Saturday Night Downtown Walk - 1883

"Saturday and Sunday: The City by Night As Seen by an Idle Spectator: A Tramp Around the Town – Human Nature on a Street Crossing – Patent Medicine and Peanuts"

Spectator October 29, 1883

Where do they all come from, and where do they all go to? From how many hundreds of homes comes the madding crowd? The old man with his battered hat that once was a handsome plug, and with a black and greasy clay pipe, with a broken stem stuck independently in his mouth; his wife with her bonnet of twenty years ago, a gaudy plaid shawl, a market basket, and a black stuff dress that has seen hard service; the daughter with the latest thing in hats on her blonde hair, with her Mother Hubbard dress, spreading hoops and high heel boots; the son in a fly suit made of diagonal cloth, spring bottomed pants, pointed shoes and a slouchy felt hat, which, like his plentifully oiled hair, is down low on his forehead. This is one party. But there are hosts of others there. The swell, with his cane, glass, dainty moustache and infinitesimal cigarette; the brainless fop or “dude” with the latest agony in green coat and vest, and light striped pants on; the grimy workman with his day’s toil still lingering on his honest face; the small boy with a big cigar, looking ludicrously out of place, stuck between his lips, giving him a sort of a “ I am tuff, I am” expression; the sewing girls, in all their gorgeous Sunday’s finery, out on the mash; and the thousand and one other representatives of every class and sort of humanity, all marching, seeming aimlessly, up and down, up and down, and making up the  nondescript crowd that throngs Hamilton’s principal streets every Saturday and Sunday evenings from 7:30 until about 10 o’clock.

Saturday evening a Spectator reporter laid in a stock of good cigars, put on a Piccadilly collar, grasped a substantial cane firmly in his right hand and set out to “do the town.” It was seven o’clock when he reached King Street, and the crowd had already commenced to gather. The air was full of tobacco smoke, profanity and snatches of desultory conversation. Mostly young men and boys out now. The girls have not made ready yet, but here and there down the stone sidewalk a graceful female figure can be seen treading its way along, flitting in and out amongst groups of two and three, that spread themselves across the pave. The shop windows form an irresistible attraction to the Saturday night promenaders. At every window, groups stand, taking in the tastefully displayed wares, and making a running fire of comments on the merits of the various windows inspected on the route. Here at the corner of King and James streets, there is always a crowd. A surging, struggling mass of promiscuous humanity, the girls invariably edging over to the inside, so that they may have a fleeting glance at their features in the looking glass on the corner, to see if their bangs are set right, and if any hair pins are peeping out from the wealth of tresses that lay gracefully coiled into a snug knot on the fair, white neck behind. A little push and you are through this crowd, and down James street, where the same throng surges up and down, up and down in the same unceasing manner as the wash of waves on the seas shore. Over on the market square, a crowd has gathered around an itinerant pedlar of cheap jewellery, who is shouting his wares so loudly that he can be heard a block away. On his right a man with long hair is detailing the virtues of a certain cure-all patent medicine, which Divine Providence has made him the special means of best bestowing upon the world at large for the moderate sum of 25 cents a bottle. A few steps from them sits a patient, cheerful, honest-looking man, sole proprietor of a taffy store, fruit emporium and peanut stand on wheels. Bad weather may bring a frown to his usually placid face, but never a word of complaint comes from his lips, and he posses the exemplary and rare virtue of contentment. The flaming flambeaux of these three falls on the face of a lady in silk attire, the workingman’s wife and the shameless painted face, with the wan smile and lustreless eye of the woman of the street. The ruddy glare falls on the faces of men and women alike, on the beardless youth and the world-worn man whose curiosity have attracted them to hear the words of wisdom fall from the lips of the vendors of patent medicine, jewellery and fresh-roasted peanuts. On the crossing that leads to the other side of the street, the Idle Spectator encountered a man who has been vainly endeavouring for the past five minutes to get a match going for a sufficient length of time to light a cigar. The Idle one who has a fragrant weed in his mouth, at which he is lazily puffing, courteously proffers a light, which the unsuccessful igniter accepts with a grunt and returns presently without a word. “That’s human nature all over,” the lounger says to himself philosophically, “ give a man a thing he don’t ask for and in nine cases out of ten he won’t thank you for it, but when he asks you! Dear! You have enough thanks to last a lifetime,” and the idler strolls away until he is lost to sight in the shifting mob on the sidewalk. Sunday night is merely a repetition of the other, only there is not so much light, not so much noise, more fine dresses and very few papas and mammas to break up the harmony of Mary Jane’s little sauntering with the overgrown small boy who drives the delivery cart for the grocer on the corner below. There is more “mashing” done on Sunday night than on the other nights of the week put together, and that mysterious process is going on all along the line of march. Sunday clothes everywhere. Girls in purple and fine linen with dowdy jewellery and affected airs and graces, keep sharp look outs for presentable “fellows,” who they are ashamed to take to the gate of their poverty-stricken home, where their tawdry finery hangs in a bare, comfortless room, in bitter contrast to what is around, while the mother sits below almost in rags. The darkness which has settled over the city, and which the glimmer of the corner lamps only serve to make more intense, hides a multitude of sins, and follies and faults: it covers up many a shortcoming and hides many a bad breach in one’s moral character; like a great cloak, it descends over all, and the poor puppets in the farce of life walk to and fro under its sheltering gloom, forgetting the lives of honesty, and virtue and manliness, that every true man and woman should lead.

