A BALTIMORE EVENING
I felt her presence by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the night,
As of the one I love.
--LONGFELLOW.
Before I went to Baltimore I had but two definite impressions connected
with the place: the first was of a tunnel, filled with coal gas, through
which trains pass beneath the city; the second was that when a
southbound train left Baltimore the time had come to think of cleaning
up, preparatory to reaching Washington.
Arriving at Baltimore after dark, one gathers an impression of an
adequate though not impressive Union Station from which one emerges to a
district of good asphalted streets, the main ones wide and well lighted.
The Baltimore street lamps are large and very brilliant single globes,
mounted upon the tops of substantial metal columns. I do not remember
having seen lamps of the same pattern in any other city. It is a good
pattern, but there is one thing about it which is not good at all, and
that is the way the street names are lettered upon the sides of the
globes. Though the lettering is not large, it is large enough to be
read easily in the daytime against the globe's white surface, but to try
to read it at night is like trying to read some little legend printed
upon a blinding noon-day sun. I noticed this particularly because I
spent my first evening in wandering alone about the streets of
Baltimore, and wished to keep track of my route in order that I might
the more readily find my way back to the hotel.
Can most travelers, I wonder, enjoy as I do a solitary walk, by night,
through the mysterious streets of a strange city? Do they feel the same
detached yet keen interest in unfamiliar highways, homes, and human
beings, the same sense of being a wanderer from another world, a
"messenger from Mars," a Harun-al-Rashid, or, if not one of these, an
imaginative adventurer like Tartarin? Do they thrill at the sight of an
ill-lighted street leading into a no-man's-land of menacing dark
shadows; at the promise of a glowing window puncturing the blackness
here or there; at the invitation of some open doorway behind which
unilluminated blackness hangs, threatening and tempting? Do they rejoice
in streets the names of which they have not heard before? Do they--as I
do--delight in irregularity: in the curious forms of roofs and spires
against the sky; in streets which run up hill or down; or which, instead
of being straight, have jogs in them, or curves, or interesting
intersections, at which other streets dart off from them obliquely, as
though in a great hurry to get somewhere? Do they love to emerge from a
street which is narrow, dim, and deserted, upon one which is wide,
bright, and crowded; and do they also like to leave a brilliant street
and dive into the darkness of some somber byway? Does a long row of
lights lure them, block by block, toward distances unknown? Are they
tempted by the unfamiliar signs on passing street cars? Do they yearn to
board those cars and be transported by them into the mystic caverns of
the night? And when they see strangers who are evidently going somewhere
with some special purpose, do they wish to follow; to find out where
these beings are going, and why? Do they wish to trail them, let the
trail lead to a prize fight, to a church sociable, to a fire, to a
fashionable ball, or to the ends of the world?
For the traveler who does not know such sensations and such impulses as
these--who has not at times indulged in the joy of yielding to an
inclination of at least mildly fantastic character--I am profoundly
sorry. The blind themselves are not so blind as those who, seeing with
the physical eye, lack the eye of imagination.
Residence streets like Chase and Biddle, in the blocks near where they
cross Charles Street, midway on its course between the Union Station and
Mount Vernon Place, are at night, even more than by day, full of the
suggestion of comfortable and settled domesticity. Their brick houses,
standing wall to wall and close to the sidewalk, speak of honorable age,
and, in some cases of a fine and ancient dignity. One fancies that in
many of these houses the best of old mahogany may be found, or, if not
that, then at least the fairly old and quite creditable furniture of the
period of the sleigh-back bed, the haircloth-covered rosewood sofa, and
the tall, narrow mirror between the two front windows of the drawing
room.
Through the glass panels of street doors and beneath half-drawn window
shades the early-evening wayfarer may perceive a feeble glow as of
illuminating gas turned low; but by ten o'clock these lights have begun
to disappear, indicating--or so, at all events, I chose to believe--that
certain old ladies wearing caps and black silk gowns with old lace
fichus held in place by ancient cameos, have proceeded slowly,
rustlingly, upstairs to bed, accompanied by their cats.
At Cathedral Street, a block or two from Charles, Biddle Street performs
a jog, dashing off at a tangent from its former course, while Chase
Street not only jogs and turns at the corresponding intersection, but
does so again, where, at the next corner, it meets at once with Park
Avenue and Berkeley Street. After this it runs but a short way and dies,
as though exhausted by its own contortions.
