The Voice of the City

by O. Henry

Further Tales of the Four Million: The Complete Life of John Hopkins; A Lickpenny Lover; Dougherty's Eye Opener; Little Speck in Garnered Fruit; The Harbinger; While the Auto Waits; A Comedy in Rubber; One Thousand Dollars; The Defeat of the City; The Shocks of Doom; The Plutonian Fire; Nemesis and the Candy Man; Squaring the Circle; Roses Ruses and Romance; The City of Dreadful Night; The Easter of the Soul; The Fook Killer; Transients in Arcadia; The Rathskeller and the Rose; The Clarion Call; Extradited from Bohemia; A Philistine in Bohemia; From Each According to His Ability; The Memento; and the title story.

Genres: Short Stories, Classics, Fiction, Humor, Literature

154 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1908

About the author

Such volumes as Cabbages and Kings (1904) and The Four Million (1906) collect short stories, noted for their often surprising endings, of American writer William Sydney Porter, who used the pen name O. Henry.

His biography shows where he found inspiration for his characters. His era produced their voices and his language.

Mother of three-year-old Porter died from tuberculosis. He left school at fifteen years of age and worked for five years in drugstore of his uncle and then for two years at a Texas sheep ranch.

In 1884, he went to Austin, where he worked in a real estate office and a church choir and spent four years as a draftsman in the general land office. His wife and firstborn died, but daughter Margaret survived him.

He failed to establish a small humorous weekly and afterward worked in poorly-run bank. When its accounts balanced not, people blamed and fired him.

In Houston, he worked for a few years until, ordered to stand trial for embezzlement, he fled to New Orleans and thence Honduras.

Two years later, he returned on account of illness of his wife. Apprehended, Porter served a few months more than three years in a penitentiary in Columbus, Ohio. During his incarceration, he composed ten short stories, including A Blackjack Bargainer , The Enchanted Kiss , and The Duplicity of Hargraves .

In 1899, McClure's published Whistling Dick's Christmas Story and Georgia's Ruling .

In Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, he sent manuscripts to New York editors. In the spring of 1902, Ainslee's Magazine offered him a regular income if he moved to New York.

In less than eight years, he became a bestselling author of collections of short stories. Cabbages and Kings came first in 1904 The Four Million, and The Trimmed Lamp and Heart of the West followed in 1907, and The Voice of the City in 1908, Roads of Destiny and Options in 1909, Strictly Business and Whirligigs in 1910 followed.

Posthumously published collections include The Gentle Grafter about the swindler, Jeff Peters; Rolling Stones , Waifs and Strays , and in 1936, unsigned stories, followed.

People rewarded other persons financially more. A Retrieved Reformation about the safe-cracker Jimmy Valentine got $250; six years later, $500 for dramatic rights, which gave over $100,000 royalties for playwright Paul Armstrong. Many stories have been made into films.

Reviews

[Maureen · Rating 3 out of 5]

For me personally, not one of O. Henry’s better ones.

[Manuel Alfonseca · Rating 3 out of 5]

ENGLISH: 25 short stories by O.Henry. This is the second time I've read them all. Those I liked best are the following:

One thousand dollars, Transients in Arcadia, Extradited from Bohemia and A philistine in Bohemia.

ESPAÑOL: 25 relatos cortos de O. Henry. Esta es la segunda vez que los he leído. Los que más me han gustado son los siguientes:

Mil dólares, Transeúntes en Arcadia, Extraditados de Bohemia y Un filisteo en Bohemia.

[Dwayne Roberts · Rating 4 out of 5]

Eloquent and inventive.

[Mary Montgomery H. · Rating 5 out of 5]

O’Henry was a master at stealthily developing his characters within just a few pages of each short story. The last page, of course, is the complete revelation of the character’s motive...O’Henry’s signature surprise ending. But I also love the way he captured turn-of-the-century New York City and the pockets of people who made up this exciting metropolis. Of course, he is not politically correct by today’s standards. But his use of descriptors like “clay-eaters” and/or “dago” make the stories more genuine, as well as demonstrate what a true melting pot NY was. I was also quite entertained by his clever use of imagery, “John Hopkins sought to inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence.”

