are only the beginnings of such sorrows.
Our children will not know what it is to be free from sound of railways.
Arthur F. Munby
1935
Snow fell on roses today in New Orleans. These southern people couldn’t have been more excited by the outbreak of another War between the States.
About 5 a.m. I walked downstairs and met a night watchman on a corner behind St. Louis Cathedral. In the glow of an antique street lamp he held the palm of his hand toward the white sky. A few flakes melted on his skin.
‘Lookit that!’ he exulted. ‘Lookit that!’ Pointing at himself, he said, ‘Had a top-coat on when I began duty last night, but – gosh! I sure had to change into this overcoat, even if it does have moth holes in it!’
This is the first snowfall in New Orleans since 1899, according to oldtimers. While they aren’t all exactly sure of the date, they agree it has been ‘some little spell’ since the last time.
When I walked into the press room at the criminal court building, a reporter yelled: ‘Eddie! Is this snow?’
‘Why, sure.’
‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I wasn’t sure whether it was snow or ice.’
We got in his car to drive out to get a story and this southern boy exclaimed at almost every snowflake. Excitedly he pointed at what he called snowdrifts – none more than half an inch deep. When we returned he jumped out of his car, scooped up what little snow he could and sprinkled it on his hat and shoulders. Then he yelled to a telephone operator in the building and she threw on a coat and joined us outdoors. She shouted in amazement. We put her under a palm tree, then hammered at the trunk to shake some snow off the fronds and onto her. Proud as a queen in ermine, she ran back inside to show her white collar to her friends.
Later in the day a man on a streetcar told me: ‘I got my wife and daughter out of bed and we all hurried into the yard. My little girl made a snowball and threw it at her mother. My wife said: “That’s the first time I’ve ever been hit by a snowball!”’
Instead of working today, these people who never before had seen snow frolicked outdoors or hung around doors and windows to gawk at something they called a miracle. A burly Negro grinned and said: ‘Man! Tom an’ Jerry sho catch hell today!’ Eleven precincts reported snow. The twelfth precinct reported egg nogs.
Edward Robb Ellis
23 January
1662
By invitacon to my uncle Fenner’s, where I found his new wife, a pitiful, old, ugly, ill-bred woman in a hatt, a midwife. Here were many of his, and as many of her relations, sorry, mean people; and after choosing our gloves, we all went over to the Three Crane Tavern, and though the best room in the house, in such a narrow dogg-hole we were crammed, and I believe we were near forty, that it made me loathe my company and victuals; and a sorry poor dinner it was too.
Samuel Pepys
1920
This day, the anniversary of the death of Louis XVI, brings back memories of my childhood in that corner of Brittany where all the old, right-minded families indicated their respectful mourning by keeping their shutters closed all day, going to mass dressed in black and doing penance to compensate for France’s criminal gesture. My mother, my old aunts and their friends set the example. My youth and cheerfulness were put to a hard test. Faces had to be long. Only the humble folk were allowed the privilege of passing this day comfortably, but they were regarded with an indulgent and disdainful pity.
Liane de Pougy
1927
Vita [Sackville-West] took me over the 4 acres building, which she loves: too little conscious beauty for my taste: smallish rooms looking on to buildings: no views: yet one or two things remain: Vita stalking in her Turkish dress, attended by small boys, down the gallery, wafting them on like some tall sailing ship – a sort of covey of noble English life: dogs walloping, children crowding, all very free and stately: & [a] cart bringing wood in to be sawn by the great circular saw. How do you see that? I asked Vita. She said she saw it as something that had gone on for hundreds of years. They had brought wood in from the Park to replenish the great fires like this for centuries: & her ancestresses had walked so on the snow with their great dogs bounding beside them. All the centuries seemed lit up, the past expressive, articulate; not dumb & forgotten; but a crowd of people stood behind, not dead at all; not remarkable; fair face, long limbed, affable, & so we reach the days of Elizabeth quite easily. After tea, looking for letters of Dryden’s to show me, she tumbled out a love letter of Lord Dorset’s (17th century) with a lock of his soft gold tinted hair which I held in my hand a moment. One had a sense of links fished up into the light which are usually submerged.
Virginia Woolf
1936
[Stanley] Baldwin spoke for 20 minutes about the late King. It is the sort of thing he does very well, and every word perfectly chosen, and perfectly balanced. He had a trying day as he was pall-bearer in the morning at the funeral of his first cousin Rudyard Kipling. Mr Baldwin’s speech was ‘The Question was–’ that messages of condolence be sent to the King, and to Queen Mary. He was followed by Major Attlee for the Socialists. We on our side thought he would jar, and do badly, but on the contrary he was excellent . . . he, too, held the House. At 3.40 the Speaker left the Chair, preceded by the Serjeant-at-Arms and Mace, etc., and we followed in pairs. Harold Nicolson said ‘Let’s stick together’, and we did. In solemn silent state we progressed into Westminster Hall, lining the East side. Harold and I were at the end of the queue, as befitted ‘new boys’, and thus were nearly on the steps and found ourselves next to the Royal Family; I could have touched the Queen of Spain, fat and smelling slightly of scent, and old Princess Beatrice. Opposite us, were the Peers led by the Lord Chancellor, who, unlike the Speaker, always seems a joke character. In the middle of the Great Hall stood the catafalque draped in purple.
We waited for 10 minutes . . . and I was rather embarrassed as my heavy fur-lined coat has a sable collar, a discordant note among all the black. I had been tempted to come into the hall without one, but that would certainly have meant pneumonia. I was sorry for the aged Princess next to me, shivering in her veil . . . After a little some younger women, heavily-draped, came in, and were escorted to the steps. I recognized the Royal Duchesses. Princess Marina, as ever, managed to look infinitely more elegant than the others; she wore violets under her veil and her stockings, if not flesh-coloured, were of black so thin that they seemed so.
The great door opened . . . the coffin was carried in and placed on the catafalque. It was followed by King Edward, boyish, sad and tired, and the Queen, erect and more magnificent than ever. Behind them were the Royal brothers. There was a short service . . . and all eyes looked first at the coffin, on which lay the Imperial Crown and a wreath from the Queen, and then we turned towards the boyish young King, so young and seemingly frail. Actually he is forty-two, but one can never believe it. After a few moments, the Queen and young King turned, and followed by the Royal Family, they left. The two Houses of Parliament then proceeded in pairs round the catafalque now guarded by four immobile officers and by Gentlemen-at-Arms . . . there was an atmosphere of hushed stillness, of something strangely sacred and awe-inspiring.
This King business is so emotional, it upsets and weakens me, and I am left with the feeling that nothing matters . . . almost an eve-of-war reaction. As we left,
