Knickerbocker in the elegant and obselete
breeches, buckles, and cocked hat of the olden time.
A peculiar hardihood and local wit are claimed for what are called the
B'hoys. A cockney, in pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, was
walking up Broadway with the hospitable citizen to whose guidance he
had been specially commended by a London correspondent.
"I want," said the stranger, "to see a b'hoy,--a real b'hoy."
"There's one," replied his companion, pointing to a strapping fellow, in
a red shirt and crush hat, waiting for a job at the corner.
"Ah, how curious!" replied John Bull, examining this new species with
his double eye-glass,--"very curious; I never saw a real b'hoy before. I
should like to hear him speak."
"Then, why don't you talk to him?"
"I don't know what to say."
"Ask him the way to Laight Street."
The inquisitive traveller crossed the street, and, deferentially
approaching the new genus, lisped, "Ha--ah--how d' do, ha? I want to go
to Laight Street."
"Then why in hell don't you go?" loudly and gruffly asks the b'hoy.
Cockney nervously rejoined his friend, saying,--"Very curious, the
Broadway b'hoys!"
To realize the extent and character of the Celtic element in our
population, walk down this thronged avenue on a holiday, when the Irish
crowd the sidewalks, waiting for a pageant; and all you have ever read
or dreamed of savagery will gleam, with latent fire, from those myriads
of sullen or daredevil eyes, and lurk in the wild tones of those
unchastened voices, as the untidy or gaudily dressed and interminable
line of expectants, flushed with alcohol, yield surlily to the backward
wave of the policeman's baton.
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