A DAY IN MONTGOMERY
I have walk'd in Alabama
My morning walk....
--WALT WHITMAN.
As I have remarked before, it is a long haul from the peninsula of
Florida to New Orleans. There are two ways to go. The route by way of
Pensacola, following the Gulf Coast, looks shorter on the map but is, I
believe, in point of time consumed, the longer way. My companion and I
were advised to go by way of Montgomery, Alabama--a long way around it
looked--where we were to change trains, catching a New Orleans-bound
express from the North.
It was nearly midnight when, after a long tiresome journey, we arrived
in Alabama's capital, and after midnight when we reached the comfortable
if curiously called Hotel Gay-Teague, which is not named for an Indian
chief or a kissing game, but for two men who had to do with building it.
We had heard that Montgomery was a quiet, sleepy old town, and had
expected to go immediately to bed on our arrival. What then was our
amazement at hearing, echoing through the wide street in front of the
hotel, the sound of strident ragtime. Investigation disclosed a gaudily
striped tent of considerable size set up in the street and illuminated
by those flaring naphtha lamps they use in circuses. Going over to the
tent, we learned that there was dancing within, whereupon we paid our
fifteen cents apiece and entered. I have forgotten what produced the
music--it may have been a mechanical piano or a hurdy-gurdy--but there
was music, and it was loud, and there was a platform laid over the
cobble-stones of the street, and on that platform ten or more couples
were "ragging," their shoulders working like the walking beams of
side-wheelers. The men were of that nondescript type one would expect to
see in a fifteen-cent dancing place, but the women were of curious
appearance, for all were dressed alike, the costume being a fringed
khaki suit with knee-length skirt, a bandana at the neck, and a
sombrero. On inquiry I learned that this was called a "cowgirl" costume.
The dances were very brief, and in the intervals between them most of
the dancers went to a "bar" at the end of the tent where (Alabama being
a dry State) the beverage called "coca-cola"--a habit as much as a
drink--was being served in whisky glasses.
Unable to understand why this pageant of supposed western mining-camp
life should confront us in the streets of Alabama's capital, I made
inquiry of an amiable policeman who was on duty in the tent, and learned
that this was not a regular Montgomery institution, but one of the
attractions of a street fair which had invaded the city--the main body
of the fair being a block or two distant.
These fairs, he said, travel about the country much as circuses do,
making arrangements in advance with various organizations in different
places to stand sponsor for them.
Long after we were in our beds that night we were kept awake by the
sound of ragtime from the tent across the way. I arose next morning with
the feeling of one who has had insufficient sleep, and a glance at my
companion, who was already at table when I reached the hotel dining
room, informed me that he was suffering from a like complaint. I took my
seat opposite him in silence, and he acknowledged my presence with a nod
which he accomplished without looking up from his newspaper.
After breakfast there arrived a pleasant gentleman who announced himself
as secretary of one of the city's commercial organizations.
"We have a motor here," said the secretary, "and will show you points of
interest. Is there anything in particular you wish to see?"
"I think," said my companion, "that it would be a good thing to see the
street fair."
"Oh, no," said the secretary earnestly. "You don't want to see that.
There is nothing about it that is representative of Montgomery. It is
just a traveling show such as you might run into anywhere."
"Yes," I said, "but we never _have_ run into one before, and here it
is."
"I have said right along," declared the secretary, somberly, "that it
was a great mistake to bring this fair here at all. I don't think you
ought to pay any attention to it in your book. It will give people a
wrong impression of our city."
"Do you think it will, if I explain that it is just a traveling fair?"
"Yes. Wait until you see what we have to show you. We want you to
understand that Montgomery is a thriving metropolis, sir!"
"What is there to see?"
"Montgomery," he replied, "is known as 'The City of Sunshine.' It is
rich in history. It has superior hotels, picturesque highways, good
fishing and hunting, two golf courses, seven theaters, a number of
tennis courts, and unsurpassed artesian water. It has free factory
sites, the cheapest electric power rates in the United States, and is
the best-lighted city in the country."
"We have some pretty fair street lighting in New York," interjected my
companion, who takes much pride in his home town.
"I said '_one_ of the best lighted,'" replied the secretary.
"What is the population?"
"Montgomery," the other returned, "is typical of both the Old and the
New South. Though it may be called a modern model city, its wealth of
history and tradition are preserved with loving care by its myriad
inhabitants."
