This is another interesting tidbit from Light and Shadows of New York Life, 1875 – all about how to throw a good party.

New York has long been celebrated for its magnificent social entertainments.  Its balls, dinner parties, receptions, private theatricals, picnics, croquet parties, and similar gatherings are unsurpassed in respect to show in any city in the world.  Every year some new species of entertainment is devised by some leader in society, and repeated throughout the season by every one who can raise the money to pay for it.  The variety, however, is chiefly in the name, for all parties, breakfasts, dinners, suppers, or receptions are alike.

Of late years it is becoming common not to give entertainments at one’s residence, but to hire public rooms set apart for that purpose.  There is a large house in the upper part of Fifth avenue, which is fitted up exclusively for the use of persons giving balls, suppers, or receptions. It is so large that several entertainments can be held at the same time on its different floors, without either annoying or inconveniencing the others.  The proprietor of the establishment provides everything down to the minutest detail, the wishes and tastes of the giver of the entertainment being scrupulously respected in everything.  The host and hostess, in consequence, have no trouble, but have simply to be on hand at the proper time to receive their guests.  This is a very expensive mode of entertaining, and costs from 5000 to 15,000 dollars, for the caterer expects a liberal profit on everything he provides; but to those who can afford it, it is a very sensible plan.  It saves an immense amount of trouble at home, and preserves one’s carpets and furniture from the damage invariably done to them on such occasions, and averts all possibility of robbery by the strange servants one is forced to employ. Still, many who possess large and elegant mansions of their own prefer to entertain at their own homes.

Upon the evening appointed a carpet is spread from the curbstone to the front door, and over this is placed a temporary awning.  A policeman is engaged to keep off the crowd and regulate the movements of the carriages.  About nine o’clock magnificent equipages, with drivers and footmen in livery, commence to arrive, and from these gorgeous vehicles richly dressed ladies and gentlemen alight, and pass up the carpeted steps to the entrance door.  On such occasions gentlemen are excluded from the carriage if possible, as all the space within the vehicle is needed for the lady’s skirts.  The lady is accompanied by a maid whose business it is to adjust her toilette in the dressing room, and see that everything is in its proper place.

At the door stands some one to receive the cards of invitation.  Once admitted, the ladies and gentlemen pass into the dressing rooms set apart for them.  Here they put the last touches to their dress and hair, and, the ladies having joined their escorts, enter the drawing room and pay their respects to the host and hostess.  When from one to two thousand guests are to be received, the reader may imagine that the labors of the host and hostess are not slight.

Every arrangement is made for dancing.  A fine orchestra is provided, and is placed so that it may consume as little space as possible.  A row of chairs placed around the room, and tied in couples with pocket-handkerchiefs, denotes that “The German” is to be danced during the course of the evening.  There is very little dancing, however, of any kind, before midnight, the intervening time being taken up with the arrivals of guests and promenading.

About midnight the supper room is thrown open, and there is a rush for the tables, which are loaded with every delicacy that money can buy.  The New York physicians ought to be devoutly thankful for these suppers. They bring them many a fee.  The servants are all French, and are clad in black swallow-tail coats and pants, with immaculate white vests, cravats and gloves.  They are as active as a set of monkeys, and are capital hands at anticipating your wants.  Sometimes the refreshments are served in the parlors, and are handed to the guests by the servants.

The richest and costliest of wines flow freely.  At a certain entertainment given not long since, 500 bottles of champagne, worth over four dollars each, were drunk.  Some young men make a habit of abstaining carefully during the day, in order to be the better prepared to drink at night.  The ladies drink almost as heavily as the men, and some of them could easily drink their partners under the table.

After supper the dancing begins in earnest.  If The German is danced it generally consumes the greater part of the evening.  I shall not undertake to describe it here.  It is a great mystery, and those who understand it appear to have exhausted in mastering it their capacity for understanding anything else.  It is a dance in which the greatest freedom is permitted, and in which liberties are taken and encouraged, which would be resented under other circumstances.  The figures really depend upon the leader of the dance, who can set such as he chooses, or devise them, if he has wit enough.  All the rest are compelled to follow his example.  The dance is thoroughly suited to the society we are considering, and owes its popularity to the liberties, to use no stronger term, it permits.

The toilettes of the persons present are magnificent.  The ladies are very queens in their gorgeousness.  They make their trails so long that half the men are in mortal dread of breaking their necks over them; and having gone to such expense for dry goods in this quarter, they display the greatest economy about the neck and bust.  They may be in “full dress” as to the lower parts of their bodies, but they are fearfully undressed from the head to the waist.

Towards morning the ball breaks up.  The guests, worn out with fatigue, and not unfrequently confused with liquor, take leave of their hosts and go home.  Many of them repeat the same performance almost nightly during the season.  No wonder that when the summer comes they are so much in need of recuperation.

