We that would properly welcome the new year should view it with the
eye of an optimist, and sing its praises with the coated tongue of a
penitent.
We should dismiss from our hearts the cold precept that history
repeats itself, and strive to believe that the deficiencies of the day
will be supplied by the morrow. Since fancy whispers to us that at the
stroke of midnight the old order will change, yielding to the new, let
us put aside, if possible, all knowledge to the contrary and revel in
the fairy tale told by the merry bells.
Man's arbitrary part of the time into hours, days and years causes no
perceptible jolt beneath the noiseless pneumatic tire of the cycle of
years. No mortal tack can puncture that wheel. Old Father Time is a
"scorcher," and he rides without lamp or warning bell. The years that
are as mile-stones to us are as gravel spurned beneath him. But to us,
of few days and an occasional night off, they serve as warnings to
note the hour upon the face of a mighty clock upon which the hands
move silently and are never turned back.
The New Year is feminine. There is no question but that the world has
become badly mixed as to the gender of time. And again, the New Year
is no cherubic debutante with eyes full of prophetic joys, but a grim
and ancient spinster who flutters coyly into our presence with a giddy
giggle, rejuvenated for the occasion. We have made obeisance to those
same charms time out of mind; we have whispered soft nothings into
those same ears many moons ago; we have lightly brushed those painted
and powdered cheeks in time gone by when they glowed with the damask
bloom of youth. But let us hug once more the dear delusion. Let us say
that she is fair and fresh as the rising morn, and make unto ourselves
a season of mirth and heedless joy.
The fiddles strike up and the hautboys sigh. Your hand, sweet, coy New
Year--take care of that rheumatic knee--come, let us foot it as the
gladsome bells proclaim your debut--number 1896.
* * * * *
The last day of the year is generally spent in laying in as big a
stock as possible of things suitable for use the next day for
swearing-off purposes.
It is so much easier to resolve to do without anything when we have
just had too much of it. How easy it is on New Year's day, just after
dinner, when we are full of good resolutions and turkey, to kneel down
and solemnly affirm that we will never touch food again. The man who
on the morning of the glad New Year stands trembling with fear on the
center table, while snakes and lizards merrily play hide and seek on
the floor, finds no difficulty in forswearing the sparkling bowl. The
dark brown, copper-riveted taste which accompanies what is known to
the medical profession as the New Year tongue, is a great incentive to
reform.
The beautiful siren-like, Christmas-present cigar that is so fair to
gaze upon, when lit turns like a viper and stings us into abjuring my
Lady Nicotine forever.
When we attempt to sit upon the early scarlet runner, hand-embroidered
rocking-chair cushion presented to us by our maiden aunt and slide out
upon the floor upon our spinal vertebrae, we feel inclined to kneel in
our own blood with a dagger between our teeth and swear by heaven
never to sit down again.
When we go upon the streets wearing the neckties presented to us by
our wife, and the loiterer upon the corner sayeth, "Ha, Ha," and the
newsboy inquireth, "What is it?" is it any wonder that we curse the
necktie habit as an enemy of man, and on New Year's morning swear to
abjure it forever?
When we say farewell, and with clenched teeth wend our way into the
shirt made for us by the fair hands of our partner in sorrow, and find
the collar tighter than the last one worn by the late lamented Harry
Hayward, and the tail thereof more biased than a populist editorial,
and the bosom in billowy waves that heave upon our manly chest like a
polonaise on a colored cook on Emancipation Day, and the sleeves
dragging the floor as we walk about, saying, "It's so nice, my
dear--just what I wanted," what wonder that we register an oath with
the Lord of Abraham and Jacob as the glad New Year bells peal out,
nevermore to wear again a garment made by that portion of the earth's
inhabitants that sits on the floor to put on its shoes, and regards
the male torso as a waste basket for remnant AA sheeting and misfit
Butterick patterns?
There are so many things we take a delight in forswearing on New
Year's Day.
* * * * *
While strolling aimlessly about the streets of Houston on the last
evening of 1895, little sights and sounds obtrude themselves and
reveal the spirit of the time, as little pulse beats indicate the
general tone of the human system.
It is nearly 6 o'clock, and there is a lively crowd moving upon the
sidewalks. Here comes a lovely little shopgirl, as neat and trim as a
fashion plate. Her big hat plumes wave, and her little boot heels beat
a merry tictac upon the pavement. Debonaire and full of life and fun,
she moves, cheery and happy, on her way to supper. Her bright eyes
flash sidelong glances at the jeweler's windows as she passes. Some
day she hopes to see upon her white finger one of those sparkling
diamonds. Her lips curve in a meaning smile. She is thinking of the
handsome, finely-dressed man who comes so often to her counter in the
big store, ostensibly to buy her wares. How grand he is, and what
eloquent eyes and a lovely mustache he has! She does not know his
name; but, well, she knows that he cares a little for the goods she
sells. How soft his voice as he asks the price of this and that, and
with what romantic feeling he says that we will surely have rain if
the clouds gather sufficiently! She wonders where he is now. She trips
around a corner and meets him face to face. She gives a little scream,
and then her face hardens and a cold glitter comes into her eye.
On his arm is a huge market basket, from which protrudes the cold,
despairing legs of a turkey, from which the soul has filed. Two yards
of celery trail behind him; turnip greens, cauliflower and the alleged
yellow yam nestle against his arm. On his brow is confusion; in his
face are hung the scarlet banners of a guilty conscience; in his
romantic eyes she reads the tell-tale story of a benedict; by the hand
he leads a cold-nosed but indisputable little boy.
She elevates her charming head to a supercilious angle, snaps out to
herself the one word "married!" and is gone.
He jerks the limp, sad corpse of the turkey to the other side,
snatches the cold-nosed little boy about five feet through the air and
vows that never again will he go to market during the joyous year of
1896.
It is New Year's eve.
* * * * *
A citizen is restlessly pacing the floor of his sitting room. There is
evidently some crisis near, for his brow is contracted, and his hands
are nervously clasped and unclasped behind his back. He is waiting
expectantly for something. Suddenly the door opens and his family
physician enters smiling and congratulatory. The citizen turns upon
him a look full of inquiry.
"All is well," says the physician. "Three fine boys, and everybody
getting along first rate."
"Three?" says the citizen in a tone of horror, "Three!" He kneels on
the floor and in fervent accents exclaims: "Tomorrow will be the New
Year, and I hereby solemnly swear that--"
Breaking in upon his resolutions comes the merry chime of the New Year
bells.
* * * * *
The people come and the people go.
In the stores, looking over remnants of Christmas goods, are to be
found that class of people who received presents on Christmas Day
without giving any, and are now striving to make late and lame amends
by returning the compliment on New Year's Day. The New Year's present
is a delusion and contains about as much warmth and soul as a eulogy
on the South by the _New York Sun_.
Two ladies are at a bargain counter, maintaining an animated
conversation in low but dangerous tones.
"She sent me," says one of them, "a little old nickel-plated card
receiver on Christmas Day, and I know she bought it at a racket store.
Goodness knows, I never would have thought of sending her anything,
but now I've got to return it, of course--the old deceitful thing and
I don't know what to get for her. Let's see--oh yes; I have it now.
You know they say she used to be a chambermaid in a St. Louis hotel
before she was married; I'll just send her this little silver pin with
a broom on it. Wonder if she's bright enough to understand?"
"I hope so, I'm sure," says the other lady. "That reminds me that
George gave me a nice new opera cloak for a Christmas present, and I
just forgot all about him. What are those horn collar-buttons worth?"
"Fifteen cents a dozen," says the salesman.
"Let me see" says the lady meditatively--"Yes, I will; George has been
so good to me. Give me three of those buttons, please."
* * * * *
_Viva el rey; el rey esta muerto!_
The Spanish phrase looks better than the hackneyed French, and it is
correct, having been carefully revised by one of the most reliable
tamale dealers on Travis Street. The old year is passing; let us stand
in with the new. In happy Houston homes light feet are dancing away
the hours 'neath holly and mistletoe, but outside stalk those who
inherit want and care and misery, to whom the coming season brings
nothing of hope or joy.
Two young men are wending their way up Preston Street. One is holding
the other by the arm and guiding his steps. The sidewalk seems to run
in laps and curves, twisting itself into hills and hollows and
labyrinthine mazes. One of the young men thinks he is dying. The other
one is not sure about it, but he hopes he is not mistaken. They are
both good friends of the old year, and they hate to see it leave so
badly that they have sewed their sorrow up in a sack and tried to
drown it.
"Goo' bye, old frien'," says the dying one. "Go 'way and leave me to
die here on thish boundless prairie. Sands of life's runnin' out like
everyshing. Zat las' dish chick'n salad's done its work. Never see
fazzer'n muzzer any more."
"Bob," says the other one, "you're 'fern'l idiot. Never shay die. Zis
town Houston can't be more'n ten miles away. We're right on Harvey
Wilshon's race track now goin' round'n round. Whazzer mazzer wiz
livin' for country'n so forth?"
"Can't do it, old boy; 'stremities gettin' coldsh now. Light's fadin'
out of eyes'n worldsh fadin' from view. Can't shay 'er prayer, old
boy, 'fore vital spark expires! Can'tcher say lay'm down to sleep,
Jim?"
"Don't be a fool, Bob; come on, lesh find city Houston 'n git a
drink."
"Jim, I' dead man. Been wicked 'n told liesh, 'n played poker. Zhere
ain't no hope for handshome, unscrup'loush shociety man like me. Been
giddy butterfly 'n broke senty-five lovin' creaturesh hearts--jus'
listen Jim, I hear angelsh shingin' an' playin' harpsh, 'n I c'n see
beau'ful lights 'n heavensh wiz all kind colors flashin' from golden
gates. Jim, don't you hear angel throng shingin' shongs 'n see lights
shinin' in New Jerushalem?"
"Bob, you d'graded lun'tic, don't you know what that ish? That's
Salvation Army singin', 'n Ed Kiam's 'lectric sign you shee. Now I
know where we're at. Zere's five saloonsh on nex' block."
"Jim, you've shaved m' life. Lesh make one more effort 'fore I die, 'n
tell barkeep' put plenty ice in it."
* * * * *
Midnight draws on apace, and while some welcome with revelry the
advent of the New Year, others stray in the land of dreams, and allow
it to approach unheralded.
Ladies over 30 years of age take on a grim look about the jaw, and
bend with a deadly glitter in their eyes over the article in the
Sunday paper that treats of "How to avoid wrinkles," and sadly shake
their heads when they read that Madame Bonjour, the famous French
beauty, kept young and lovely until after 110 years of age by using
Bunker's Bunco Balm.
The New Year brings to them sad prospects of another gray hair, or a
crow's foot around the eye.
* * * * *
To the little folks the season is but a prolongation of Christmas, and
they welcome the turning over of the new leaf without a misgiving.
Would that we all might trace a record upon it as fair as that their
chubby hands will scrawl.
Happy New Year to all.
(_Houston Daily Post_, Wednesday morning, January 1, 1896.)
Watchman, What of the Night?
About the time that Alonzo bids his Melissa the fourteenth farewell at
the garden gate, and _pater familias_ calls angrily from his noisily
raised window, there sets forth into the city a straggling army of
toilers whose duties lead them into laborious ways while the great
world slumbers more or less sweetly upon its pillow.
Time was when all honest burghers were night-capped and somnolent at
an early hour, and the silent streets knew naught but the echoing
tread of the watchman who swung his lantern down the lonesome ways and
started at his own loud cry of "All's Well." But modern ideas have
almost turned the night into day. While we slumber at home, hundreds
are toiling that we may have our comforts in the morning. The baker is
at work upon our morning rolls; the milkman is at his pump; the
butcher is busy choosing his oldest cow to kill; the poor watchman is
slumbering in a cold doorway; the fireman is on the alert; the drug
clerk sits heavy-eyed, prepared to furnish our paregoric or court
plaster; the telephone girl chews gum and reads her novels while the
clock chimes wearily on; the printer clicks away at his machine; the
reporter prowls through the streets hunting down items to go with our
coffee and toast; the policeman lurks at a corner, ready to smash our
best hat with his deadly locust.
These night workers form a little world to themselves. They grow to
know each other, and there seems to be a sympathy among them on
account of their peculiar life. The night policemen, and morning
newspaper men, the cab drivers, the street cleaners (not referring to
Houston now), the late street car drivers, the all-night restaurant
men, the "rounders," the wiernerwurst men and the houseless "bums"
come to know and greet one another each night on their several regular
or aimless rounds. Only those who are called by business or curiosity
to walk into this night world know of the strange sights it presents.