Here, in a region of malformed city blocks--some of them pentagonal,
some irregularly quadrangular, some wedge-shaped--Howard Street sets
forth upon its way, running first southwest as far as Richmond Street,
then turning south and becoming, by degrees, an important thoroughfare.
Somewhere near the beginning of Howard Street my attention was arrested
by shadowy forms in a dark window: furniture, andirons, chinaware, and
weapons of obsolete design: unmistakable signs of a shop in which
antiquities were for sale. After making mental note of the location of
this shop, I proceeded on my way, keeping a sharp lookout for other like
establishments. Nor was I to be disappointed. These birds of a feather
bear out the truth of the proverb by flocking together in Howard Street,
as window displays, faintly visible, informed me.
Since we have come naturally to the subject of antiques, let us pause
here, under a convenient lamp-post, and discuss the matter further.
Baltimore--as I found out later--is probably the headquarters for the
South in this trade. It has at least one dealer of Fifth Avenue rank,
located on Charles Street, and a number of humbler dealers in and near
Howard Street. Among the latter, two in particular interested me. One of
these--his name is John A. Williar--I have learned to trust. Not only
did I make some purchases of him while I was in Baltimore, but I have
even gone so far, since leaving there, as to buy from him by mail,
accepting his assurance that some article which I have not seen is,
nevertheless, what I want, and that it is "worth the price."
At the other antique shop which interested me I made no purchases. The
stock on hand was very large, and if those who exhibited it to me made
no mistakes in differentiating between genuine antiques and copies, the
assortment of ancient furniture on sale in that establishment, when I
was there, would rank among the great collections of the world.
However, human judgment is not infallible, and antique dealers sometimes
make mistakes, offering, so to speak, "new lamps for old." The eyesight
of some dealers may not be so good as that of others; or perhaps one
dealer does not know so well as another the difference between, say, an
old English Chippendale chair and a New York reproduction; or again,
perhaps, some dealers may be innocently unaware that there exist, in
this land of ours, certain large establishments wherein are manufactured
most extraordinary modern copies of the furniture of long ago. I have
been in one of these manufactories, and have there seen chairs of
Chippendale and Sheraton design which, though fresh from the workman's
hands, looked older than the originals from which they had been
plagiarized; also I recall a Jacobean refectory table, the legs of which
appeared to have been eaten half away by time, but which had, in
reality, been "antiqued" with a stiff wire brush. I mention this
because, in my opinion, antique dealers have a right to know that such
factories exist.
What curious differences there are between the customs of one trade and
those of another. Compare, for instance, the dealer in old furniture
with the dealer in old automobiles. The latter, far from pronouncing a
machine of which he wishes to dispose "a genuine antique," will assure
you--and not always with a strict regard for truth--that it is
"practically as good as new." Or compare the seller of antiques with the
horse dealer. Can you imagine the latter's taking you up to some
venerable quadruped--let alone a three-year-old--and discoursing upon
its merits in some such manner as the following:
"This is the oldest and most historic horse that has ever come into my
possession. Just look at it, sir! The farmer of whom I bought it assured
me that it was brought over by his ancestors in the _Mayflower_. The
place where I found it was used as Washington's headquarters during the
Revolutionary War, and it is known that Washington himself frequently
sat on this very horse. It was a favorite of his. For he was a large man
and he liked a big, comfortable, deep-seated horse, well braced
underneath, and having strong arms, so that he could tilt it back
comfortably against the wall, with its front legs off the floor, and--"
But no! That won't do. It appears I have gotten mixed. However, you know
what I meant to indicate. I merely meant to show that a horse dealer
wouldn't talk about a horse as an antique dealer would talk about a
chair. Even if the horse was once actually ridden by the Father of his
Country, the dealer won't stress the point. You can't get him to admit
that a horse has reached years of discretion, let alone that it is one
hundred and forty-five years old, or so. It is this difference between
the horse dealer and the dealer in antiques which keeps us in the dark
to-day as to exactly which horses Washington rode and which he didn't
ride; although we know every chair he ever sat in, and every bed he ever
slept in, and every house he ever stopped in, and how he is said to have
caught his death of cold.