This is part of the scene where the lads (and Emily) head off to New York for their new case:

A few last-minute arrivals bustled over, and were hurried on board. With a whoosh of steam and a series of great jerks, the double engines pulled us away from the station. A cloud of cinders flew past the windows, sparkling in the gloom, and the scent of wood smoke stung my nose. That ash would get everywhere if we opened the windows or left the car. Our clothing would require a good cleaning once we reached our destination. I had to remember that it was small price to pay for such a speedy journey. After all, it had taken our grandparents months to travel across the country. Just because I’d prefer to be relaxing within my own drawing room was no reason to disparage the wonders of modern technology[ Check etymology].

Emily and Barbara stared eagerly out the windows as we rode through the Sacramento Valley. This late in the year, the harvest was all gathered, but the valley was still green and lovely. The train swayed and jerked, and the constant rattle of the wheels lulled one into a daze. I pulled out The Mysterious Island, a new volume by Jules Verne. That, a couple more new books and a few old favorites should last the journey. I didn’t look up until the train began to climb the Sierras. The setting sun turned the rocks of the mountains golden. My appreciation of nature may be less than that of modern convenience, but I can recognize beauty when I see it.

We broke out the fried chicken dinner Mrs. Rowell had packed, and made use of the dining table. The porter, when summoned, was happy to fetch a coffee service and pour the wine, especially when I dropped another coin into his palm. These fellows made little or nothing from the big bugs of the railroad, and depended on their tips to make ends meet. A well-greased wheel moves easiest, and Chance Knight is all for greasing the wheels of society. “George” agreed to keep the coffee pot filled for us.

“If you like, sir,” he added, “I can provide an informative lecture when we reach the most interesting spots on the journey.”

“Oh, we should enjoy that very much,” cried Emily. “I’m certain you have seen every inch of the countryside by now.”

“George” smiled and nodded his curly head. “Yes’m, and I’ve got some mighty interesting stories, too. You’d be surprised what happens on a train.”

The landscape outside the windows changed from rolling fields to rugged cliffs and ravines and broken ridges, covered by dense stands of pine. The odor of the evergreens overpowered even the scent of the ash flying alongside the windows. I reached for my book.

“About our conversation the other day…” Emily said with a smile that raised the hackles on the back of my neck.

Kye had the audacity to chuckle.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said, opening the novel pointedly.

“Your memory is perfect, my dear. You are well aware that I am discussing Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid.”

At one point in the manuscript, Emily was going to become a newspaper reporter! Here’s a little of that chapter.

The morning found me seated before a rather alarming desk. The surface was stacked with paper from every conceivable source: newsprint, cheap rag and fine linen, even the odd bound book balanced amid the flimsy towers. Editor Rollin Murray, the gentleman behind the desk, spoke in a decidedly Irish voice, though he lacked the traditional red hair and florid complexion. He was not much taller than Chance, and I could barely see the top of his head over the papers.

The man peered at me from between his towers, a bemused expression on his craggy face. He had already asked if I were certain I was in the right place, and if I were certain that I wished to write for his newspaper. I made up my mind that I would try his rival unless he were able to wrap his own mind around the idea of a female reporter.

“Mr. Murray, I cannot imagine that it is quite so shocking as all that,” I said with a sniff that would have done Barbara proud. “After all, women do write for newspapers, although it is not entirely commonplace as yet.”

His face crinkled into the sort of smile one might visualize for a leprechaun. “Sure, and that’s not what’s got me befuddled, Miss.” He leaned forward, nearly dislodging one of the paper mounds. I eyed the quivering stack with some trepidation, but it must have been better balanced than it appeared, for it did not topple into either my lap or that of the editor.

“What’s bemused me so,” the man continued, “is how the dev– er, I mean to say, how did you know I was after enlarging the social pages? I only made the decision yesterday.” What I could see of his face behind the papers showed suspicion. “And I know you weren’t in that pub listening to Mr. Bentley and myself discuss the matter, Miss.”

“Really, Mr. Murray, there is hardly any mystery in that. It is obvious that the social pages now lack a certain …” I cleared my throat. “That is, I have often wished for more than just the usual tales of who has attended which affair and who is wedding whom.”

“I can see that a meek and retiring disposition is not one of the qualities that you have to offer this establishment.” Mr. Murray waved away my admittedly token protest. “A good reporter speaks his – or her, in this case – mind, Miss. I should have sent you on your way without thought if you had seemed one of those retiring souls who are merely seeking some occupation for their afternoons.”

felt my cheeks redden. “I must confess that my afternoons have seemed dull of late. However, I believe that my desire to write is more than a passing fancy. I have been told that I possess something of a wit, and wit is what the social pages chiefly seem to lack.”

He stroked his stubbled chin and stared at me pensively for a few moments, during which time I wondered if I had perhaps spoken too much of my mind. I opened my mouth, but he waved away my placating remarks.

“I propose a trial period,” he said. “To see if we will … suit one another. Temperamentally, that is.”

My face grew even more heated. “I shall be glad of the opportunity. I will do my best to see that our temperaments do not clash.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Miss. If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to have to learn to put up with my own temperament. And I can assure you that I’m not an easy man to work for. Best you’re able to stand up to me when you need to. Now, what are you planning to offer me for the next issue?”

I must confess that I could only stare at the man like a frog goggling on a lily pad. I had been so concerned about actually getting the job that I had neglected to select a suitable topic for a newspaper article. Mr. Murray laughed at my discomfiture.

“Not entirely certain I’d agree to your suggestion, right? Well, a good editor nearly always has a list of assignments for his reporters.”

“I was thinking that I might provide some sort of humorous depiction of some of the social events,” I ventured. “And perhaps some more in-depth stories about my peers.”

He held up a finger, and I ceased musing aloud. “I’m more in the mood for a good people-watching tale myself. Why don’t you just wander about this week and write me an article about what you see. Then we’ll decide if your writing suits my purposes. I hope it does, Miss.”

As I made my way back to the carriage, I found myself hoping the same.

I set out the very next day, my notebook and pencil in hand, to seek out adventures worthy of a newspaper article.

This was one of the original chapters from Kirkham’s POV – ditched it because nothing exciting happens to poor Stone unless he’s with the lads.

     Lieutenant Johnson kept up a solid stream of curses for the entire time it took the Pacific Express to clear the rock cut. His squad had dismantled the barricade in only fifteen minutes, but it took another fifteen to thread the train through the side of the mountain. The boom of the trestle exploding behind them didn’t improve the lieutenant’s mood any.

     Agent Reginald Kirkham paid no attention to Johnson, except to frown when the volume grew annoying. An educated man had no need to resort to such language, and he thought it spoke poorly of the man’s self control. Kirkham busied himself readying the gelding for travel. He had to catch up with those two reprobates before they disappeared again. The Bureau still hadn’t managed to figure out how they did it, but following each robbery, Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid just faded into the background. Obviously, they either had either an impenetrable hideout, or alter egos that could stand scrutiny. He planned to find out which.

     The army squad had complained at the presence of the horse within their boxcar. They’d changed their tune now that the payroll was likely halfway across the mountain range. Suddenly, every man wanted a horse, and every man wanted to go haring off after the outlaws. Kirkham had bought the mustang before they loaded the train. The animal was purported to be an excellent trail horse. He’d need a sure-footed horse if those two had taken to the mountains — and if they were half as good as they were supposed to be, they’d taken to the mountains.

     His assignment was to trail the outlaws to whatever hideout they were using, and to approach them if possible. Kirkham thought little of the latter idea. Some desk-bound bureaucrat back at the Capitol figured one special agent could easily overpower two of the worst the West had to offer, even somewhere back of beyond with two to one odds. Kirkham had no great hankering to get shot, so he planned a lengthy period of observation instead.

     The train had pulled clear of the cut and stopped, per Kirkham’s orders. He slid the door to the boxcar open. Lieutenant Johnson slammed a fist against the wall of the car.

     “Blast it, Kirkham! I ought to appropriate that animal in the name of the army. We can track down those two hooligans faster than any Washington city slicker.” His scowl darkened as Kirkham pretended he’d heard nothing and led the horse down the ramp to the tracks.

     Johnson leaped down in front of the horse, causing it to shy back against the boxcar. That was entirely too much! Kirkham took two steps and shoved a finger underneath the man’s nose. He had a difficult time making it a finger instead of a fist.

     “You had this entire plan explained to you by the governor himself, Johnson. I don’t care what you think, but you’ll get out of my way or you’ll find yourself in irons.”

     The lieutenant did raise a fist, and then thought better of it, and stepped back. Kirkham didn’t spare him a second glance, but mounted up and urged the horse into a canter. It’d be useless back-tracking to the trestle — or what was left of it. He knew pretty much where the outlaws had lain in wait. What he needed to figure out was where they were headed. To that end, he needed to pick up their trail on the dry riverbed.

     He took a deep breath as he left the train behind. The crisp mountain air cooled off his temper some. Sure, he could have used a few extra riflemen as backup, but he’d prefer men who were better at creative thinking than at following orders. Maybe he’d gotten spoiled working in Washington, surrounded by the cream of the Bureau. It had taken them nearly a year to track the outlaws this far. He’d hate to imagine how long it would have taken if he’d had Johnson and his squad helping instead of his pick of the Bureau statistics team.

