New York in fiction . ng gloom, and he who ventured to crossit stood the risk of thieving assault, ifof nothing more harmful. The Grosvenors lived in a big, dingymansion on Second Avenue, near Stuy-vesant and Rutherford squares, whichneighbourhood Mr. Fawcett has spokenof as one of the few fragments thathave been left uninvaded by the merci-less spirit of change. Near by, in a littlered brick house, dwelt Mrs. Montgomery,of Henry Jamess Washhuiton Square;and Bunner has told us how at night thestrong wind used to blow the music ofSt. Georges bells half across the city tothe Midges ears. It was
New York in fiction . ng gloom, and he who ventured to crossit stood the risk of thieving assault, ifof nothing more harmful. The Grosvenors lived in a big, dingymansion on Second Avenue, near Stuy-vesant and Rutherford squares, whichneighbourhood Mr. Fawcett has spokenof as one of the few fragments thathave been left uninvaded by the merci-less spirit of change. Near by, in a littlered brick house, dwelt Mrs. Montgomery,of Henry Jamess Washhuiton Square;and Bunner has told us how at night thestrong wind used to blow the music ofSt. Georges bells half across the city tothe Midges ears. It was as thoughStuyvesant Square snugly locked up forthe night sent a midnight message of re-proach to the broader and more demo-cratic ground, whose hard walks knewno rest from echoing footsteps in light ordark. In one of the houses facing thenorth side of the Square lived the social-ist Dircks and his daughter Esther, the 136 JVEW YORK IN FICTION heroint^ of Brander Matthewss A Confi-dent To-morrow. Farther down, near the. ERNEST NEUMAN S HOME.— HENRY IIARLAND S AS IT WAS WRITTEN. avenues southern extremity, we find onthe northwe^st corner of Second Streetthe large red brick house where Ernest 137 NEW YORK IN FICTION Neuman went to live under an assumedname after his release from the TomhsPrison, where he had been on trial for themurder of his betrothed, as described inHenryHarlands^i-s-/if Was Written. TheKarons of the same writers Mrs. Peixadalived between Sixth and Seventh streets,and across the way was the pawnshopof Bernard Peixada, a brick house,although the bricks were concealed bya coat of dark grey stucco that blotcheshere and there had made almost pawnbroking establishment was onthe ground floor, and the broad windowsin front were protected, like those ofa jail, by heavy iron bars. In thesewindows were musical instruments, house-hold ornaments, kitchen utensils, firearms,tarnished uniforms, womens fadedgewgaws and finery, and behind these,darkness, mystery, an
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