All Over but the Shouting?
THE deposed Mayor's financial agent was hiding out in Mexico and the ex-Mayor himself was on a slow boat to Europe. The resignation of Walker was a shattering blow to New Yorkers, who had already been rocked by the exposure of the parade of clowns called sheriffs, the magistrates, vice cops, district leaders, and Tammany officials on the take in every department. Something here ran deeper than mere corruption in the unmaking of the city; something would have to be done about the municipality's structure; and someone would have to come along to remove the cynicism and administer a new New York.
Samuel Seabury breathed easily for the first time in two years and went to London to find relaxation in the offices of archivists and genealogists in Chancery Lane. In the evening, after a roast beef dinner with Maud, he lit a cigar and took a stroll, swinging his walking stick. And since he could not sleep without a game of chess with his nephew or an hour or so of reading, he rediscovered the pleasures of literature. There were lecture invitations from leading American universities and a final report to make to the state legislative committee, a summing up and a formula for building high the walls against corruption in New York. For the moment, these could wait. Among his authors, as he contemplated the philosophy of government that had taken him this far, he could find Oliver Goldsmith, writing "The Bee" in 1759, not without current meaning: