1651.
A few blocks west of the subway, and therefore off the beaten track
of the average New Yorker, is San Juan Hill. If you ever happen on
San Juan unawares, you will recognize it at once by its clustering
family of mammoth gas houses, its streets slanting down into the
North River, and the prevailing duskiness of the local complexion.
If you chance to stray into San Juan after sundown, you will be
relieved to note that policemen are plentiful, and that they walk in
pairs. This last observation describes the social status of San Juan
or any other neighbourhood better than volumes of detailed episodes
could begin to do.
Of late years many of the Fust Famblies of San Juan have migrated
northward to the teeming negro districts of Harlem, but enough of
the old stock remains to lend the settlement its time-honoured touch
of gloom. Occasionally, too, it still makes its way to the public
notice by sanguinary affrays and race riots. San Juan Hill is a
geographical, racial, and sociological fact, and will remain so
until the day when safety razors become a universal institution.
San Juan is a community in itself. It has its churches, its clubs,
its theatres, its stores, and--sighs of relief from the police--it
_used_ to have its saloons.
Pages:
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156