New York in the Hot Time
New York, July 10, 1911.
The last day on American soil before starting on a trip to other lands should be marked with a proper spirit of seriousness, and I would certainly live up to the propriety of the occasion if it were not for two things,—the baggage and the weather. But how can a man heave a sigh of regret at departing from home, when he is chasing over Jersey City and Hoboken after a stray trunk, and the thermometer is breaking records for highness and the barometer for humidity? I have known some tolerably warm zephyrs from the south which were excitedly called “hot winds,” but they were balmy and pleasant to the touch in comparison with the New York hot wave which wilts collar, shirt and backbone into one mass. The prospect of tomorrow being out on the big water with a sea breeze and a northeast course does not seem bad, even if you are leaving the Stars and Stripes and home and friends. There is nothing like hot, humid weather to destroy patriotism, love, affection, and common civility. I speak in mild terms, but I have returned from Hoboken, the station just the other side of the place whose existence is denied by the Universalists. This is the place the ship starts from, and not from New York, as it is advertised to do.
Speaking of weather reminds me that the West is far ahead of New York in the emancipation of men. The custom here is for men to wear coats regardless of the temperature, whereas in the more intelligent West a man is considered dressed up in the evening if he takes off his gallusses along with his coat. Last night we went to a “roof garden” and expected that it would be a jolly Bohemian affair, but every man sat with his coat on and perspired until he couldn’t tell whether the young ladies of the stage were kicking high or not, and worse than that, he did not care.
I have been again impressed with the fact that there are no flies in New York City. There are no screens on the windows, not even of the dining-rooms, and yet I have not seen a fly. I wish Dr. Crumbine would tell us why it is that flies swarm out in Kansas and leave without a friendly visit such a rich pasture-ground as they would find on the millions of humans on Manhattan island. If I were a fly I would leave the swatters and the hostile board of health of Kansas, and take the limited train for New York and one perpetual picnic for myself and family.
This afternoon I went to the ball game, of course. Some people would have gone to the art exhibit or the beautiful public library. But New York and Chicago were to play and Matthewson was to pitch, and the call of duty prevailed over the artistic yearnings which would have taken me elsewhere. Coming home from the game I had an idea—which is a dangerous thing to do in hot weather. There has been a good deal of talk in the newspapers about the Republicans not agreeing on a candidate, and the question as to whether Taft can be reëlected or not is being vigorously debated. Put ’em all out and nominate Christy Matthewson. This would insure the electoral vote of New York, for if the Republicans put “Matty” on the ticket the election returns would be so many millions for Matthewson and perhaps a few scattering.
There were about as many errors and boneheads in the game between Chicago and New York as there would be in a Kansas State League game, and more than would come to pass in the match between the barbers and the laundrymen of Hutchinson. The players did not indulge in that brilliant repartee with the umpire which is a feature of the Kansas circuit, and the audience, while expressing its opinion of the judgments, had no such wealth of phrases as pours over the boxes from the grandstand at home. The language used could have come from the ministerial alliance, and sometimes the game seemed more like a moving-picture show than a real live game of baseball. Chicago won, 3 to 2 in ten innings, and I feel that my European trip is a decided success so far.
This morning I took a little walk down Wall street and saw the place in which the Great Red Dragon lives. These New York bankers and brokers are not so dangerous as I have been led to believe by reading some of the speeches in Congress. There was no blood around the Standard Oil building, and the office of J. Pierpont was filled with men who looked as uncomfortable and unhappy as I felt with the heat. Sometimes I think the men of Wall street, New York, are just like the men at home,—getting all they can under the rules of the game and only missing the bases when the umpire looks the other way. The few with whom I talked were really concerned about the crops and the welfare of the people of Kansas, perhaps because they have some of their money invested in our State, and I got the idea that Wall street and all it represents is interested in the prosperity of the country and knows that hard times anywhere mean corresponding trouble for some of them in New York.
New York is a growing city. In many respects it is like Hutchinson. The street paving is full of holes and new buildings are going up in every direction. Every few months “the highest skyscraper” is erected, and now one is being constructed that will have fifty or sixty stories—it doesn’t matter which. The buildings are faced with brick or stone, but really built of iron. I saw one today on which the bricklaying had been begun at the seventh story and was proceeding in both directions. That was the interesting feature of the building to me. That and the absence of flies and the baseball game are the general results of my efforts today to see something of the greatest city in America.
We sail tomorrow morning. Then it will be ten days on the ship for us. One thing about an ocean voyage is reasonably sure: If you don’t like it you can’t get off and walk. A really attractive feature is that there is no dust and you don’t watch the clouds and wish it would rain so you will not have to water the lawn.