I dare say that a great many of my readers imagine that at a festivity of this description “down on the east side” the men appear for the most part clad in the red shirts which were in vogue at the time of Thackeray’s visit to America, and which now exist only in the minds of those writers who are famous for the accuracy of their local color. As for the women, I have no doubt these same readers picture them in garments similar to those worn by the “tough girl” in Mr. Harrigan’s drama, nor would they be surprised to learn that there was a fight every twenty minutes. For their special benefit I will explain that nearly every one of the men wore evening dress of the conventional pattern, and that the display of diamonds and costly gowns--many of which were tasteful as well--was a noteworthy one. There was an abundance of wine and strong drink for everybody, and a very thirsty company it was, too, but not a sign of trouble did I see the whole evening through. The truth of the matter is that to the majority of the men and women present a fight was a serious affair, and one not to be entered into lightly and unadvisedly. For three hours I sat with my two Israelitish friends--a pool-room keeper and a dime-museum manager respectively--and talked about the people who passed and repassed before us, and I am bound to say that the conversation of a clever New York Jew of their type is almost always edifying and amusing. “It’s a curious thing,” said one of my companions at last, “but I really believe that we three men at this table are the only ones in the whole room who have any sort of sense of the picturesqueness of this thing, or are onto the gang of people gathered together here. There’s probably not a soul in the room outside of ourselves but what imagines that this is just a plain, every-day sort of crowd and not one of the most extraordinary collections of human beings I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve been knocking round New York ever since I was knee-high. There are thousands of people giving up their good dust every week to go in and look at the freaks in my museum, and there’s not one of them that’s as interesting as dozens that we can see here to-night for nothing. Just look at that woman over there that all the politicians are bowing down to; and they’ve got a right to, too, for she’s a big power in the district and knows more about politics than Barney Rourke. They never dared pull _her_ place when the police were making all those raids last month. Those diamonds she wears are worth ten thousand if they’re worth a cent. There’s a man who wouldn’t be here to-night if it wasn’t for the time they allow on a sentence for good behavior, and that fellow next him keeps a fence down in Elizabeth Street. There’s pretty near every class of New Yorkers represented here to-night except the fellows that write the stories in the magazines. Where’s Howells? I don’t see him anywhere around,” he exclaimed, ironically, rising from