[Mariangel · Rating 3 out of 5]

My favorite stories in this collection were
"Dougherty's Eye-Opener", "Little Speck in Garnered Fruit", "The harbinger", "While the auto waits", "One Thousand Dollars", "The defeat of the city", "The shocks of doom", "The Plutonian fire", "Transients in Arcadia" and "The Rathskeller and the rose."

From "While the auto waits"

Her book slipped from her fingers and bounded from the bench a full yard away. The young man pounced upon it with instant avidity, returning it to its owner with that air that seems to flourish in parks and public places - a compound of gallantry and hope - and stood poised for a moment, awaiting his fate.

From "The harbinger"

Mr. Peters had a pure, unbroken record of five years without having earned a penny.

"You have a dollar" he said loftily.
" I have" said Mrs. Peters, producing the bill from her bossom and cracking it, teasingly.

From "The Plutonian fire":

"You can fool an editor with a fake picture of a cowboy mounting a pony with his left hand on the saddle horn, but not with a love story. So, you’ve got to fall in love and then write the real thing."
Pettit did. I never knew whether he was taking my advice or whether he fell an accidental victim.
There was a girl he had met at one of these studios -a glorious, impudent, lucid, open-minded girl with hair the color of Culmbacher, and a good-natured way of despising you. She was a New York girl.
Well, Pettit went to pieces. (...) There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me and talked about the grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon getting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative doses of whiskey were administered to him.

[Classic reverie · Rating 5 out of 5]

O. Henry's "The Voice of the City" is a short story from "The Voice of the City" collection which has a philosophical nature. A writer meets several different New Yorkers to ask them what do the they think the City says to them. He keeps asking and being mostly rebuffed. What does the city say to them? They are not really listening and they are too busy with life.

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖
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TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO the school children used to chant their lessons. The manner of their delivery was a singsong recitative between the utterance of an Episcopal minister and the drone of a tired sawmill. I mean no disrespect. We must have lumber and sawdust. I remember one beautiful and instructive little lyric that emanated
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from the physiology class. The most striking line of it was this: “The shin-bone is the long-est bone in the hu- man bod-y.” What an inestimable boon it would have been if all the corporeal and spiritual facts pertaining to man had thus been tunefully and logically inculcated in our youthful minds! But what we gained in anatomy, music and philosophy was meagre. The other day I became confused. I n,eeded a ray of light. I turned back to those school days for aid. But in
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all the nasal harmonies we whined forth from those hard benches I could not recall one that treated of the voice of agglomerated mankind. In other words, of the composite vocal message of massed humanity. In other words, of the Voice of a Big City. Now, the individual voice is not lacking. We can understand the song of the poet, the ripple of the brook, the meaning of the man who wants $5 until next Monday, the inscriptions on the tombs of the Pharaohs, the language of flowers, the
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“step lively” of the conductor, and the prelude of the milk cans at 4 a. m. Certain large-eared ones even assert that they are wise to the vibrations of the tympanum produced by concussion of the air emanating from Mr. H. James. But who can comprehend the meaning of the voice of the city? I went out for to see. First, I asked Aurelia. She wore white Swiss and a hat with flowers on it, and ribbons and ends of things fluttered here and there.

❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌spoiler alert

He starts out with asking his girlfriend, Aurelia and ends up with her but seems to understand the voice is personal and the collective voice of the city is lost.

