frequency of banks—­some with opulent illuminated signs—­and of cinematograph shows.  In the East End of London or of Paris banks are assuredly not a feature of the landscape—­and for good reason.  The cinematograph is possibly, on the whole, a civilizing agent; it might easily be the most powerful force on the East Side.  I met the gentleman who “controlled” all the cinematographs, and was reputed to make a million dollars a year net therefrom.  He did not appear to be a bit weighed down, either by the hugeness of his opportunity or by the awfulness of his responsibility.

[Illustration:  THE ASTOUNDING POPULOUSNESS OF THE EAST SIDE]

The supreme sensation of the East Side is the sensation of its astounding populousness.  The most populous street in the world—­Rivington Street—­is a sight not to be forgotten.  Compared to this, an up-town thoroughfare of crowded middle-class flats is the open country—­is an uninhabited desert!  The architecture seemed to sweat humanity at every window and door.  The roadways were often impassable.  The thought of the hidden interiors was terrifying.  Indeed, the hidden interiors would not bear thinking about.  The fancy shunned them—­a problem not to be settled by sudden municipal edicts, but only by the efflux of generations.  Confronted by this spectacle of sickly-faced immortal creatures, who lie closer than any other wild animals would lie; who live picturesque, feverish, and appalling existences; who amuse themselves, who enrich themselves, who very often lift themselves out of the swarming warren and leave it forever, but whose daily experience in the warren is merely and simply horrible—­confronted by this incomparable and overwhelming phantasmagoria (for such it seems), one is foolishly apt to protest, to inveigh, to accuse.  The answer to futile animadversions was in my particular friend’s query:  “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

* * * * *

My second glimpse of the folk was at quite another end of the city of New York—­namely, the Bronx.  I was urgently invited to go and see how the folk lived in the Bronx; and, feeling convinced that a place with a name so remarkable must itself be remarkable, I went.  The center of the Bronx is a racket of Elevated, bordered by banks, theaters, and other places of amusement.  As a spectacle it is decent, inspiring confidence but not awe, and being rather repellent to the sense of beauty.  Nobody could call it impressive.  Yet I departed from the Bronx very considerably impressed.  It is the interiors of the Bronx homes that are impressive.  I was led to a part of the Bronx where five years previously there had been six families, and where there are now over two thousand families.  This was newest New York.  No obstacle impeded my invasion of the domestic privacies of the Bronx.  The mistresses of flats showed me round everything with politeness and with obvious satisfaction.  A stout lady, whose husband was either an artisan or a clerk, I forget