The Background
This is the tenth in a series of articles written for The Atlanta Journal in 1890 and 1891 by W.W. Goodrich, an architect who practiced in Atlanta between 1889 and 1895.
Here, Goodrich revisits his bootblack persona introduced in “The President and the Bootblack”, with a Dickensian tale set in New York City in Christmas 1863.
Goodrich’s writing is characteristically atrocious, but he at least draws a colorful cast of supporting characters: the grieving Irish-born mother of a dead Union soldier (Goodrich couldn’t resist a stereotyped accent), a rich old bitch decked in furs (“Get out of the way, you dirty little brat”), and a kindly cop who treats him to a Christmas feast (Yeah, this is pure fantasy).
The Civil War backdrop allows Goodrich to throw in a random reference to Ambrose Burnside, and the description of “brave boys in blue, some with arms and legs shot off” is particularly grim.
Goodrich was familiar enough with New York to mention the Bowery and the Cooper Union, but his usual embellishment makes the city seem much more bleak than it actually is. Having slept 3 nights on the streets of New York in December, I can assure you — it’s not that bad.
A flashback dream in the story mentions Rondout, a village in Upstate New York that became part of nearby Kingston, New York, where Goodrich may have been raised and practiced architecture from 18751 to 1878.2
The dream sequence also reveals that the character’s mother died during his birth — it’s unclear if that particular detail is based on Goodrich’s life, but a traumatic entry into the world and a neglectful childhood could certainly explain his compulsive lying.
A Crockery Crate.
A True Story of Christmas.
Written for the Journal.
The day before Christmas of ’63 was cold, dreary, generally uncomfortable and disagreeable, a drizzling rain, with slight falls of snow, which was rapidly melted, and at times the sharp driving sleet, penetrating to the skin, chilled and benumbed the thinly clad; and many were the cries of the bootblacks, “Shine, sir!” “Shine, sir!” but whose shines were not wanted, and the newsboys, whose papers were not taken and these boys whose stomachs were empty, and who were thinly clad, whose clothes were in rags, let alone the bare feet and almost bare ones, who had no homes to go to, no friendly voice to ask “howdy,” and with the salutation, a request to go to my home and get the comfort of warmth, good food, warm raiment, and a comfortable bed. All of these good things were unknown to the struggling news boy or boot black at that time, and are, to many, now.
Clad in a woolen shirt, twice too large for me, that was given me by an Irish woman, who said with the offering, “Smug, take this; me bonnie av a bye is asleep aff Hatteras, this wan he left at home, ye’es welcum; General Burnside will niver have me bye to carry the ould colors agin. Mike was a brave lad, kind to his mither, and win he left me arms it was with a “May the Holy Mither of God be wid ye’es and bring ye home agin, Mike. Sich a bye was me brave bye, Mike.”
A pair of pants suitable for a person whose avoirdupois [sic] might have been two hundred pounds, a strap for a suspender, in lieu of buttons were nails, an old slouch hat, a boot and a shoe, both of which were out at the toes. Thus equipped, with a twenty-five-cent and a ten-cent shin plaster and nothing to eat the previous night or day, I wandered down Broadway, cold, chilling benumbing cold, hungry, and longing for Kris Kringle to come and find me and take me to his home, which in my youthful imagination I pictured was heaven. Purchasing a broom for thirty cents, I had five cents left for a half loaf of bread which I had partly eaten and divided the balance with a fellow shiner. Sweeping the crossing across Broadway at Spring street in front of the Revere house, brave boys in blue, some with arms and legs shot off, discharged, homeward bound for the Christmas, others on their way to the army, whose term of furlough had expired, still others who had re-enlisted, old veterans, on their way to the front. The stores were gaily decorated and a general air of plenty and contentment possessed the many. No one wanted a shine. Kris Kringle did not come. From down Broadway a portly man and woman richly dressed in furs came to crossing after crossing, but which were not clean enough for them and they south higher up for one; coming to mine, with youthful boyishness I presented arms, as I had seen the soldier boys, as my walk was clean and dry as could be with the storm, when, with this gruff remark from the woman, “Get out of the way, you dirty little brat,” I courtesied [sic] with military salutation their passage over my crossing. A shop girl of a group passing at the time overheard the remark of the rich woman, and, reaching her hand to her pocket, drew out a crumpled five cent shin plaster, said, “Take this, Smug, you look hungry,” but I could not take it. Never a bootblack, nor street sweeper, nor newsboy yet was so ungallant as to take from the tired, careworn and overworked, half starved shop girl or woman, their scanty store. The day had passed, night drew on, the cold, gray clouds became darker and more dismal, the pent up storm, uneasy at being kept in check, suddenly burst, and with snow and rain and chilling sleet drove me off the street and to seek a place of shelter. Hurrying over to the Bowery, up to Fourth Avenue, I found an empty crockery crate on the sidewalk under the shadow of Cooper’s institute. It was but a moment’s exertion, and I was under the straw and had crawled near to the bottom of the crate. Wet, hungry and extremely tired, I was soon asleep.