Ghost - February 20 1883

A Spectator reporter started to compose some very interesting slices of life in 1883 Hamilton which eventually became stories from The Idle Spectator – this could be one of them before the pseudonym was chosen :

“On Monday morning, at a very early hour, as a Spectator compositor was going home up King street, wondering why it is that people who write long letters for publication are invariably the worst penmen in the country, he was startled at an appearance on the sidewalk before him. A figure in white approached rapidly, and with noiseless steps. The compositor’s hair didn’t rise, because he parted company with it shortly after his marriage, and his head is not now much more shaggy than a billiard ball. But he felt perturbed within. He was possessed of a desire to fly, but his feet were apparently rooted to the ground and he couldn’t budge. The ghost came nearer, and the compositor’s feet grew heavier and heavier, and although the mercury was toying with zero, he perspired freely. Presently the ghost’s noiseless progress brought him near enough for the compositor to make him out. The spook turned out to be a lad of 14, sand boots, sans socks, sans culottes, sans hat, sans everything except shirt and drawers. His eyes were wide open and fixed, , and the compositor who had seen Emma Abbot in La Sonnambula, at once tumbled to the fact that he had struck a somnambulist. The weights fell from his feet, and he collared the ex-spook and shook the somnambulism out of him. The weather was very cold, and when the sleepwalker regained his senses, he realized the fact that he was rather lightly dressed for a moonlight ramble in midwinter, and his teeth rattled like castanets. The compositor took him home, where he found that the somnambulist had walked out of the house without disturbing the family, and had half-sprung the front door behind him. The somnambulist’s name is Pearce, and he resides at 96 George street.”

Thanksgiving - 1883

Mary’s Thanksgiving: A Plain, Unvarnished Love Tale for Today: Written Especially for Canada’s Great Daily by that Gifted But Unappreciated Genius, The Idle Spectator.

Spectator  November 8, 1883

Thanksgiving day came late this year, and winter had already set in. It was bitterly cold. The wind whistled shrilly around the corners, and pedestrians hurried adown the streets with their hands thrust deeply in their overcoat pockets. They shivered as they walked. The wind seemed to pierce through their warm winter clothing, and chill them. The hard snow crunched beneath their feet as they went along. Blue faces and red noses were everywhere. In a dull sky the pale, yellow wintry sun was shining but with only strength enough to make the snow on the housetops settle down solidly.