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“Tell me,” I said, stammeringly, for I have no voice of my own, “what does this big — er — enormous — er — whopping city say? It must have a voice of some kind. Does it ever speak to you? How do you interpret its meaning? It is a tremendous mass, but it must have a key.” “Like a Saratoga trunk?” asked Aurelia. “No,” said I. “Please do not refer to the lid. I have a fancy that every city has a voice. Each one has something to say to the one who can hear it. What does the big one say to you?”
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“All cities,” said Aurelia, judicially, “say the same thing. When they get through saying it there is an echo from Philadelphia. So, they are unanimous.” “Here are 4,000,000 people,” said I, scholastically, “compressed upon an island, which is mostly lamb surrounded by Wall Street water. The conjunction of so many units into so small a space must result in an identity — or, or rather a homogeneity that finds its oral expression through a common channel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of
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translation, concentrating in a crystallized, general idea which reveals itself in what may be termed the Voice of the City. Can you tell me what it is?” Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high stoop. A spray of insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray of impudent moonlight flickered upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel-plated. “I must go and find out,” I said, “what is the Voice of this City. Other cities have voices. It is an assignment. I must have it. New York,”
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I continued, in a rising tone, “had better not hand me a cigar and say: ‘Old man, I can’t talk for publication.’ No other city acts in that way. Chicago says, unhesitatingly, ‘I will;’ I Philadelphia says, ‘I should;’ New Orleans says, ‘I used to;’ Louisville says, ‘Don’t care if I do;’ St. Louis says, ‘Excuse me;’ Pittsburg says, ‘Smoke up.’ Now, New York—” Aurelia smiled. “Very well,” said I, “I must go elsewhere and find out.” I went into a palace, tile-floored, cherub-ceilinged and square with
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the cop. I put my foot on the brass rail and said to Billy Magnus, the best bartender in the diocese: “Billy, you’ve lived in New York a long time — what kind of a song-and-dance does this old town give you? What I mean is, doesn’t the gab of it seem to kind of bunch up and slide over the bar to you in a sort of amalgamated tip that hits off the burg in a kind of an epigram with a dash of bitters and a slice of—” “Excuse me a minute,” said Billy, “somebody’s punching the button at the side door.”