Eighteen years before the above date, a lady of noble birth, closely related to the Stuarts of Scotland, eloped with a young man from Edinburgh, Scotland. Her noble parents spurned with contempt the adoration of their daughter’s suitor, for no other reasons save and except that the blood of the royal Stuarts did not flow in his veins. The young man was of honorable parentage. His father had been a poet laureate of Great Britain, and he had met this nobleman’s daughter while accompanying his poet father on visits to the gentleman’s castle. The young couple were of age and loved each other as only those can who are lovers for time and eternity, through prosperity and adversity. A quiet wedding in that city. Ostracised [sic] and disowned. Thrust out upon the world. This tender, but lovable woman, true to her husband and facing the future, entered the new world. He quickly obtained work, tending the pitch pot, turning the grindstone, plugging decks, a down pull in the saw pit, wedging treenails, a handy man about the ship yard at Rondout, New York. A daughter and son came to their home. With the advent of the son the mother’s life departed, even before the babe was clothed the noble mother was dead. The savings of the few years embalmed the mother’s body, and provided a burial case. The sorrowing father, with the daughter and his wife’s remains, returned to the mother’s old home in Scotland, where, by request, he was asked to bring the mother and her offspring should death be her fate before a reconciliation. The boy was left in the New World; his was fate. The daughter lies beside the father and mother in the old Kirk yard at Edinburgh. Requiescat in pace.
Kris Kringle is coming. The bells ring aloud the joyful sound. The choir is chanting. A pure voice is singing:
“Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly;
While the raging billows roll,
While the storms of life are nigh.
Hide him, oh, my Savior hide,
Till the storms of life are past;
Sate into this heaven guide,
Oh receive his soul, my son’s,
My precious boy’s soul at last.”
“Mother! Mother! Mother!”
The struggle woke me up, and as I lay enraptured at the vision it slowly vanished away. I realized that I was a captive, the sleet had frozen over the crate and the snow was several inches deep over which was a crust. I gradually dug a hole in the straw to the side of the crate, and catching the coat of a cop, he saw my hand and dumped the crate over into the street which released me from my snow bound position.
“Come along wid me, Smug,” laying his hand on my shoulder. Thinking I was off for the stationhouse, with a resigned feeling I complied. On Tenth street he suddenly halted, and pushing me into a restaurant he sang out, “I say Jim, whar is yer?” The proprietor coming to the door, the peeler taking from his pocket a shin plaster of unknown denomination said, “Fill Smug up to the muzzle, for he’s a muzzle loader.” Kris Kringle had come. What a feast. Roast turkey and all that went with the bird as an accompaniment. My eyes could hardly believe this good fortune. But it was a reality, and ample justice was done to the repast.
Going up town after this meal, the strains of the music still ringing in my ears. Hark! from far away the same sweet strains were in the air. Entering a church of gothic purity, whose vaulted ceiling and chaste harmony enraptured my gaze. “In the gallery you will find a seat,” said the usher. Below, in the highest priced pew, was the lady and her husband, whose abrupt “Get out of the way, you dirty little brat,” instantly attracted my attention, still more fashionably dressed and richly attired. There was no present for the bootblack or newsboy, no one to wish them a merry Christmas. Wealth maketh many friends, but the poor is despised of his neighbor. And as the chimes of the old Trinity still linger in my ear, “Jesus Lover of My Soul,” methinks I can see that “angel mother,” with arms outstretched, ready to welcome her boy to that heavenly home, where is Kris Kringle always.
W.W. GOODRICH.3