At 12 o'clock the night in the city may be said to begin. By that time
the day toilers are at home, and the night shift is on. The street
cars have ceased to run, and the last belated citizen, hurrying home
from "the lodge" or the political caucus is, or should be, at home.
Even the slow-moving couples who have been to the theater and partaken
of oysters at the "cafe for ladies and gents," have bowed to the
inevitable and reluctantly turned homeward.
And now come forth things that flourish only in the shade; white-faced
things with owl-like eyes who prowl in the night and greet the dawn
with sullen faces and the sunlight with barred doors and darkened
windows.
Here and there down the streets are arc lights, and swinging doors,
and about are grouped a pale and calm-faced gentry with immaculate
clothes and white flexible hands. They are soft-voiced and courteous,
but their eyes are shifty and their tread light and cruel as a
tiger's. They are gamblers, and they will "rob" you as politely and
honestly as any stock broker or railroad manipulator in Christendom.
Byron says:
"The devil's in the moon for mischief; not the longest
day;
The twenty-first of June sees half the mischief in a
wicked way
As does three hours on which the moonshine falls."
And still worse; a night when there is no moon to shine. Darkness is
the great awakener of latent passions and the chief inciter to evil.
When night comes, the drunkard doubles his cups; the roisterer's voice
is unrestrained; even the staid and sober citizen, the bulwark of
civil and social government looses the checkrein of his demeanor and
mingles in the relaxations of the social circle. The tongue of
gallantry takes on new license, and even the brow and lip of innocence
itself invite admiration with a bolder and a surer charm. What wonder,
then, that lawlessness o'erreaches itself, and sin flaunts her flaming
skirts in the very face of purity when darkness reigns!
In the all-night saloons there is always someone to be found. At
little tables in the corners one can always see two or three worn and
shady-looking customers, sitting silent, brooding over the wrongs the
world has dealt them, or talking in low, querulous tones to each other
of their troubles. A smart policeman, with shining buttons and
important step, goes down the street twirling his club. He tries the
doors carefully of the big stores, the wholesale houses and the
jewelry stores to see if they are securely locked. He never makes a
mistake and wastes his time trying the fastenings of the small shops.
A few gay young men stroll by occasionally, with their coat collars
turned up, laughing loudly and scattering slang and coarse jests. Down
gloomy side streets steal a few dim figures, clinging to the shadows,
walking with dragging, shuffling feet down the inclined plane of
eternity. These are disreputable, but harmless, creatures, who have
stolen out to buy cocaine and opium with which to dull the bite of
misery's sharp tooth. In high windows dim lights burn, where anxious
love watches by the bedside of suffering mortality through the long
night watches, listening to the moans that it cannot quiet, and
wondering at the mysterious Great Plan that so hides its workings
toward a beneficent end.
Down by the bayou throb the great arteries of the town, where all
night long the puffing of steam and the click of piston rods keep its
life streams moving; where men move like demons in the red glow of
furnace fires; where snorting engines creep in and out among miles of
laden freight cars, and lanterns dance and circle amid a wilderness of
tracks and shifting trains like big eccentric fire-flies.
One can always see a few men perched on high stools at the all-night
lunch counters. They are for the most part members of the
night-working force, telegraph operators, night clerks, railroad men,
messenger boys, streetcar conductors, reporters, cab drivers, printers
and watchmen, who drop in to drink a cup of coffee or eat a sandwich.
The night clerk at the drug store sees much of the sadness and some of
the badness of life. Customers stray into the store at all times of
the night. The man with the disarranged attire and impatient manner is
a frequent visitor. He has a doctor's prescription for some sick
member of his family, and thinks it a greater blessing that he finds a
store open and a clerk ready to compound his medicine than to be
obliged to tug at a night bell for half an hour to wake up a sleepy
clerk, as in times gone by. Desperate-looking men sometimes come in to
buy poison--generally morphine--and occasionally a hopeless, wretched
woman with eyes big with hope deferred and an unpitying fate, will
creep in and beg for something that will stay the pain forever. Often,
in the darkest hour that they say comes before dawn, a man will enter
in a hurry, buy a few pounds of prepared chalk and slip around the
corner and drive away in a wagon containing two big bright tin cans
full of pure, rich Jersey milk.
