New York in fiction . cution, and from which hewas rescued by Harveys strategy. The 201 NEW YORK IN FICTION cave in which they took refuge when pur-sued by the troop of American horse wasin the Washington rocks at Park from the fiction which finds itsbackground in the last years of the eigh-teenth century to fiction which very dis-tinctively belongs to the closing years ofthe nineteenth century, we find a fewmiles from The Locusts the housewhich was the scene of the exploits, bel-ligerent and amorous, of Edward Cliimmie Fadden. The littleBowery boy, it will be remember
New York in fiction . cution, and from which hewas rescued by Harveys strategy. The 201 NEW YORK IN FICTION cave in which they took refuge when pur-sued by the troop of American horse wasin the Washington rocks at Park from the fiction which finds itsbackground in the last years of the eigh-teenth century to fiction which very dis-tinctively belongs to the closing years ofthe nineteenth century, we find a fewmiles from The Locusts the housewhich was the scene of the exploits, bel-ligerent and amorous, of Edward Cliimmie Fadden. The littleBowery boy, it will be remembered, afterhis reclamation by Miss Fannie wastaken as footman to the country res-idence of His Whiskers. It was therethat he entered polite society, and wooedand won De Duchess. The original ofthe country home of His Whiskerswas the residence of Mr. Grillig, ex-Com-modore of the Larchmont Yacht Club, atLarchmont, overlooking the Sound. Tothis great house the author of ChimmieFadden has been a frequent visitor. Fifty 202. Ol- HIS WHISKEKS. — CHIMMIE FAUDKN K. \V. Tow .\.SENU S NEW YORK IN FICTION or a hundred feet away from the northernend of the house is the stable to which His Whiskers was in the habit of tak-ing Chames whenever he deemed that theyoung man was in need of more vigorousredemption than Miss Fannies instruc-tion could supply. On the banks of the Bronx, sung bythe aforesaid Chimmie, was Laguerres, sowell beloved by Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith,who characterized it as the most delight-ful of French inns in the quaintest ofFrench settlements. From the windowsof the passing railway trains one may seethe tall trees trailing their branches inthe still stream — hardly a dozen yardswide—the white ducks paddling together,and the queer punts drawn up on theshelving shore or tied to soggy, patched-up landing stairs. Alighting from thetrain at Williamsbridge, crossing thewater, passing the tapestry factory, ashort walk brings one to the formerhome of Henri Lemaire, t
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