ctive form. We will engage a large
theatre attached to a Bowery beer saloon if you will come down
and address the meeting. The novelty of your appearance will
fill the theatre."

I knew there was considerable risk, and yet it was a great
opportunity. I believe that in meeting a crowd of that sort one
should appear as they expect him to look when addressing the best
of audiences. These people are very proud, and they resent any
attempt on your part to be what they know you are not, but that
you are coming down to their level by assuming a character which
you presume to be theirs. So I dressed with unusual care, and
when I went on the platform a short-sleeved, short-haired genius
in the theatre shouted: "Chauncey thinks he is in Carnegie Hall."

The famous Tim Sullivan, who was several times a state senator
and congressman, and a mighty good fellow, was the leader of the
Bowery and controlled its political actions. He came to see me
and said: "I hope you will withdraw from that appointment. I do
not want you to come down there. In the first place, I cannot
protect you, and I don't think it is safe. In the second place,
you are so well known and popular among our people that I am
afraid you will produce an impression, and if you get away with
it that will hurt our machine."

In the course of my speech a man arose whom I knew very well as
a district leader, and who was frequently in my office, seeking
positions for his constituents and other favors. That night he
was in his shirt-sleeves among the boys. With the old volunteer
fireman's swagger and the peculiar patois of that part of New York,
he said: "Chauncey Depew, you have no business here. You are
the president of the New York Central Railroad, ain't you, hey?
You are a rich man, ain't you, hey? We are poor boys. You don't
know us and can't teach us anything. You had better get out
while you can."

My reply was this: "My friend, I want a little talk with you.
I began life very much as you did. Nobody helped me. I was a
country boy and my capital was this head," and I slapped it,
"these legs," and I slapped them, "these hands," and I slapped
them, "and by using them as best I could I have become just what
you say I am and have got where you will never arrive."

A shirt-sleeved citizen jumped up from the audience and shouted:
"Go ahead, Chauncey, you're a peach." That characterization
of a peach went into the newspapers and was attached to m