It is Bohemia, pure and simple, Bohemia, in all its stages, from the
beer saloon and the cheap book-store, to the cheaper cook shop and
uncertain lodging house. There the great American institution, the
wondrous monarch whom the country supports--the tramp--basks in superior
comfort and contented, unmolested indolence. Idleness and labor, poverty
and opulence, the honest, law-abiding workingman, and the reckless,
restless anarchist, jostle side by side, and brush each other's elbows
in terms of equality as they do nowhere else.
On the busiest thoroughfares in the city, just in the busiest part,
between two of the most crowded and conservative of cross-streets, lies
this alley of Latinism. One might almost pass it hurriedly, avoiding the
crowds that cluster at this section of the streets, but upon turning
into a narrow section, stone-paved, the place is entered, appearing to
end one square distant, seeming to bar itself from the larger buildings
by an aimless sort of iron affair, part railing, part posts. There is a
conservative book-store at the entrance on one side, and an even more
harmless clothing store on the other; then comes a saloon with many
blind doors, behind which are vistas of tables, crowded and crowded with
men drinking beer out of "globes," large, round, moony, common affairs.
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