e. It is, seriously,
that it is quite possible for young ladies to walk this fastest mile
in the United States, with their papas and mammas, every evening, and
write home to Kate that "it is just like Saturday night on Main
Street, only bigger." No sensible girl could promenade the Strand or
the Bois after theater hours, no matter how chaperoned, and then make
such a comparison. Huzza! I say. Huzza! It is America's compliment to
her women.

Still, however decorously Broadway subdues its hilarity before the
ladies, like a fast young man at a tea party, we all know it is not in
the least like Saturday night on Main Street. Let us saunter along,
like two men of the world, perfectly competent to recognize vice, but
infinitely preferring to smile at honest gayety, and find out what
this crowd really is that is again packing the pavement as the
theaters turn out their audiences.

Principally, so much in the majority as to characterize it, men of
affairs, country merchants, out-of-town visitors, with and without
their womenkind, the New York audience to whom actor and clergyman
alike make their appeal; while circling about in it, embroidered so to
speak on its surface, is that other crowd--high fashion, artists,
actors, distinguished visitors, wardmen, Bohemians, sporting people,
thieves and confidence men--which also produces its effect, and lends
its coloring and vivacity to the picture. The side streets, looking
east at least, are respectable, but they are not brilliant. Fashion,
Bohemia and fast life are, after all, what we have come to watch. And
as fashion mostly cuts Broadway--where it used to live and promenade
when Mr. N. P. Willis' natty boots pattered about Fourteenth
Street--at the first crossing, it is Bohemia and the "wise push" we
will sup with.

In Broadway parlance, Bohemia means newspaper and theatrical people.
And I venture to remind the ladies and gentlemen of the drama in
presenting them in such a company, that I am painting a city nocturne,
and may properly introduce Mr. Morgan, Mr. Beerbohm Tree, Father
Ducey, dear man, in his cape overcoat, Al Smith leaning against the
Gilsey House railing, or any other characteristic and familiar figure
natural to the composition. No picture of Broadway would be complete,
they will acknowledge, without them, and to use a metaphor I have
before employed, they are certainly accustomed to occupy "the center
of the stage" with dignity and elegance.

Anyway, they all