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He went away; came back with an empty tin bucket; again vanished with it full; returned and said to me: “That was Mame. She rings twice. She likes a glass of beer for supper. Her and the kid. If you ever saw that little skeesicks of mine brace up in his high chair and take his beer and — But, say, what was yours? I get kind of excited when I hear them two rings — was it the baseball score or gin fizz you asked for?” “Ginger ale,” I answered. I walked up to Broadway. I saw a cop on the corner. The cops take
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kids up, women across, and men in. I went up to him. “If I’m not exceeding the spiel limit,” I said, “let me ask you. You see New York during its vocative hours. It is the function of you and your brother cops to preserve the acoustics of the city. There must be a civic voice that is intelligible to you. At night during your lonely rounds you must have heard it. What is the epitome of its turmoil and shouting? What does the city say to you?”
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“Friend,” said the policeman, spinning his club, “it don’t say nothing. I get my orders from the man higher up. Say, I guess you’re all right. Stand here for a few minutes and keep an eye open for the roundsman.” The cop melted into the darkness of the side street. In ten minutes he had returned. “Married last Tuesday,” he said, half gruffly. “You know how they are. She comes to that corner at nine every night for a — comes to say ‘hello!’ I generally manage to be
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there. Say, what was it you asked me a bit ago — what’s doing in the city? Oh, there’s a roof-garden or two just opened, twelve blocks up.” I crossed a crow’s-foot of street-car tracks, and skirted the edge of an umbrageous park. An artificial Diana, gilded, heroic, poised, wind-ruled, on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky. Along came my poet, hurrying, hatted, haired, emitting dactyls, spondees and dactylis. I seized him.
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“Bill,” said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), “give me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You see, it’s a special order. Ordinarily a symposium comprising the views of Henry Clews, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Irwin and Charles Schwab would be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad, poetic, mystic vocalization of the city’s soul and meaning. You are the very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note
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was about two feet below the lowest G on the piano. Now, you can’t put New York into a note unless it’s better indorsed than that. But give me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and far- reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous crash of the chords of the day’s traffic, the laughter and music of the night, the solemn tones of Dr. Parkhurst, the rag-time, the weeping, the stealthy hum of cab-wheels, the shout of the press agent, the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens,
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the hullabaloo of the strawberry vender and the covers of Everybody’s Magazine, the whispers of the lovers in the parks — all these sounds must go into your Voice — not combined, but mixed, and of the mixture an essence made; and of the essence an extract — an audible extract, of which one drop shall form the thing we seek.” “Do you remember,” asked the poet, with a chuckle, “that California girl we met at Stiver’s studio last week? Well, I’m on my way to see her. She repeated that poem of
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mine, ‘The Tribute of Spring,’ word for word. She’s the smartest proposition in this town just at present. Say, how does this confounded tie look? I spoiled four before I got one to set right.” “And the Voice that I asked you about?” I inquired. “Oh, she doesn’t sing,” said Cleon. “But you ought to hear her recite my ‘Angel of the Inshore Wind.’” I passed on. I cornered a newsboy and he flashed at me prophetic pink papers that outstripped the news by
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two revolutions of the clock’s longest hand. “Son,” I said, while I pretended to chase coins in my penny pocket, “doesn’t it sometimes seem to you as if the city ought to be able to talk? All these ups and downs and funny business and queer things happening every day — what would it say, do you think, if it could speak?” “Quit yer kiddin’,” said the boy. “Wot paper yer want? I got no time to waste. It’s Mag’s birthday, and I want thirty cents to git her a present.”
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Here was no interpreter of the city’s mouthpiece. I bought a paper, and consigned its undeclared treaties, its premeditated murders and unfought battles to an ash can. Again I repaired to the park and sat in the moon shade. I thought and thought, and wondered why none could tell me what I asked for. And then, as swift as light from a fixed star, the answer came to me. I arose and hurried — hurried as so many reasoners must, back around my circle. I knew the answer and I hugged it in my breast as I flew, fearing lest some one would stop me and demand my secret. Aurelia was still on the stoop. The moon was higher and the ivy shadows were deeper. I sat at her side and we watched a little cloud tilt at the drifting moon and go asunder quite pale and discomfited. And then, wonder of wonders and delight of delights! our hands somehow touched, and our fingers closed together and did not part. After half an hour Aurelia said, with that smile of hers:
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“Do you know, you haven’t spoken a word since you came back!” “That,” said I, nodding wisely, “is the Voice of the City.”

[Forked Radish · Rating 2 out of 5]

Not exactly an epiphany.

[Arjen · Rating 3 out of 5]

The best stories of O. Henry comprised 65 short stories, a bit too many to soldier through I found. Many of the stories are peopled with a returning cast of smalltime swindlers, Caribbean island dwellers, and out of luck poor working class New Yorkers. This brings cohesion to the collection.

Considering the stories were written over a 100 years ago, they are still quite fresh and cheeky, although the twists and jokes that are his signature style can feel a bit like daddy-jokes. A handful of stories were touching, some were wise. I expect O. Henry will stay with me for a while.

[April Helms · Rating 5 out of 5]

The theme of "trying to catch the character of a place" is a common one for O. Henry, but each story goes about it in a different way, and so far each take I've read is masterfully done, including this one. Here, a young man tries to ask various residents of New York City what this metropolis would sound like if it could speak. The answers he gets vary wildly. Didn't see his conclusion coming but it was satisfying.

[Jelena · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book is not by O.Henry!
It’s a collection of stories from Greece, Finland, Belgium, France, Georgia told or re-told by the several travellers. These are not your typical touristy stories, but conversations with local homeless people, activists, social centre employees, village priests. Not exactly a fun read all the time, but interesting nonetheless.

[Barbara · Rating 4 out of 5]

Another collection of characters in 19th century New York. Every one of them is unique and a little peculiar but after dozens of them, they begin to seem alike. I wonder if O. Henry stories are best enjoyed one at a time, read aloud and spaced far apart.