        In a frame house on John street north, just near by the bridge that stretches over the Grand Trunk railway track, Mary Jantzen was sitting. Tall and straight was Mary, with clear cut, regular features, and a wreath of yellow golden hair coiled in a simple knot behind. Her eyes were of a deep unfathomable blue, and no person could say that she was not a beautiful girl, but just now her face was sad and sorrowful, and the gaunt caresses of care and want had marked her cheek.

For her lot was a hard one and her story unhappy. Ten years ago they had come to Hamilton to live, she and her father and her mother and Nellie, aged 3, and little George, whose advent into this world of joys and sorrows had only been but a few short weeks before. Mary herself was thirteen years old then. She had no money or property. Old George Jantzen was an honest, hard-working shoemaker, who depended on his day’s pay for their daily food. Neither himself, nor his wife were at all provident, and while they might have saved money and put by something for a rainy day, had they practised proper economy, they unfortunately, continued spending all that was made, and left themselves without any provision for the future. Three years after reaching this city, the father was taken sick with pneumonia, and after a few days confinement to his bed, died. His fellow workmen in the large manufactory, in which he was employed, clubbed together and paid his funeral expenses and made a small purse for his wife. They were poor themselves and couldn’t do much, but their hearts went out with the financial comfort they gave. For three years longer, Mary and her mother lived and supported the two children. Then Mrs. Jantzen followed her husband to the unknown country, and Mary was left all alone with the little ones. By this time, she had grown to be a beautiful girl, and as a consequence had lots of lovers. Her nature was one calculated to attract a man. Sweet and pure and honest, with a firm belief in human goodness and integrity, upright and true herself, and believing everyone else the same, she was an oasis in this desert we call the world, where boys in their teens are confirmed skeptics, cynics and philosophers. A diligent student, she had managed to read a great deal, and her reading had been of the better class, so that when her mother died, she possessed an education above the average girl in her position.

Below her, on the same street, lived John Derroon. Honest and brown and ragged was he, and there was a world of love for Mary in his heart. To him she was the girl of girls, the one and only one, though he was several years older than she was. A year before her mother’s death he had gone to her and told her of his great love. In the far west he thought he could make a competence, if not a fortune, quickly, and if she would only wait for him awhile, he would return to her and marry her, and Mary, who had long ago given up her trusting little heart to him, leaned her head upon his breast, looked shyly up with the love peeping out from her great blue eyes, and their troth was plighted. And Jack went away. Five years had passed since then, and Jack had not returned. No word had come to her now for a long, long while. A dozen letters had reached her during the first few months, and after that she heard no more. But her heart was true to him now, as it ever had been, and not one doubt of him ever crossed her mind. What kept him away and silent, she did not know, nor could she even conjecture, but she felt sure it was all right.

She had had a hard struggle of it since her mother’s death. There was the rent to pay, fuel to provide and the two children, both of whom were too young to be of any assistance, to provide for. But she had struggled on. Heaven only knows how. Slow starvation her existence had been, but she battled manfully with poverty, and kept the children from want. But of late, work such work as she had been in the habit of doing, had been slack. Little by little, the small stock of furniture had grown gradually less, and this morning, with the last thing in the house that could by hook or by crook be parted with, gone to the second-hand store and pawn shop, she sat in the poor little house while the children slept. The larder was empty – there was not even a crust of bread in the house. A rusty stove stood in the bare and cheerless room, but there was not so much as a piece of pine board around with which she could make a blaze and take the chilly edge off the dense cold that seemed to fill the room. And this was Thanksgiving Day ! Outside the church bells were ringing their glad, joyous peals, sounding loud and plain through the clear and frosty atmosphere. Happy men and women she could see through the windows, hurrying past to church to thank God for all His mercies and goodness, and to chant in His praise. And this was Thanksgiving Day ! The thought came to her, and the words seemed filled with a terribly cruel mockery. “Thanksgiving day,” she said to herself bitterly, “but not to me – not to me ! For what should I return thanks to the almighty ? For what my God ? For what ?”