Having thus wandered afield, let me now resume my nocturnal walk.
Proceeding down Howard Street to Franklin, I judged by the signs I saw
about me--the conglomerate assortment of theaters, hotels, rathskellers,
bars, and brilliantly lighted drug stores--that here was the center of
the city's nighttime life.
Not far from this corner is the Academy, a very spacious and somewhat
ancient theater, and although the hour was late, into the Academy I went
with a ticket for standing room.
Arriving during an intermission, I had a good view of the auditorium. It
is reminiscent, in its interior "decoration," of the recently torn-down
Wallack's Theater in New York. The balcony is supported, after the old
fashion, by posts, and there are boxes the tops of which are draped with
tasseled curtains. It is the kind of theater which suggests traditions,
dust, and the possibility of fire and panic.
After looking about me for a time, I drew from my pocket a pamphlet
which I had picked up in the hotel, and began to gather information
about the "Monumental City," as Baltimore sometimes calls
itself--thereby misusing the word, since "monumental" means, in one
sense, "enduring," and in another "pertaining to or serving as a
monument": neither of which ideas it is intended, in this instance, to
convey. What Baltimore intends to indicate is, not that it pertains to
monuments, but that monuments pertain to it: that it is a city in which
many monuments have been erected--as is indeed the pleasing fact. My
pamphlet informed me that the first monument to Columbus and the first
to George Washington were here put up, and that among the city's other
monuments was one to Francis Scott Key. I had quite forgotten that it
was at Baltimore that Key wrote the words of "The Star-Spangled Banner,"
and, as others may have done the same, it may be well here to recall the
details.
In 1814, after the British had burned a number of Government buildings
in Washington, including "the President's palace" (as one of their
officers expressed it), they moved on Baltimore, making an attack by
land at North Point and a naval attack at Fort McHenry on Whetstone
Point in the estuary of the Patapsco River--here practically an arm of
Chesapeake Bay. Both attacks were repulsed. Having gone on the United
States cartel ship _Minden_ (used by the government in negotiating
exchanges of prisoners) to intercede for his friend, Dr. William Beanes,
of Upper Marlborough, Maryland, who was held captive on a British
vessel, Key witnessed the bombardment of Fort McHenry from the deck of
the _Minden_, and when he perceived "by the dawn's early light" that the
flag still flew over the fort, he was moved to write his famous poem.
Later it was printed and set to music; it was first sung in a restaurant
near the old Holliday Street Theater, but neither the restaurant nor the
theater exists to-day. It is sometimes stated that Key was himself a
prisoner, during the bombardment, on a British warship. That is a
mistake.
By a curious coincidence, only a few minutes after my pamphlet had
reminded me of the origin of "The Star-Spangled Banner" here in
Baltimore, I heard the air played under circumstances very different
from any which could have been anticipated by the author of the poem, or
the composer who set it to music.
The entertainment at the Academy that night was supplied by an elaborate
"show" of the burlesque variety known as "The Follies," and it so
happened that in the course of this hodgepodge of color, comedy,
scenery, song, and female anatomy, there was presented a "number" in
which actors, garbed and frescoed with intent to resemble rulers of
various lands, marched successively to the front of the stage, preceded
in each instance by a small but carefully selected guard wearing the
full-dress-uniform of Broadway Amazons. This uniform consists
principally of tights and high-heeled slippers, the different nations
being indicated, usually, by means of color combinations and various
types of soldiers' hats. No arms are presented save those provided by
nature.
The King of Italy, the Emperor of Austria, the Czar, the Mikado, the
British Monarch, the President of France, the King of the Belgians, the
Kaiser (for the United States had not then entered the war), and, I
think, some others, put in an appearance, each accompanied by his
Paphian escort, his standard, and the appropriate national air.
Apprehending that this symbolic travesty must, almost inevitably, end in
a grand orgy of Yankee-Doodleism, I was impelled to flee the place
before the thing should happen. Yet a horrid fascination held me there
to watch the working up of "patriotic" sentiment by the old, cheap,
stage tricks.
