e the dawn!
The dawn, that comes each day!
What if the East should ne'er grow wan,
Should never more grow gray!
That line of rose no more be drawn
Above the ocean's spray!

THE SONG OF BROADWAY

By ROBERT STEWART

A certain club of good fellows of both sexes, journalists, authors,
illustrators, actors, men of pleasure, and Bohemians generally, used
to gather on Sunday evenings, a merry decade ago, round the hospitable
table of an Italian lady who had acquired her culinary accomplishments
under the distinguished eye of M. Martin--late chef to M. de Lesseps,
and present proprietor of Martin's Restaurant--before she attempted to
practice on her own account, so to speak, in the basement of a dingy
brick house in West Twelfth Street.

Signora Maria was a trusting soul in those days, and many a hungry
poor devil has hung up his hat, coat and dinner there, and blessed his
kind hostess as he quaffed her red ink. We didn't say claret; we
called out: "Where's my red ink bottle, Maria?" And Maria would put
down the soup tureen she was going from table to table with, and fetch
us a pint of her _ordinaire_. It was sour stuff certainly, which even
Maria's radiant smile couldn't sweeten, but budding genius is careless
of the morrow, and on Sunday evenings, especially, when Maria held her
salon in the boarded back room, built out over the yard, vast
quantities of it were gayly consumed, along with cigarettes, and
coffee, and flaming _pousse-cafes_.

In one sense, at least, our function was appropriate to the night.
Everybody "came prepared"--women and men both--like a country
Experience Meeting. Jokes cracked like lightning through the tobacco
clouds; songs of love and war trembled and roared above our heads;
humor and pathos, those twin slaves of the lamp, sported and wept at
our bidding; in a word, no end of youthful bombast, and kind laughter,
and harmless, gratified vanity, was exhibited there. It was really
more like a Montmartre _cabaret_ than any place I ever saw in New
York. Only, with humblest apologies for disparaging their worldliness,
the ladies were so evidently good, sincere, faithful friends, wives,
mothers, sweethearts, that some of us watched their happy gayety with
grateful, pleased eyes.

A Judas came to that kindly board, and betrayed to a newspaper these
merry, honest folk at their simple feast. Stupid, prosperous
commercial persons pushed their way in and stared at them. They fled