In the infirmaries and hospitals the nurses and genial-faced Sisters
of Mercy bend over the beds of sufferers all through the dreary night,
and bring to many an aching heart, as well as to pain-racked bodies,
consolation and solace. The doctors, too, see much of the seamy side
of night life. They are out by day and by night; the telephone rouses
them from warm beds at all hours; whenever a knife flashes in a brawl,
the doctor must be sent for; if a lady feels a nervous fluttering at
the heart, out must come the carriage, and he must be sent for to feel
her pulse in the middle of the night. Often he watches at the bedside
of some stricken wife or child, while the husband is away roistering
in evil company.
* * * * *
On a dry goods box sits a tramp, gently swinging his feet. It is 2
o'clock in the morning, and there he sits chewing a splinter with a
frequent side glance toward the policeman on the next corner. What is
he doing there? Nothing.
Has he any hopes, fears, dislikes, ambitions, hates, loves or desires?
Very few. It may be that his is the true philosophy. John Davidson
says of him in a poem:
I hang about the streets all day,
At night I hang about;
I sleep a little when I may,
But rise, betimes, the morning's scout,
For through the year I always hear
Aloud, aloft, a ghostly shout.
My clothes are worn to threads and loops,
My skin shows here and there;
About my face, like seaweed, droops
My tangled beard, my tangled hair,
From cavernous and shaggy brows
My stony eyes untroubled stare.
I know no handicraft, no art,
But I have conquered fate;
For I have chosen the better part,
And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate;
With placid breath, on pain and death,
My certain alms, alone I wait.
And daily, nightly comes the call,
The pale unechoing note,
The faint "Aha" sent from the wall
Of Heaven, but from no ruddy throat
Of human breed or seraph's seed,
A phantom voice that cries by rote.
This is a state closely bordering upon Nirvana. Tennyson struck
another chord that sooner or later most people come to feel, when he
said:
"For, not to desire or admire,
If a man could learn it, were more
Than to walk all day like a sultan
Of old in a garden of spice."
The tramp sits out the weary hours of the night or else wanders in
dreary aimlessness about the streets, or crawls into some vestibule or
doorway for a few brief hours of unquiet slumber.
His is a pitiful solution of life at its best, for, though he has
acquired a numbness in place of what was once a keen pain, it is
directly contrary to the plan of the human mind to await in hopeless
stolidity the "certain alms" of death.
* * * * *
One of the most important of the world's industries carried on at
night is the making of the great morning daily newspaper. The average
reader who unfolds his paper above his coffee cup in the morning
rarely reflects that it represents the labor of half a hundred men, a
great number of whom bend their lagging steps homeward only when the
newsboy has begun to wake the morning echoes with his familiar cry.
When night comes the editorial day-force is ready for home; the
Associated Press wire is rattling in its messages from all parts of
the world; the telegraph editor is busy putting "heads" on the
type-written copy of the telegraph operator, and the night editor has
rolled up his sleeves, laid his club handy, and breathes a silent
prayer for help to the Goddess of Invective as he begins to wade
through his pile of missives from correspondents. The State wires are
opened, and the messenger boys are beginning to arrive with specials.
The city editor and his force are in, and are busy writing out the
local news from the notes they have taken during the day.
The phone rings, a reporter seizes his hat and is off to get the
item--perhaps an affray--someone run over by a wagon--a fire-a
hold-up, or burglary--something that the good citizens must not miss
as they eat their hash and muffins at breakfast.
The editorial room at night sees many strange characters and scenes.
People come up on all kinds of curious missions.
A citizen stumbles up the stairs and nearly falls into the room. The
force simply glances at him and keeps on working. His hair is
frowzled; his coat is buttoned in the wrong buttonholes; he wears no
collar; and in his blinking eyes, a roguish twinkle strives to
overcome the effects of loss of sleep. He is a well-known citizien,
and the force marvels slightly at his unusual condition. He staggers
over to the telegraph operator and clutches the railing around his
desk.
"Shay," he says in a bibulous voice, "wantscher to telgraph startlin'
news to ze outside world. Cable 'm to Europe 'n spread glad tidings to
all shivilized countries. Get shome bull'tins out at onesh."
The telegraph operator does not look up, and the gentleman tacks with
difficulty and steers against the railroad editor.
