THE UNUSUALNESS OF PARISIAN PHILADELPHIA
I discovered the other day that Philadelphia is a very great deal nearer
to Paris than New York is.
How do I figure out that?
Plain enough. It's because New York women, buds and matrons, thinking
they are got up (or as the English say, "turned out") smart as anything,
are parading around in fashions today altogether passée.
You know the New York scene. And how for some considerable time now its
most--well, most apparent feature has been a--er, a hosiery display ...
unparalleled off the gay stage of musical comedy. Very, so to speak,
exhilarating that once was--the glistening spectacle of, moving all
about, those symmetrically tapering lines of pink and rose and orange
and pearl and taupe and heather tan and heather green and purple wool
and sheen of black and gloss of mottled snake and--and all that.
But, I am afraid, the eye over-long accustomed to the great Metropolitan
movie thriller of the fashionable streets had become somewhat dulled.
The Parisienne knew about the peculiar character of the eye, and that it
ceases to see with any emotional response at all that which remains
within its range of vision for any extended length of time. So she
(roguish witch!) alertly changed the picture.
I picked up by chance, during my two-hour run on the train, a copy of
one of our most dashing fashion journals. It was the "Forecast of Spring
Fashions" number. I opened it, at random, at the headline: "The Short
Skirt Has Had Its Day in Paris." Below was a jolly photograph (of a
stunning lady at the latest races at Auteuil) illustrating "the new
skirt length." Visible beneath the hem--a trim foot, and a bit of tidy
ankle.
Who was the fellow (with a gifted eye for the lasses) who spoke with
such delight of the tiny feet that "like little mice run in and out"?
And there was that other poet (what was his name? I declare! my
literature is getting awful rusty), who sang with such relish the charm
of feminine drapery "concealing yet revealing." Anyhow, you know what
I'm getting at.
I closed the magazine and forgot about the matter--until shortly after I
had come out of the Broad Street Station.
The modish scene I apprehended was, to an eye accustomed steadily for
some time to the natty abbreviations of Fifth Avenue, a refreshing, a
charming spectacle. I seemed suddenly to have left my "orchestra seat."
And to have returned again to a view of, so to put it, ladies in private
life.
Though, indeed, occasionally in the distance I caught a flashing glimpse
of, according to Paris decree, the obsolete skirt length.
Come to think of it, isn't this so, too: that there are in Philadelphia
more rose-cheeked damsels of hearty figure and athletic-heel swing than
you usually come across in other cities?
At any rate, there are quite a number of very unusual things about
"Phila," as I believe intimate friends of the city affectionately call
the place. Things which it may be you have not noticed lately--perhaps
because you haven't been there recently, or maybe because you live
there, and so see them every day.
One of the unusual things about Philadelphia is that so many ladies and
"gem'men" who do light housekeeping on and around Manhattan Island (in
other words "New Yorkers") apparently find it easier frequently to get
to Chicago, or Palm Beach, or London, or Santa Barbara than to journey
to Philadelphia. I suppose the reason for this state of mind is the same
as the cause of my sometimes feeling that it would be about as simple
for me to undertake a trip from the Grand Central to Buffalo as to get
from Times Square down to Fulton Street for a luncheon appointment. A
place which is only half an hour, or two hours away, is a place, you
think, that you can run down to any time. And--well, just at the moment
with everything so pressing and all that. To become keyed up about
taking a "real" trip is another matter.
And when I myself do get there I always feel that it is an unusual thing
that I have allowed so long a time to lapse since I came before. Because
it is so unusually pleasant and restful a ride that it makes me sore to
think what an unusually deuce of a thing I am put to every night going
home in the rush hour to Dyckman Street on the subway.
It is an unusual thing (or, at least, so it seems to me) that in
Philadelphia cards in windows advertising rooms to let should be (as
they are) labelled "Vacancies."