She burst into tears, and it did her good. Her feelings were over-wrought and strained, and the relief to the mental tension composed her again. “I must be calm and brave,” she said, “ for the children’s sake.” By and by they awoke, dressed themselves, and came out. They were pale and weak-looking. They wanted food, but there was none for them, they knew or they would have got it at once. They had wanted a great many times lately when it had not been forthcoming and they had got now so that they did not ask for it. They bore the privation patiently, but they looked at Mary wistfully. She caught the glance and interpreted it correctly. And then she commenced crying again. Not passionately this time, but with long convulsive sobs that shook her frame. “They want food,” she cried, “ and I have none to give them. My God ! My God !” The tears drew forth the children’s  sympathy for their sister. Nellie went up putting her arms around her neck. “Never mind, dear,” she said, “ George and I can bear it. “ George manfully acquiesced. He was ten years old now, and quite a brave and handsome little fellow. But he was cold and starving, and moved by his sister’s sob, the tears presently commenced stealing silently down his cheek. They followed faster and faster, and at last he commenced to cry as if his little heart would break. Nellie, sad and wan, so like her older sister, was the only one of the three whose eyes were dry. She still kept her arms about her sister’s neck and tried to comfort her with loving words. By and by, Mary’s sobs ceased, and she dried her red and swollen eyes. Then she sat, and waited, and talked with the other two. The day wore away, and the night began to fall. The keen pangs of hunger were momentarily growing worse, and harder to bear. Towards seven o’clock Mary rose and put on her bonnet and the old shawl that had once been her mother’s. “I’m going out, dears,” she said simply, “to try and get something to eat. Wait until I return.” She kissed them both and went out. A kind-hearted woman whom she knew lived up the street. She would go to her, she thought, and try to get relief, and tomorrow, Ah tomorrow! She shuddered as she thought of it. Unless something happened, tomorrow meant more starvation, and perhaps death. And this was Thanksgiving day The tears streamed down her face again. “My God!” And she walked on.

In the meantime the children sat in the comfortless room and waited for her return. Presently a knock came to the door and Nellie answered. A tall, bearded stranger stood there. He took in the appearance of the room and its occupants at a glance, and trembled slightly.

“ Does Miss Jantzen live here?” he asked.

“ Miss Jantzen does,” Nellie replied. “My mother is dead>

“Dead?” And your sister – where is she?”

“She is out just now after – after –“

“After what?

“Something to eat, sir.”

The stranger looked at her and smiled.

“Are you hungry, little one,” he asked.

“Oh, very. We have had nothing to eat all day.

“Nothing to eat all day,” he repeated, and his glance again wandered over the room. “Nothing to eat all day! Poor child, poor child.” Then he seemed to hesitate. “I will be back in a moment,” he said again presently.

He walked to the corner grocery store, and in a few minutes returned, bearing a couple of loaves of bread and several small parcels. These he left with the children and walked rapidly away again. George and his sister got to work with a ravenous appetite upon the food thus unexpectedly procured. In a few minutes Mary returned, bearing a small basket of provisions. The children hurried to tell her of what had happened in her absence. She was puzzled. She could not understand it But suddenly a thought struck her. What if it should be Jack? At this idea all sorts of wild hopes flew into her head. She was devoured with a feverish anxiety. In an instant her hunger had left her, and she could think of nothing but the mysterious deliverer. Another knock at the door, which, when opened, revealed a man with a sleigh outside.

“Miss Jantzen live here?”

“Yes.”

“ These things are for her then.” He took out a couple of large baskets filled to overflowing, and set them down. The children lugged them in. They were full of good things. Another knock, and a boy with a sleigh full of wood appeared. Mary was wild with hope and anxiety. But she bustled about, and lit a good fire in the stove. An hour or more passed. A footstep came rapidly down the street, and stopped in front of the door. She flew across and opened it, though she was so nervous and trembling that she could hardly unhook the latch. The stranger stood outside.

“Mary,” he said simply.

Oh! Jack,” she cried. “Is it you at last?”

