Our neighbourhood is very genteel. I doubt if any one who has not lived
in Philadelphia can imagine how genteel it is. Visitors from out of town
are wont to sigh with rapture when they see our trim blocks of tall
brick dwellings--that even cornice running in a smooth line for several
hundred yards really is quite a sight--and exclaim, "Oh, I wish we had
something like this in New York!" But our gentility is a little
self-conscious, for we live on the very frontier of a region, darker in
complexion, which is far from scrupulous in deportment. Uproarious and
naive are the humours of South Street, lying just behind us. Stanleys
have gone exploring thither and come back with merry tales. South Street
on a bright evening, its myriad barber shops gleaming with lathered
dusky cheeks, wafting the essence of innumerable pomades and lotions,
that were a Travel indeed. On South Street the veins of life run close
to the surface.
We are no less human on our street, but it takes a bit more study to get
at the secret. There is a certain reticence about us. It would take an
earthquake to cause much fraternization along Pine Street. Perhaps it
is because three houses out of every four bear the tablets of doctors.
The average layman fears to stop and speak to his neighbour for fear it
will develop into a professional matter. We board up our front windows
at night with heavy wooden shutters. We have no druggists, only
"apothecaries." These apothecaries are closed on Sundays. They sell
stamps in little isinglass capsules, to be quite sanitary, two twos in a
capsule for five cents. In their shops you can still get soda water with
"plain cream" and shaved ice, such as was customary twenty-five years
ago. When our doctors go away for the summer, someone comes twice a week
from June to October to polish up the little silver name plate. It is
the custom in our neighbourhood (so one observes through drawing room
windows) to have reading lamps with rosy pink shades and at least two
beautiful daughters of debutante age. I hope I am not unjust, but our
street looks to me like the kind of place where people take warm baths,
in a roomy old china tub, on Sunday afternoons. After that, they go
downstairs and play a hymn on the piano, at twilight.
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There are a number of very odd features about our neighbourhood. There
is a large schoolhouse at the next corner, but as far as I can see, it
is not used as a school, not for children, at any rate. Sometimes, about
8 o'clock in the evening, I see the building gloriously illuminated, and
a lonely lady stooped and assiduous at a table. She seems quite
solitary. Perhaps her researches are so poignant that the school board
has prescribed entire silence. But midway down the block is a very jolly
little private school, to which very genteel children may be seen
approaching early in the morning. The little girls come with a bustle of
starch, on foot, accompanied by governesses; the small boys arrive in
limousines. They are small boys dressed very much in the English manner,
with heavy woollen stockings ending just below the knee. They probably
do not realize that their tailor has carefully planned them to look like
dear little English boys. Then there is a very mysterious small theatre
near by. If it were a movie theatre, what a boon it would be! But no, it
is devoted to a strange cult called the Religion of Business, which
meets there on Sundays. Before that, there was a Korean congress there.
There is a lovely green room in this theatre, but not much long green in
the box office. Philadelphia prefers Al Jolson to Hank Ibsen.
We have our tincture of vie de Boheme, though, in our little French
table d'hote, a thoroughly atmospheric place. Delightful Madame B., with
her racy philosophy of life, what delicious soups and salads she serves!
Happy indeed are those who have learned the way to her little tables,
and heard her cheerful cry "A la cuisine!" when one of her small dogs
prowls into the dining room. Equally unique is the old curiosity shop
near by, one of the few genuine "notion" shops left in the city (though
there is a delightful one on Market Street near Seventeenth, to enter
which is to step into a country village). This is just the kind of shop
bought by the old gentleman in one of Frank Stockton's agreeable tales,
"Mr. Tolman," in the volume called "The Magic Egg". The proprietress,
charming and conversable lady, will sell you anything in the "notions"
line, from a paper of pins to garter elastic. Then there is the laundry,
whose patrons carry on a jovial game known as "Looking for Your Own."
Every week, by some cheery habit of confusion, the lists are lost, and
one hunts through shelves of neatly piled and crisply laundered garments
to pick out one's own collars, pyjamas, or whatever it may be. The
amusing humour of this pastime must be experienced to be understood.
The little cigar and magazine shop on the corner is the political and
social focus of the neighbourhood. I shall never forget the pallid and
ghastly countenance of the newsdealer when the rumour first went the
rounds that "Hampy" was elected. Every evening a little gathering of
local sages meets in the shop; on tilted chairs, in a haze of tobacco,
they while the hours away. In tobacco the host adheres to the standard
blends, but in literature he is enterprising. Until recently this was
the only place I know in Philadelphia where one could get the
_Illustrated London News_ every week.
There are twinges of modernity going on along our street. Some of the
old houses have been remodeled into apartments. There is an "electric
shoe repairer" just round the corner. But the antique dealers and
plumbers for which the street is famous still hold sway; the fine old
brick pavement still collects rain water in its numerous dimpled
hollows, and the yellowish marble horse-blocks adorn the curb. The nice
shabby stables in the little side streets have not yet been turned into
studios by artists, and the neighbourhood's youngest urchins set sail
for Rittenhouse Square every morning on their fleet of "kiddie-cars."
Their small stout legs, twinkling along the pavements in white gaiters
on a wintry day, are a pleasant sight. Even our urchins are notably
genteel. Surrounded on all sides by the medical profession, they are
reared on registered milk and educator crackers. If Philadelphia ever
betrays its soul, it does so on this delightful, bland, and genteel
highway.