"Whatsher doin'?" he says.
"Railroads," says that gentleman shortly.
"Zat's ze sing. Gotter bigesht railroad item ever saw. Give you two
columns cause tremendoush 'citement railroad shircles."
The railroad editor writes calmly on, and the visitor gives him a
reproachful look and bears down upon the city editor.
"Shay, friend," he says, "gozzer bigges scoop 'n city news world ever
heard. No ozzer paper 'n town knows it."
"What is it?" says the city editor, without turning his head.
"Appalin' sensation 'n Firs' Ward. Shend four, five reporters my house
at onesh. I'm goin' back now. Had _twins_ my housh when lef' home.
Goin' back to shee 'f any more 'rived. Come back 'n let you know if
find any. Sho long, gen'lemen. Keep two columns on front page open
'till get back."
Later on three or four young gentlemen drop in. They speak low, and
are courteous and conciliatory. They are well-dressed, carry canes and
seem to have been out enjoying themselves. One or two of them have
torn coats and disarranged ties. One has a handkerchief bound over his
eye. They confer deferentially with the city editor, and certain words
and phrases, half-caught, tell the tale of their mission: "Unfortunate
affair--police--best families--publicity--not seriously hurt--upper
circles too much wine--keep out names--heated argument--very
sorry--friends again."
Comes the hot lunch man with his basket filled with weirnerwurst and
mustard, ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, cold chicken. The staff is too
busy, and he lugs his basket upstairs where the printers are at work.
A boy brings in a special telegram. The night editor opens and reads
it, and then springs to his feet. He grasps a handful of his hair and
kicks his chair ten feet away. "---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----" he
yells. "Listen to this."
It is a special by wire from a country correspondent. This is what it
says: "Spring has opened here. The birds are singing merrily in the
trees and the peach trees are in full bloom. The weather has moderated
considerably and the farmers are hopeful. The fruit crop will be
assured unless we should have a cold snap sufficient to injure the
buds."
"---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----" remarks the night editor again, and
then, his vocabulary failing to express his feelings, he bites his
cigar in two and sits down again.
A man in a seedy frock coat and a big walking cane saunters in and
draws a chair close to the night editor's desk.
"When I was with Lee in the Valley of Virginia--" he begins.
"I am sorry you are not with him now," says the night editor.
The visitor sighs, borrows a cigar and a match, and drifts out to see
if he can get the ear of someone of a more indulgent temper.
Between 1 and 2 o'clock the city editor and his assistants are through
their work, the railroad man turns in "30" and they troop away,
leaving the night editor to remain until the last.
In the composing room the printers have been working away since 7
o'clock on their keyboards like so many Paderewskis. They quit about
3:30 a.m. As the night editor leaves, another army has begun its
march. These are the people who rise at 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning.
The mailing clerks are preparing the papers for the out-of-town mails;
the newsboys are crowding around for their papers, and abroad in the
land are audible the first faint sounds of the coming day.
Wheels are rattling over the dark streets. The milk man is abroad, and
the butcher's cart is making its rounds. Policemen relax their
vigilance, and around the coffee stands is gathered quite a crowd of
night workers who drop in for something hot before going home.
It is five hours yet before my lady arouses in her boudoir, and
hundreds of her slaves are astir in her service. When she seats
herself at ten at the breakfast table arrayed in becoming morning
toilet, she never thinks of her loyal vassals that have been toiling
during the night to prepare her dainty breakfast. Miles away the
milkman and his assistants rise at 2 o'clock to procure the milk for
her tea; the baker many hours earlier to furnish her toast and rolls,
and the newspaper she so idly glances at represents twenty-four hours'
continuous labor of the brainiest, most intelligent, courtly, learned
and fascinating set of men in the world.
The night editor stops, perhaps, to eat a light lunch at a stand, and
chat a few minutes with the night workers he meets there. As he wends
his way homeward, he meets a citizen who has for once for some reason
arisen at what seems to him an unholy hour of the morning.
"Good morning," says the citizen, "what in the world are you doing up
so early?"
"Oh," says the night editor, "we newspaper men have to rise real early
in order to get the paper out by breakfast time."
"To be sure, to be sure," says the citizen. "I never thought of that!"
(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, March 29, 1896.)