And he answered her: “My darling, it is.”

What happened after that concerns neither you nor me, gentle reader. Mary had something to be thankful for after all, and the moral of this little tale isn’t hard to find. It is this: That God in His greatness, His goodness, and His mercy has given each and every one of you something to be thankful for today. Ask Jack and his wife, and they will tell you that too. They have been married now for many years, and Thanksgiving day to them is the most sacred day that ever comes.

Life as a Street Railway Driver - 1883

The Talkative Driver: Of a Hamilton Street Car Tells of his Life: To a Spectator Reporter – Notes and Anecdotes o the Track – A Driver’s Lot is not a Happy One

Spectator August 21, 1883

“That man what got off the car a moment ago is one of the greatest cranks I ever seed,”said the driver on a Hamilton streetcar to a reporter who was riding on it last evening. “If you had been on a little while ago, you would have seen the fun. Every time he goes down, and he rides with me everyday, I have to ask him for his fare. When I ask him, he always says: “ Oh! I put it in a minute ago.” “No, sir,” sez I, “ you didn’t.” “Are you sure?” sez he. “Yes, sir,” sez I. Then he puts it in. Trying to beat? You bet your life he is. He worked it on me two or three times when I came on, and was pretty green, but I’m on to him now, and you bet it’s a pretty cold day when he gets ahead of me.” 

“ Do you strike many beats in a day’s ride?”

“ Well, yes, quite a few. And what’s surprisin’ about it, they’re mostly old men. It’s only once in a while a woman tries to beat her way, but when she does try it, I tell you she’s a sticker. They’re so positive, and when you threaten to put ‘em off, they say they’ll report a fellow to the superintendent. The worst case I ever saw was on that tried it on me about a week ago. She was a stunner I tell you. Dark blue eyes, blonde hair and a complexion that was just fit to kill. She was togged up in elegant style too. Well, she got on my car just as I was turning the corner of Stuart street. I waited for a couple of blocks and as she made no sign of putting in her fare I asked her for it. “ Why, driver,” sez she, “ I put it in when I first got on the car.” “No, mem” sez I, “you’re a-makin’ a mistake.” “Do you mean to insult me?” sez she. “No,” sez I, “I don’t. But I mean to say you haven’t put your fare in the box.” Well, sir, she got right up on her ear, and the way she did lay it on me with her tongue was a caution.” After a while she put her fare in, but she made me give her my name and the number of my car, and I thought she was going to try and get me in trouble for acting so stubborn with her, but she never said nothin’ about it. Human nature’s a queer thing, by gosh! I can’t see, for the life of me, what prompts people who are well fixed, to try and beat the street car company out of a poor little five cent piece; but they do it, and the reason why has staggered me heaps of times. It’s pure cussedness, I suppose, as much as anything.”

The driver stopped talking, and the reporter lit a fresh cigar, and smoked on in silence. Presently the knight of the reins commenced again.

“ It’s a terrible hard life this streetcar driving,” he said.

“Yes?’

“ Yes, sir; you bet it is. We have to keep it up from early in the morning until late at night. We have nothing to protect us against the inclency of the weather.-“

“Against what?’

“The indeclency of the weather”

“Inclemency you mean.”

“Inclemency is it ? All right. Well, as I was sayin’, we have to stand out here and take everything as it comes, and only get a dog’s pay for it. It’s hard times I tell you. We have a tougher time of it than any class of the community.”

“You think so, do you ?”

“Why, yes. Can’t you see for yourself.?”

The reporter thought of almost every other class of social fabric, and remembering that each one of them had grievances built on the same basis was silent.

“ I couldn’t wish my deadliest enemy any worse fate than driving on a street car,” the driver continued. “I wish you’d try it sometime and see. You’d be able to sympathise with us then.”

“No thanks,” said the reporter.

Then the driver put his head inside the door, called “Fares, please,” and as the reporter reached his objective point, he jumped off the car, which went quickly on down the dark street until nothing could be seen of it but the lamp.