I
Every intelligent New Yorker should be compelled, once in so often,
to run over to Philadelphia and spend a few days quietly and
observantly prowling.
Any lover of America is poor indeed unless he has savoured and
meditated the delicious contrast of these two cities, separated by
so few miles and yet by a whole world of philosophy and metaphysics.
But he is a mere tyro of the two who has only made the voyage by the
P.R.R. The correct way to go is by the Reading, which makes none of
those annoying intermediate stops at Newark, Trenton, and so on,
none of that long detour through West Philadelphia, starts you off
with a ferry ride and a background of imperial campaniles and
lilac-hazed cliffs and summits in the superb morning light. And the
Reading route, also, takes you through a green Shakespearean land of
beauty, oddly different from the flat scrubby plains traversed by
the Pennsy. Consider, if you will, the hills of the idyllic
Huntington Valley as you near Philadelphia; or the little white town
of Hopewell, N.J., with its pointing church spire. We have often
been struck by the fact that the foreign traveller between New York
and Washington on the P.R.R. must think America the most flat,
dreary, and uninteresting countryside in the world. Whereas if he
would go from Jersey City by the joint Reading-Central New
Jersey-B.&O. route, how different he would find it. No, we are not
a Reading stockholder.
We went over to Philly, after having been unfaithful to her for too
many months. Now we have had from time to time, most menacing
letters from indignant clients, protesting that we have been
unfaithful to all the tenets and duties of a Manhattan journalist
because we have with indecent candour confessed an affection for
both Brooklyn and Philadelphia. We lay our cards on the table. We
can't help it. Philadelphia was the first large city we ever knew,
and how she speaks to us! And there's a queer thing about
Philadelphia, hardly believable to the New Yorker who has never
conned her with an understanding eye. You emerge from the Reading
Terminal (or, if you will, from Broad Street Station) with just a
little superbness of mood, just a tinge of worldly disdain, as
feeling yourself fresh from the grandeur of Manhattan and showing
perhaps (you fondly dream) some pride of metropolitan bearing. Very
well. Within half an hour you will be apologizing for New York. In
their quiet, serene, contented way those happy Philadelphians will
be making you a little shame-faced of the bustling madness of our
heaven-touching Babel. Of course, your secret adoration of
Manhattan, the greatest wild poem ever begotten by the heart of man,
is not readily transmissible. You will stammer something of what it
means to climb upward from the subway on a spring morning and see
that golden figure over Fulton Street spreading its shining wings
above the new day. And they will smile gently, that knowing, amiable
Philadelphia smile.
We were false to our credo in that we went via the P.R.R., but we
were compensated by a man who was just behind us at the ticket
window. He asked for a ticket to Asbury Park. "Single, or return?"
asked the clerk. "I don't believe I'll ever come back," he said, but
with so unconsciously droll an accent that the ticket seller
screamed with mirth.
There was something very thrilling in strolling again along Chestnut
Street, watching all those delightful people who are so unconscious
of their characteristic qualities. New York has outgrown that stage
entirely: New Yorkers are conscious of being New Yorkers, but
Philadelphians are Philadelphians without knowing it; and hence
their unique delightfulness to the observer. Nothing seemed to us
at all changed--except that the trolleys have raised their fare from
five cents to seven. The Liberty Toggery Shop down on Chestnut
Street was still "Going Out of Business," just as it was a couple of
years ago. Philip Warner, the famous book salesman at Leary's Old
Book Store, was out having lunch, as usual. The first book our eye
fell upon was "The Experiences of an Irish R.M.," which we had
hunted in vain in these parts. The only other book that caught our
eye particularly was a copy of "Patrins," by Louise Guiney, which we
saw a lady carrying on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania.
But perhaps New York exerts its own fascination upon Philadelphians,
too. For when we returned we selfishly persuaded a friend of ours to
ride with us on the train so that we might imbibe some of his ripe
orotund philosophy, which we had long been deprived of. He is a
merciless Celt, and all the way over he preached us a cogent sermon
on our shortcomings and backslidings. Faithful are the wounds of a
friend, and it was nice to know that there was still someone who
cared enough for us to give us a sound cursing. Between times, while
we were catching breath, he expatiated upon the fact that New York
is death and damnation to the soul; but when we got to Manhattan
Transfer he suddenly abandoned his intended plan of there catching
the next train back to the land of Penn. A curious light began to
gleam in his mild eyes; he settled his hat firmly upon his head and
strode out into the Penn Station. "I think I'll go out and look
round a bit," he said. We wonder whether he has gone back yet?