‘ere ‘old duffer,’ as you call ‘im–”
“I don’t know what you mean by puttin’ up,” says I, rather stiffly. You see I didn’t exactly like the way Kelly took what I had been tellin’ him. “But if you mean I have treated ‘em all as well as I knew how–why, then, yes.”
“You let him hin free, didn’t you?” asked Kelly.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Hand then you gave hem somethin’ to heat?”
“Yes.”
“Hand somethin’ to drink?”
“Yes.”
“Hand paid their coach ‘ire?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” says Australian Kelly, slappin’ me on the back, “hall hi’ve got to say his, ‘Arry ‘Ill, that you’ve been treatin’ one of the richest old farmers hin hall of Monmouth county, New Jersey, a man who howns several ‘ouses in this ‘ere city, and who boarded me once when hi was trainin’ for a mill. Why, the man’s got more money than you ‘ave to-day, or ever will ‘ave, ‘Arry ‘Ill.”
And I’ve since found that Australian Kelly was right, and that the “old duffer” had been, as they say, playin’ me for a sucker. I don’t take any more stock in “charity” of that kind. I never allow my feelin’s to get the better of me again.
[Editor’s notes: The things that Harry was pondering before the bumpkins arrived were: the merits of boxers John L. Sullivan, Charley Mitchell, and Herbert Slade, all in their prime in 1883. Charles Dana, editor of the Democrat-aligned New York Sun, was accused in 1883 of conspiring with Democrat Samuel Tilden to deny the 1880 presidential nomination of fellow-Democrat Winfield Scott Hancock. Tilden considered running again in 1884, but ultimately decided against it due to poor health. President Chester A. Arthur led a wilderness fishing expedition to Yellowstone Park in August 1883, and met with Shoshone and Arapaho tribal representatives. His visit helped efforts to preserve the Park from privatization. “Uncle Bill” Tovee was a former prizefighter and longtime friend and emcee at Harry Hill’s dance hall. He passed away in August, 1883. Matthew Webb, the English swimmer who was the first to cross the English Channel, died in July 1883 while attempting to swim through the whirlpool rapids below Niagara Falls.]