[Raquel Rueda · Rating 3 out of 5]

Algunos relatos me han gustado, pero otros me han parecido lentos y aburridos. En mi caso, es la edición de Ediciones Traspiés y las ilustraciones son preciosas.

[Greg · Rating 2 out of 5]

(Short story review) "I must go and find out what is the voice of this city," says the narrator. And so he does in a way that's a little too obvious for my taste.

[Barb Chansky · Rating 4 out of 5]

Continuing my "grand quest" of re-reading O. Henry in English. What can I say that was not already said of this unique writer? His humanistic sarcasm and deep appreciation of the irony of life is such a balm to encounter, especially in this time of universal craziness and the tyranny of weak men. I mean, who else could write a love story about two professional rubberneckers?! And to see the city I love through his eyes...how much had changed, yet how much stayed the same...It's shame to see that our modern politically correct educational system all but buried O. Henry - because he really IS an American classic!

[Liudmyla · Rating 4 out of 5]

Новели О.Генрі це окремий вид задоволення. Це лише друга збірка, яку я прочитала із цієї серії (а їх там 12), тому порівнювати з іншими поки не можу. Мені подобається, що в таких коротких історіях йому вдається передать настрій, характери персонажів, і я не завжди можу догадатися як він зафіналить. Моя рекомендація по одному в день, бажано зранку.

[Classic reverie · Rating 5 out of 5]

O. Henry’s fifth short story collection, THE VOICE OF THE CITY was first published in 1908.

The majority are reviewed separately. I absolutely love O. Henry.


THE VOICE OF THE CITY
THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS
A LICKPENNY LOVER
DOUGHERTY’S EYE-OPENER -- no separate review-- A husband finally sees his wife as a true wonder and asset.
“LITTLE SPECK IN GARNERED FRUIT”
THE HARBINGER
WHILE THE AUTO WAITS
A COMEDY IN RUBBER
ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS
THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY ---no separate review--A lawyer brings his society wife to his rural family home and he is surprised by her reaction.
THE SHOCKS OF DOOM ---no separate review - Two men have different fates with regards to a rich relative.
THE PLUTONIAN FIRE ---no separate review-- A writer's story.
NEMESIS AND THE CANDY MAN ----no separate review -- A message delivered by a candy man which breaks one's heart.
SQUARING THE CIRCLE
ROSES, RUSES AND ROMANCE
THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT
THE EASTER OF THE SOUL ---no separate review-- Love is in the air.
THE FOOL-KILLER
TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA
THE RATHSKELLER AND THE ROSE
THE CLARION CALL
EXTRADITED FROM BOHEMIA
A PHILISTINE IN BOHEMIA ---no separate review-- A girl is happy when the one she loves is indeed different.
FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY ---no separate review---A young man proposes many times but is refused until he changes his ways.
THE MEMENTO

[Jim Bertsch · Rating 4 out of 5]

Further Tales of the Four Million: The Complete Life of John Hopkins; A Lickpenny Lover; Dougherty's Eye Opener; Little Speck in Garnered Fruit; The Harbinger; While the Auto Waits; A Comedy in Rubber; One Thousand Dollars; The Defeat of the City; The Shocks of Doom; The Plutonian Fire; Nemesis and the Candy Man; Squaring the Circle; Roses Ruses and Romance; The City of Dreadful Night; The Easter of the Soul; The Fook Killer; Transients in Arcadia; The Rathskeller and the Rose; The Clarion Call; Extradited from Bohemia; A Philistine in Bohemia; From Each According to His Ability; The Memento; and the title story.

[Lindsay]

The narrator seeks the voice of New York City. "Chicago says unhesitatingly, 'I will.'" I love that.

[Mike Corgan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Good O. Henry short story.

[Shasta · Rating 3 out of 5]

Nothing special.