Evening Star Newspaper, November 10, 1929, Page 101

AMERICA’S QUEEREST BOOM TO Dispensing Bohemian Atmosphere to New York Diversion Seckers Keeps Hoboken Busy Making the First Whoopee It Has Made Since Its Indians Received Whisky in Trade for Corner Lots. WORDS BY GILBERT SWAN SKETCHES BY GEORGE CLARK OBOKEN, N .J,, which can be reach- ed easily from New York by tube, Hudson Tunnel, ferryboat or spy- glass, is beginning its second year as “the last seacoast of Bohemia.” During the brief period it has adopted such an alluring slcgan, this quaint, easy-going, his- toric old town has become a paradox among cities—a sort of civic Jekyl and Hyde. By night Hoboken's cellars are alight; there is a clinking of seidels and a theatricalized air .of German and Tyrolean beer halls; there is a tinkling of zithers, a lusty singing of stein songs, a crowding of humans into sawdust-sprinkled cellars. There is an atmosphere of revel and of boisterous play; the sudden falsetto of a yodeler or the hearty slapping of leathered thighs as a Bavarian peasant dance begins. ‘Tourists crowd Hoboken’s streets and overflow its brauhauses. Being tourists they are taxed accordingly. Cash registers clink with monoto- mous regularity, and once leisurely innkeepers grow rich. ” But when daylight comes, Hoboken returns to its drowsy, picturesque role. There is a con- tinental quality about it. There is a romantic flavor for the wanderer—a salty taste of the sea; an intriguing semi-circle of waterfront wita great liners lying at piers; a glimpse of sailors :::: stevedores strolling in and out of swinging HUGI wooden fingers point the way to spots where clam broth and free lunch go with the large seidels. The architecture is that of yesteryear and there are many reminders that this was once the beer garden of New York. And never has ceased being! ‘There is, too, a bit of lavender and old lace; the faint and restful perfume of another day. Roaming leisurely along the cobblestones and train tracks which follow the piers where lie the mammoth German, Scandinavian and American liners, one comes ever so unexpectedly upon a century of change, Its view of the river has long since been cut off by the great green fences which shut in the busy wharves. A giant, sheltering el shades all that is left of an outdoor beer gar- den. There are old rotting tables and old, rot- ting benches. There is a sign which reads, “Sibyl's Cave.” Inside there are pictures on the wall showing women in hoop skirts taking Sun- Old-timers resent the whoopee invasion. Jazz bands spoil a quiet glass of beer. day strolls in a parkway that now holds a dusty dock. And in the great window which once framed the water and the ships sits a slender, white- haired old lady. Believe it or no®, she is reeling yarn frcm an old-fashioned “swift”—a scene which can be duplicated in few sections of America in this day and age, Of such ingredients is the dual life of Ho- boken. It all came about like this: Christopher Morley is and was an essayist and novelist who seeks to find in these United States unspoiled spots where one can escape from the regimentation and standardization of 80 many cities; places which have held their personalities through the years and lost little of their charm. Morley is a sort of literary vagabond who has wandered the highways and byways "of Europe. His trousers seem never to have been pressed. He wears well crushed hats. Cleon Throckmorton, well known in Washing- ton, is and was one of the best of the scenery designers for artistic plays and Harry Wagstaff Gribble is and was a playwright and director. For 15 years, or thereabouts, Morley had browsed about the docks and the hills that rose - “The Black Crook’s” leader. buxom chorus the centuries, it is largely because it has, for one reason or another, had little prestige among New Yorkers. The spoiling of places, as of men, frequently begins when they begin to acquire “class.” It’s not unlikely that the spoiling of Hoboken may be well under way—and the blame must fall upon the heads of Morley and Throck- morton, traitors to the simplicity and charm they have turned over to a mob of Broadway slummers. THE fact is that history questions whether or not Hoboken was the original Manhat- tan Isle—that is, whether or not it was once named Manhattan, Way back, something like 300 years ago, some of the Dutch tourists who had wandered away from the New York waterfront in