Hansom Cabs

A Hansom Cab Stand, 1888-1889

P. Stahl at http://www.1st-art-gallery.com

Hansom Cab Pub, York

Hansom Cab in London by Edmund C. Tarbell (1862-1938)

http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/exhibns/month/jan2004.html

Read this early detective story, a bestseller in its day, free at:
http://www.online-literature.com/fergus-hume/mystery-of-a-hansom-cab/1/

(From http://www.sherlock-holmes.co.uk/society/hansom-cab.html.)
hansom-cab@sherlock-holmes.co.uk

When taking a cab, one had two choices. First was the standard four-wheeler, or "growler." The growler saw its best use by groups of more than two people. But if one or two persons, such as a master detective and his friend doctor, wanted a swift ride through the city, a different cab was more to their liking: the hansom.

The two-wheeled "safety cab" which would later be favoured by such folk as Holmes and Watson was originally patented by Joseph A. Hansom in 1836. His design differed from previous two-wheeled carriages in that the wheels were mounted on two separate spindles rather than an axle, allowing the main load of the vehicle to ride lower than previously possible. Although the cab's design was altered before it attained popularity, the name of its creator stuck with it, and the "hansom" cab became a part of Victorian life. (From http://www.sherlockpeoria.net/Hansom_pages/HansomCabs.html. Read much more at this terrific site.)

 “Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! 
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
. . . This love feel I.” --- Shakespeare


KATE MccGWIRE

Thank you, Kate, for your stunning work and permission to show it here.

You can read much more about Kate MccGwire on her site: http://www.katemccgwire.com/index.php?pid=20 (biography) and http://www.katemccgwire.com/index.php?pid=60 (artists' statement), as well as a number of others, including http://houseofbeautyandculture.blogspot.com, where I was originally introduced to her.

One Crow Sorrow, Two Crows Joy
Three Crows a Letter, Four Crows Boy
Five Crows Silver, Six Crows Gold
Seven crows a Secret Never to be Told.

---

Traditional Rhyme

The Peacock 
What's riches to him
That has made a great peacock
With the pride of his eye?
The wind-beaten, stone-grey,
And desolate Three-rock
Would nourish his whim.
Live he or die
Amid wet rocks and heather,
His ghost will be gay

Adding feather to feather
For the pride of his eye.

---
William Butler Yeats

Hope

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
---
Emily Dickinson

Black Rook in Rainy Weather
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can’t honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then—
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

---

Sylvia Plath

Pigeons

They paddle with staccato feet

In powder-pools of sunlight,
Small blue busybodies
Strutting like fat gentlemen
With hands clasped
Under their swallowtail coats;
And, as they stump about,
Their heads like tiny hammers
Tap at imaginary nails
In non-existent walls.
Elusive ghosts of sunshine
Slither down the green gloss
Of their necks in an instant, and are gone.

Summer hangs drugged from sky to earth
In limpid fathoms of silence:
Only warm dark dimples of sound
Slide like slow bubbles
From the contented throats.

Raise a casual hand -
With one quick gust
They fountain into air.
---
Richard Kell

Negro League Greats

 

Cool Papa Bell

1903-1991

Center Fielder

"Once he hit a line drive right past my ear. I turned around and saw the ball hit his ass sliding into second." - Satchel Paige, about Cool Papa Bell.

"They used to say, 'If we find a good black player, we'll sign him.' They was lying." Cool Papa Bell, about baseball.

Bell impressed most who met him as a gentle, dignified, and soft-spoken man, and he left behind a legacy of unparalleled achievement on the baseball diamond. Although the lack of statistics makes it likely that the degree of Bell’s greatness will always be debated, he is clearly one of the most important figures to emerge from baseball’s Negro Leagues. The anecdotal stories that contributed so much to Bell’s legend are an essential part of African-American oral tradition, but they are also a grim reminder that segregation caused a talent so great to be appreciated by so few. “So many people say I was born too early,” Bell said shortly before his death. “But that’s not true. They opened the doors too late.” 

Satchel Paige 

1906-1982 

Pitcher

Shown with the Kansas City Monarchs, 1942

It is estimated that Leroy "Satchel" Paige was born on July 7, 1906. The mere idea that his birthday is an estimate provides perfect evidence to the mystery that was Satchel Paige. In 1965, 60 years after Paige's supposed birthday, he took the mound for the last time, throwing three shutout innings for the Kansas City Athletics.

Joe DiMaggio called Satchel Paige "the best and fastest pitcher I've ever faced". His pitching was amazing and his showboating was legendary. His career highlights span five decades. Pronounced the greatest pitcher in the history of the Negro Leagues, Paige compiled such feats as 64 consecutive scoreless innings, a stretch of 21 straight wins, and a 31-4 record in 1933. For 22 years, Paige mauled the competition in front of sellout crowds. Sure, he liked the attention, but to him, there was only one goal. That goal would be to pitch in the Major Leagues.

Buck Leonard

1907-1997

First Baseman

A power-hitting left-handed batter and a smooth fielder, Leonard teamed with Josh Gibson, the Negro leagues' most fearsome slugger, to bring pennant after pennant to the Pittsburgh-based Homestead Grays. Starring for the Grays from 1934 to 1950, Leonard played in 12 East-West All-Star Games, and while accurate statistics for the Negro leagues are elusive, by all accounts he batted well over .300 throughout his career.

Josh Gibson

1911-1947

Catcher

Belting home runs of more than 500 feet was not unusual for Gibson. One homer in Monessen, Pa., reportedly was measured at 575 feet. The Sporting News of June 3, 1967 credits Gibson with a home run in a Negro League game at Yankee Stadium that struck two feet from the top of the wall circling the center field bleachers, about 580 feet from home plate. Although it has never been conclusively proven, Chicago American Giants infielder Jack Marshall said Gibson slugged one over the third deck next to the left field bullpen in 1934 for the only fair ball hit out of the House That Ruth Built.

 James "Biz" Mackey
1897-1965
Catcher and Manager

James Raleigh "Biz" Mackey was an American catcher and manager in Negro league baseball. He came to be regarded as black baseball's premier catcher in the late 1920s and early 1930s. His superior defense and outstanding throwing arm were complemented by batting skill which placed him among the Negro Leagues' all-time leaders in total bases, RBIs and slugging percentage, while hitting .322 for his career. He played for the Indianapolis ABC's (1920-22), New York Lincoln Giants (1920), Hilldale Daisies (1923-31), Philadelphia Royal Giants (1925), Philadelphia Stars (1933-35), Washington and Baltimore Elite Giants (1936-39), and Newark Dodgers/Eagles (1935, 1939-41, 1945-47, 1950). Mackey was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2006. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biz_Mackey

Hotel Workers

and Black Baseball 

Throughout the history of black baseball, teams sometimes struggled to find places to stay when they were traveling. In the early days, teams were often organized to work at resort hotels as staff, and play baseball games to entertain the guests, even though the hotels were segregated.

The Argyle Hotel in Babylon (Brooklyn), NY and the Royal Ponciana Hotel in Florida were two such resorts. Hotels in Florida were especially popular for black teams in the north, who could get spring training in the warm weather and play against some of the Major League white teams who also traveled to Florida. http://coe.ksu.edu/nlbemuseum/history/dcuts/dcuts3.html.

Very special thanks to the artist:

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe

[First published in 1845]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!