"How many inhabitants?"
"Roses and other flowers are in bloom here throughout the year," said
he. "Also there are six hundred miles of macadamized and picturesque
highways in Montgomery County. Indeed, this region is a motorist's
paradise."
"How many people did you say?"
"Montgomery," he answered, "is the trading center for a million
prosperous souls."
At this my companion, who had been reading up Montgomery in a guidebook,
began to bristle with hidden knowledge.
"You say there are a million people here?" he demanded.
"Not right _here_," admitted the secretary.
"Well, how many do you claim?"
"Fifty-five thousand four hundred and ten."
"Right _in_ the city?"
"Well, in the trolley-car territory."
"But in the city itself?" my companion insisted.
The secretary was fairly cornered. "The 1910 census," he said, with a
smile, "gave us about forty thousand."
"Thirty-eight thousand one hundred and thirty-six," corrected my
companion. He had not spent hours with the guidebook for nothing.
When, presently, we got into the automobile, I gave another feeble
chirp about the fair, but the secretary was adamant, so we yielded
temporarily, and were whirled about the city.
* * * * *
Montgomery is a charming old town, not only by reason of the definite
things it has to show, but also because of a general rich suggestion of
old southern life.
The day, by a fortunate chance, was Saturday, and everywhere we went we
encountered negroes driving in from the country to market, in their
rickety old wagons. On some wagons there would be four or five men and
women, and here and there one would be playing a musical instrument and
they would all be singing, while the creaking of the wagon came in with
an orchestral quality which seemed grotesquely suitable. The mules, too,
looked as though they ought to creak, and an inspection of the harness
suggested that it was held together, not so much by the string and wire
with which it was mended, as by the fingers of that especial Providence
which watches over all kinds of absurd repairs made by negroes, and
makes them hold for negroes, where they would not hold for white men.
In an old buff-painted brick building standing on the corner of Commerce
and Bibb Streets, the Confederate Government had its first offices, and
from this building, if I mistake not, was sent the telegraphic order to
fire on Fort Sumter. Another historical building is the dilapidated
frame residence at the corner of Bibb and Lee Streets, which was the
first "White House of the Confederacy." This building is now a boarding
house, and is in a pathetic state of decay. But perhaps when Montgomery
gets up the energy to build a fine tourist hotel, or when outside
capital comes in and builds one, the old house will be furbished up to
provide a "sight" for visitors.
There are several reasons why Montgomery would be a good place for a
large winter-resort hotel, and if I were a Montgomery "booster" I should
give less thought to free factory sites than to building up the town as
a winter stopping place for tourists. The town itself is picturesque and
attractive; as to railroads it is well situated (albeit the claim that
Montgomery is the "Gateway to Florida" strikes me as a little bit
exaggerated); the climate is delightful, and the surrounding country is
not only beautiful but fertile. Furthermore, there are already two golf
clubs--one for Jews and one for Gentiles--and the links are reputed to
be good.
Unlike many southern cities of moderate size, Montgomery has well-paved
streets, and the better residence streets, being wide, and lined with
trees and pleasant houses, each in its own lawn, give a suggestion of an
agreeable home and social life--a suggestion which, by implication at
least, report substantiates: for it has been said that the chief
industry of Montgomery is that of raising beautiful young women to make
wives for the rich men of Birmingham.
On such pleasant thoroughfares as South Perry Street, it may be noticed
that many of the newer houses have taken their architectural inspiration
from old ones, with the result that, though "originality" does not jump
out at the passer-by, as it does on so many streets, North and South,
which are lined with the heterogeneous homes of prosperous families,
there is an agreeable architectural harmony over the town.
This is not, of course, invariably true, but it is truer, I think, in
Montgomery than in most other cities, and if Montgomery is defaced by
the funny little settlement called Bungalow City, that settlement is, at
least, upon the outskirts of the town. Bungalow City is without
exception the queerest real-estate development I ever saw. It consists
of several blocks of tiny houses, standing on tiny lots, the scale of
everything being so small as to suggest a play village for children. The
houses are, however, homes, and I was told that in some of them all
sorts of curious space-saving devices are installed--as, for instance,
tables and beds which can be folded into the walls. Not far from this
little settlement is an old house which used to be the home of Tweed,
New York's notorious political boss, who, it is said, used to spend much
time here.