small boats amazed a group of Indians by putting ashore. The visitors found the Indians calling their home place Hobocan, which was their particular word for “pipe,” since they made their pipes from a rock found there. In tradings that foliowed, the new arrivals brought forth the first drink that was ever - A4 “The last seacoast of Bohemia” - Once a picnic ground for the New Yorkers; ' now_a meeting place for sailors of the seven seas. THE 'SUNDAY' STAR, “WASHINGTON, D. C, NOVFMBER"IQ, “1929. b 4 The town is full of outdoor beer gar- dens, whose leisurely, tavern-like days are over. taken there. There has been plenty since. And the old chief grew so merry he referred to the new beverage as “mannahatanink,” which means “an island of intoxication.” At least that's the story, and you can believe it or not. New York laZer adopted the title as its own. After all, the drinks had come from there. Now the New Yorkers, or a great many of them, have good reason to return the title to its birth- place. By the time the Spanish-American War came along, Hoboken was a picnic ground for New Yorkers. Parks flourished along the water- front. And near the parks were many beer gardens. For a big G:rman settlement had sprung up there, There was the River Walk, the Elysian Fields and the Sybil's Cave. There was the first New York Yacht Club, which today is the ‘world's largest. There was an international cricket field, and a foot ball field upon which was played the first Yale-Princeton game. There was even a dueling ground, upon which the big town boys settled their affairs of honor. HEN the war came, Hoboken was particu- larly hard hit because of its large Teutonic population. Most of its clubs, being Germanic, had to undergo a quick change of name. When the war was over, the population, being pretty much “what it was, found it hard to lay: its steins and lager aside—as have cther German communities in New Jersey. And those who were not German and who lived elsewhere didn’t seem to mind—in fact a quiet crowd has always drifted over. Meanwhile Hoboken also established a world reputation for German foods. ‘Gourmets, who hunt out dining places wherever they may be, gathered in the colorful cellar places and the wis>r Manhattanites made weekly pilgrimages. It was all very quiet, leisurely and easy going. Then one day, slightly more than a year ago, Cleon Throckmorton decided to go forth in search of old theaters in the immediate neigh- borhood of New York. The varicus little the- " aters had been slipping slightly. He had certain ideas concerning the estab- lishment of a playhouse of the old school. And his keen sleuthing brought him up at last in ‘front of the 6ld Rialto of Hoboken, as fine an example of the theater of yesterday as may be found anywhere. There was a quick consulta- " Prod, 't happen all at once. much like the “art” theater produe- They didn’t click. Then Morley, brows~ Slyly some of the invitations urged visitors to “seidel over to Hoboken.” And not long there- after came the slogan, “the last seacoast of Bohemia.” Hoboken was back on the map! Over night “But when daylight comes, the town returns to its dowsy, picturesque rolel it became 'a slummer’s paradise. In a single year the whole social aspects of the city did a complete flip-flop. And even those who have prospered most are far from certain whether er 'nottheymtthlnpntheym. FROM New York whispers ‘'went around the Nation. Tourists from every city and ham- let began to put Hoboken down upon their list of “places to see.” Today Hoboken is in a class with the Statue of Liberty, Grant's Tomb and the Woolworth Building. No self-respecting New Yorker would . dare let a visiling fireman return home withe out a peep at the seacoast of Bohemia. Meanwhile, too, the pioneers have outgrown : their original theater, which has a long history, of its own, and taken over the old Lyric. There they have revived “The Black Crook” and there as the second year approached, they took Joan Lowell out of -“the cradle of the deep” and let her spit to windward in “The Star of Bengal,” a Seagoing play written by her husband, Thomas Buchanan. There is an undercurrent of resentment on the part.of Hoboken's old-timers toward the A cerfain number- of: & Women may be seen smoking cigarettes in streets. Rowdies find' their way into the ater and take advantage of the good-natured crowds, gathered to hiss the villain and 1" (Copyright, 1929.)