I would have liked to live this life, for a space, in any one of half a million restricted flats, with not quite enough space, not quite enough air, not quite enough dollars, and a vast deal too much continual strain on the nerves.  I would have liked to come to close quarters with it, and get its subtle and sinister toxin incurably into my system.  Could I have done so, could I have participated in the least of the uncountable daily dramas of which the externals are exposed to the gaze of any starer in an Elevated, I should have known what New York truly meant to New-Yorkers, and what was the real immediate effect of average education reacting on average character in average circumstances; and the knowledge would have been precious and exciting beyond all knowledge of the staggering “wonders” of the capital.  But, of course, I could not approach so close to reality; the visiting stranger seldom can; he must be content with his imaginative visions.

[Illustration:  PART OF THE DAILY ROUND OF THE INDOMITABLE NEW YORK WOMAN]

Now and then I had the good-fortune to come across illuminating stories of New York dailiness, tales of no important event, but which lit up for me the whole expanse of existence in the hinterlands of the Elevated.  As, for instance, the following.  The tiny young wife of the ambitious and feverish young man is coming home in the winter afternoon.  She is forced to take the street-car, and in order to take it she is forced to fight.  To fight, physically, is part of the daily round of the average fragile, pale, indomitable New York woman.  In the swaying crowd she turns her head several times, and in tones of ever-increasing politeness requests a huge male animal behind her to refrain from pushing.  He does not refrain.  Being skilled, as a mariner is skilled in beaching himself and a boat on a surfy shore, she does ultimately achieve the inside of the car, and she sinks down therein apparently exhausted.  The huge male animal follows, and as he passes her, infuriated by her indestructible politeness, he sticks his head against her little one and says, threateningly, “What’s the matter with you, anyway?” He could crush her like a butterfly, and, moreover, she is about ready to faint.  But suddenly, in uncontrollable anger, she lifts that tiny gloved hand and catches the huge male animal a smart smack in the face.  “Can’t you be polite?” she hisses.  Then she drops back, blushing, horrified by what she has done.  She sees another man throw the aghast male animal violently out of the car, and then salute her with:  “Madam, I take off my hat to you.”  And the tired car settles down to apathy, for, after all, the incident is in its essence part of the dailiness of New York.