The chief lion of the city is the old State House, which stands on a
graceful eminence in a small well-kept park. Just as the New York State
Capitol is probably the most shamefully expensive structure of the kind
in the entire country, that of Alabama is, I fancy, the most creditably
inexpensive. Building and grounds cost $335,000. Moreover, the Capitol
of Alabama is a better-looking building than that of New York, for it is
without gingerbread trimmings, and has about it the air of honest
simplicity that an American State House ought to have. Of course it has
a dome, and of course it has a columned portico, but both are plain, and
there is a large clock, in a quaint box-like tower, over the peak of the
portico, which contributes to the building a curious touch of
individuality. At the center of the portico floor, under this clock, a
brass plate marks the spot where Jefferson Davis stood when he delivered
his inaugural address, February 18, 1861, and in the State Senate
Chamber, within--a fine simple room with a gallery of peculiar
grace--the Provisional Government of the Confederacy was organized. The
flag of the Confederacy was, I believe, adopted in this room, and was
first flung to the breeze from the Capitol building.
It was past three in the afternoon when we left the State House, and we
had had no luncheon.
"Now," said my companion as we returned to the automobile, "I think we
had better have something to eat, and then go to the fair."
"But you were going to give up the fair," put in the secretary.
"Oh, no," we said in chorus.
"I have arranged about luncheon," he returned. "We will have it served
at the hotel in a short time. But first there are some important sights
I wish you to see."
"Man shall not live by sights alone," objected my companion. "What are
you going to show us?"
"We have a beautiful woman's college."
"That," said my companion, "is the one thing that could tempt me. How
many beautiful women are there?"
"It's not the women--it's the building," the secretary explained.
"Then," said my companion firmly, "I think we'd better go and have our
lunch."
It seemed to me time to back him up in this demand. By dint of
considerable insistence we persuaded our enthusiastic cicerone to drive
to the hotel, where we found a table already set for us.
"I want to tell you," said the secretary as we sat down, "about the
agricultural progress this section has been making. Until recently our
farmers raised nothing but cotton; they didn't even feed themselves, but
lived largely on canned goods. But the boll weevil and the European War,
affecting the cotton crop and the cotton market as they did, forced the
farmers to wake up."
The secretary talked interestingly on this subject for perhaps a quarter
of an hour, during which time we waited for luncheon to be served.
"You see," he said, "our climate is such that it is possible to rotate
crops more than in most parts of the country. Cotton is now a surplus
crop with us, and our farmers are raising cattle, vegetables, and food
products."
"Speaking of food products," said my companion, "I wonder if we could
hurry up the lunch?"
"It will be along in a little while," soothed the secretary. Then he
returned to agriculture.
Ten minutes more passed. I saw that my companion was becoming nervous.
"I'm sorry to trouble you," he said at last, "but if we can't speed up
this luncheon, I don't see how I can wait. You see, we are leaving town
this evening, and I have an awful lot to do."
"I'll step back and investigate," the secretary said, rising and moving
toward the kitchen door.
When he was out of hearing, my companion leaned toward me.
"I suspect this fellow!" he said.
"What of?"
"I think he's delaying us on purpose. He's a nice chap, but it's his
business to boost this town, and he's artful. He doesn't want us to see
the street fair. That's why he's stalling like this!"
Now, however, the secretary returned, followed by a waiter bearing soup.
The soup was fine, but it was succeeded by another long interval, during
which the secretary said some very, very beautiful things about the
charm of Montgomery life. However, it was clear to me that my companion
was not interested. After he had looked at his watch several times, and
drummed a long tattoo upon the table, he arose, declaring:
"I can't wait another minute."
"Sit down, my dear fellow," said the secretary in his most genial tone.
"I am having some special southern dishes prepared for you."
"You're very kind," said my companion, "but I must get to work. It's
half-past four now; we are leaving in a few hours. It will take me an
hour to make my sketches, and the light will be failing pretty soon."
"What are you going to sketch?" It seemed to me that there was
suppressed emotion in the secretary's voice as he asked the question.
"Why, the street fair."
"Surely, you're not going to _draw_ it?"
"Why not?"
"It's not representative of Montgomery. You ought to do something
representative! What pictures have you made here?"