Presently, of course, the supreme moment came. When all the potentates
had taken their positions, right and left, with their silk-limbed
soldiery in double ranks behind them, there came into view upstage a
squad of little white-clad female naval officers, each, according to my
recollection, carrying the Stars and Stripes. As these marched forward
and deployed as skirmishers before the footlights, the orchestra struck
up "The Star-Spangled Banner," fortissimo, and with a liberal sounding
of the brasses. Upon this appeared at the back a counterfeit President
of the United States, guarded on either side by a female militia--or
were they perhaps secret-service agents?--in striking uniforms
consisting of pink fleshings partially draped with thin black lace.
As this incongruous parade proceeded to the footlights, American flags
came into evidence, and, though I forget whether or not Columbia
appeared, I recollect that a beautiful young woman, habited in what
appeared to be a light pink union suit of unexceptionable cut and
material, appeared above the head of the pseudo-chief executive,
suspended at the end of a wire. Never having heard that it was White
House etiquette to hang young ladies on wires above the presidential
head, I consulted my program and thereby learned that this young lady
represented that species of poultry so popular always with the late
Secretary of State, Mr. Bryan, and so popular also at one time with the
President himself: namely, the Dove of Peace.
The applause was thunderous. At the sound of "The Star-Spangled Banner"
a few members of the audience arose to their feet; others soon
followed--some of them apparently with reluctance--until at last the
entire house had risen. Meanwhile the members of the company lined up
before the footlights: the mock president smirking at the center, the
half-clad girls posing, the pink young lady dangling above, the band
blaring, the Stars and Stripes awave. It was a scene, in all, about as
conducive to genuine or creditable national pride as would be the scene
of a debauch in some fabulous harem.
The difference between stupidity and satire lies, not infrequently, in
the intent with which a thing is done. Presented without essential
change upon the stage of a music hall in some foreign land, the scene
just described would, at that time, when we were playing a timid part
amongst the nations, have been accepted, not as a glorification of the
United States, but as having a precisely opposite significance. It would
have been taken for burlesque; burlesque upon our country, our
President, our national spirit, our peace policy, our army, and perhaps
also upon our women--and insulting burlesque at that.
Some years since, it was found necessary to pass a law prohibiting the
use of the flag for advertising purposes. This law should be amended to
protect it also from the even more sordid and vulgarizing associations
to which it is not infrequently submitted on the American musical-comedy
stage.
* * * * *
In the morning, before I was awake, my companion arrived at the hotel,
and, going to his room, opened the door connecting it with mine. Coming
out of my slumber with that curious and not altogether pleasant sense of
being stared at, I found his eyes fixed upon me, and noticed immediately
about him the air of virtuous superiority which is assumed by all who
have risen early, whether they have done so by choice or have been
shaken awake.
"Hello," I said. "Had breakfast?"
"No. I thought we could breakfast together if you felt like getting up."
Though the phraseology of this remark was unexceptionable, I knew what
it meant. What it really meant was: "Shame on you, lying there so lazy
after sunup! Look at _me_, all dressed and ready to begin!"
I arose at once.
For all that I don't like to get up early, it recalled old times, and
was very pleasant, to be away with him again upon our travels; to be in
a strange city and a strange hotel, preparing to set forth on
explorations. For he is the best, the most charming, the most observant
of companions, and also one of the most patient.
That is one of his greatest qualities--his patience. Throughout our
other trip he always kept on being patient with me, no matter what I
did. Many a time instead of pushing me down an elevator shaft, drowning
me in my bath, or coming in at night and smothering me with a pillow, he
has merely sighed, dropped into a chair, and sat there shaking his head
and staring at me with a melancholy, ruminative, hopeless
expression--such an expression as may come into the face of a dumb man
when he looks at a waiter who has spilled an oyster cocktail on him.
All this is good for me. It has a chastening effect.
Therefore in a spirit happy yet not exuberant, eager yet controlled,
hopeful yet a little bit afraid, I dressed myself hurriedly, breakfasted
with him (eating ham and eggs because he approves of ham and eggs), and
after breakfast set out in his society to obtain what--despite my walk
of the night before--I felt was not alone my first real view of
Baltimore, but my first glimpse over the threshold of the South: into
the land of aristocracy and hospitality, of mules and mammies, of
plantations, porticos, and proud, flirtatious belles, of colonels,
cotton, chivalry, and colored cooking.