     Perhaps his boss had been right; perhaps he did need to get out in the field and see how the world really worked. Although if that army squad was any indication, most people in the “real world” were about as observant as a lump of coal. If any one of those men had paid attention during the robbery, instead of shouting empty threats and useless curses, they’d have been able to successfully creep up on whichever one of the two had holed up in the rocks. Kirkham had figured out early on that the other outlaw was actually underneath the trestle: the bottle of nitroglycerin so pointedly mentioned had been positioned at the bottom of the explosive bundle, not at the top. Once he’d noticed that, he’d watched the shadows at the bottom of the ravine. He’d spotted the arm reaching out to haul the payroll box between a couple of crossbars, and felt a grudging respect for their ingenuity.

     Kirkham thought about it as the horse picked its way down the side of the mountain. He’d requested this assignment because of that grudging respect, and he was about to learn whether he was as good an agent as he actually thought he was. Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid were the best at what they did. Even though Kirkham abhorred the idea of breaking the law, he admitted that fact, and admitted that they had to possess significant intelligence to be the best. The two outlaws had managed to outwit banks, trains, and stage lines for over ten years. Bankers who bragged of their impenetrable defenses unlocked their doors to find the safe emptied. Railroad presidents who’d plotted supposedly top-secret deliveries found their trains diverted and robbed. 

Thought I’d amuse you and post part of a chapter from Emily’s POV. You remember I deleted those chapters because the book was getting way too long…

This is from a scene at Lick House restaurant in San Francisco (late 1800’s for those who haven’t been paying attention).

Chance and Kye met my carriage at the curb. It seemed to be the latter’s turn to play escort, as he hurried forward to take my hand and help me down. I gave each gentleman a discreet embrace, and a chaste kiss on the cheek, before taking Kye’s arm and entering the hotel. Chance tagged along behind us, the very image of a platonic comrade.

Were Michelangelo still living, he would have demanded to paint Chance Knight. It must be said that the man is well aware of his effect on the opposite sex. He keeps his curly dark hair precisely long enough to instill a nearly irresistible urge to run one’s fingers through it, although that means that he must then habitually swipe the bangs out of his eyes in order to be able to see. His manner borders on impudent at times, although I have never noticed a recipient of his admiration making any complaints. I have not yet caught the man actually admiring his own reflection, although he is most fastidious about his appearance. The slightest bit of dust or soot that dares to alight upon his person is instantly and ferociously brushed away.

Chance’s usual expression is one that could only be described as Puckish. A dimple creases his left cheek almost perpetually, as though the man finds the universe immensely amusing and is only waiting for the rest of us to catch up with the punchline. One eyebrow seems always on the verge of rising sardonically. I have seen that brow in just such a position all too frequently, as well. Chance affects no facial hair, and, in my opinion, would look most displeasing beneath a beard or mustache. His posture and carriage rather remind one of a strutting rooster, albeit perhaps a bantam.

No matter what crowd the man may find himself in, Chance Knight will certainly be the center of attention. I have often thought it surprising that he has not chosen a life on the stage, so much does he love the limelight. I have never seen the man at a loss for words, or struggling to find exactly the right sentiment for any situation.

His partner, tall and silent Kye, is nearly his opposite. Where Chance seeks out the spotlight, Kye fades into the background. Kye is a solemn man. He seems to me a bit mistrustful of other people, as though he sees danger in every corner or behind every door. He does not speak much in public, although among friends his soft voice will make itself heard. The man has a certain way with a joke or tale, surprising because one does not expect it from so quiet a fellow.

He reminds me somewhat of Mr. Hickok, whom everyone calls “Wild Bill.” Kye is a striking man, though not what everyone might call handsome. His face is dominated by a great axe of a nose, beneath which he affects a thick mustache, of a shade slightly darker than his strawberry-blonde hair. Kye prefers a short haircut, slicked back as is the fashion, but otherwise he seems to care little for the current trends. In fact, I have always had the impression that the man simply pulls open his wardrobe and dons the first garment to come to hand.

Chance is the educated one of the pair, although he once confessed to me that he had left school at an early age and completed his education by reading. The man is easily intelligent enough to perform such a task, and I felt certain that Chance’s knowledge would rival that of any college graduate, especially as I had surreptitiously grilled a few of my male relatives about their college careers and passed along a list of recommended reading to my friend. Kye, although less educated than his partner, is nonetheless more knowledgeable than he allows people to guess. He speaks habitually in an exaggerated drawl, like an ignorant cowboy fresh from a cattle drive. However, having heard the man speak in perfectly proper English in the privacy of my own home, I am forced to decry that as a facade. It strikes me as yet another example of Kye’s droll wit: it amuses him to have people think of him as an uneducated farm boy.