"I made one of those negroes driving in to market," said my companion,
"and one of the dancing cowgirls in the tent across the way--the ones
who kept us awake last night."
"My God!" cried the secretary, turning to me. "You intend to print such
pictures and say that they represent the normal life of this city?"
"No, I won't say anything about it."
"But--" the secretary arose and looked wanly at the illustrator--"but
you haven't drawn any of our pretty homes! You didn't draw the golf
clubs--not either one of them! You didn't draw the State House, or the
Confederate Monument, or the Insane Asylum, or anything!"
"I haven't had time."
"Well, you have time now! I tell you what: We'll let this luncheon go.
I'll take you to the top of our tallest building, and you can draw a
panoramic bird's-eye view of the entire city. That will be worth while."
My companion reached out, helped himself to a French roll, and put it in
his pocket.
"No," he said. "I will not go to the top of a high building with you."
"But why not?"
"Because," he replied, "I am afraid you would try to push me off the
roof to prevent my drawing the street fair."
I do not remember that the secretary denied having harbored such a plan.
At all events, he countermanded the remainder of the luncheon order and
departed with us.
At the entrance of an office building he made one final desperate
appeal: "Just come up to the top floor and see the view!"
But we stood firm, and he continued with us on our way.
The fair was strung along both sides of a wide, cobbled street. It was
really a very jolly fair, with the usual lot of barkers and the usual
gaping crowd, plus many negroes, who stood fascinated before the highly
colored canvas signs outside the tents, with their bizarre pictures of
wild animals, snake charmers, "Nemo, the Malay Prince," and "The
Cigarette Fiend," pictured as a ghastly emaciated object with a blue
complexion, and billed as "Endorsed by the Anti-Cigarette League of
America." I wished to inquire why an anti-cigarette league should
indorse a cigarette fiend, but lack of time compelled us to press on,
leaving the apparent paradox unsolved.
As we progressed between the tents and the booths with their catchpenny
"wheels of fortune," and ring-tossing enticements, the secretary
maintained a protesting silence.
Near the end of the block we stopped to listen to a particularly
vociferous barker. I saw my companion take his pad from his pocket and
place it under his arm, while he sharpened a pencil.
"Come!" cried the secretary. "Come across the square and let me show you
our beautiful bronze fountain. Draw that!"
But my companion was already beginning to sketch. He was drawing the
barker and the crowd.
Meanwhile an expression of horror came into the secretary's face.
Looking at him, I became conscience-stricken.
"Come away," I said gently, taking him by the arm. "Don't watch him
draw. He draws wonderfully, but Art for Art's sake doesn't appeal to
you just now. The better he draws the worse it will make you feel. Let
me get your mind off all this. Let me take you over to the autodrome,
where we can see Mr. O.K. Hager and his beautiful sister, Miss Olive
Hager, the 'Two Daredevil Motorcyclists, in the Thrilling Race against
Death.' That will make you forget."
"No," said the secretary, shaking his head with a despondency the very
sight of which made me sad; "I have letters to sign at the office."
"And we have taken up your whole day!"
"It has been a pleasure," he said kindly. "There is only one thing that
worries me. Those drawings are not going to represent what is typical of
Montgomery life. Not in the least!"
There arose in me a sudden desire to comfort him.
"How would it be," I suggested, "if I were to print that statement in my
book?"
He looked at me in surprise.
"But you couldn't very well do that, could you?"
"Certainly," I replied.
His face brightened. It was delightful to see the change come over him.
"For that matter," I went on, "I might say even more. I could say that,
while I admire my companion as a man, and as an artist, he lacks
ingenuity in ordering breakfast. He always reads over the menu and then
orders a baked apple and scrambled eggs and bacon. Would you like me to
attack him on that line also?"
"Oh, no," said the secretary. "Nothing of that kind. It's just about
these pictures. They aren't representative. If you'll say that, I'll be
more than satisfied."
Presently we parted.
"Don't forget!" he said as we shook hands in farewell.
And I have not forgotten. Moreover, to give full measure, I am going to
ask the printer to set the statement in italics:
_The drawings accompanying this chapter are not representative of what
is typical of Montgomery life._
With this statement my companion is in full accord. He admits that he
would have drawn the State House had there been no fair, to interfere.
But, as with certain items on the breakfast bill, street fairs are a
passion with him. And so they are with me.