It is an unusual thing that here so many undertakers' shops should be
conducted in what appear to be private residences. It is an unusual
thing that there should be so many ways of paying your fare on the
street cars--in some you pay when you get on, in others when you get
off. It is an unusual thing that in Philadelphia there are more
different kinds of street lamps than (I suspect) there are in any other
city in the world. There are powerful arc lamps, high on tall poles,
cold white in their light. There are lower down, particularly pleasant
in the twinkle of their numbers in Washington Square, gas lamps glowing
a mellow yellow through their mantles. Various other kinds of lamps,
too. But the ones I like best are those squat fellows throughout
Independence Square. Octagonal iron-bound boxes of glass, small at the
base, wide at the top, with a kind of ecclesiastical derby hat of iron
as a lid. They somehow suggest to me the lamps which I fancy before Will
Shakespeare's Globe Theatre.
Here golden Diana with her bow does not poise high on her slender
Spanish tower. But from far above the "Public Buildings" Brother Penn
looks down on more banks, United States Mints, trust companies, firms
dealing in securities, places handling investments, and such-like
business concerns than (one has a feeling) can be found in any other
city in Christendom. There are too, I should guess, in Philadelphia
about as many different styles and periods of architecture as in any
other municipality between the two great seas: Georgian, Colonial,
bay-window, London brick row, ramshackle frame, modern mansion,
skyscraper, etc., etc., etc. And certainly I don't know where one could
go to count more different kinds of porches. Nor where one could find so
many such pleasant oddities of today as hitching-blocks, doorway
foot-scrapers, and those old friends of our childhood the front yard
stone storks.
And where, Oh, where! (not even in London) can one find so many alleys
to the square inch? Many of them, lanes of but a few blocks in length,
highly respectable, even aristocratic, quarters of the town. Such as
Camac Street, tucked away between Thirteenth and Twelfth Streets, one
block of it either side of Locust, and the home or haunt of those of
artistic persuasion. Here the famous Franklin Inn Club, the charming
Poor Richard Club, and divers other clubs of kindred spirit. Unusual
this quaint street of art in this: in fixing it up for its present
purpose its quaintness and its "artiness" have not been overdone. Far,
far finer in effect than New York's over eccentric alley of painters,
Washington Mews, its original loveliness has simply been restored. It is
as jolly to look upon as London's artist nook, Cheyne Row. Perhaps even
jollier.
Now another unusual thing about Philadelphia is that Philadelphians
standing within three blocks of the place can't tell you where South
Carlisle Street is. Professional Philadelphians, such as policemen,
firemen, postmen, street car men, can't do it. In the attempt they
contradict each other, and quarrel among themselves. For the benefit of
both Philadelphians and visitors to the city I will set down here
exactly the location of South Carlisle Street. West of Broad, south of
Pine, it runs one block from Pine to Lombard Street. After a jump, where
there isn't any of it, north of Market Street there is more of it.
But what the dickens is South Carlisle Street, and why should anybody
care where it is? Well, though it isn't in the books on Historic Shrines
of America it is a street you "hadn't ought to" miss. It's about twelve
feet (or something like that) from wall to wall. The doorways seem to be
about three feet wide. There, in South Carlisle Street, Philadelphia's
mahogany doors, fan-lights above, white pillars before, marble steps
below, her immaculate red brick, her freshly painted wooden shutters,
her gleaming brass knockers are in their most exquisite perfection.
A wealthy and cultivated gentleman or two "took up" the street a year or
so ago, decided to make their homes there, and it has become quite
"class." Same idea, more or less, that Mrs. W. K. Vanderbilt has
concerning the "exodus" of her set from Fifth Avenue to unheard-of
Sutton Place over among the tall yellow chimneys by New York's East
River.
Considering the great wealth in Philadelphia and its environs,
particularly those patrician environs lying toward Harrisburg, it is, I
think, unusual that you never see on the streets there a Pekingese or a
Pomeranian attended by a personage in livery.
Unusual, too, that in a city of the first class along the eastern
seaboard so few canes are "worn."
And, by the way, that's an unusual railroad service from Philadelphia to
New York. Conductor calls out: "Train for Newark and New York. Newark
first stop." Train slides a few feet--halts at West Philadelphia. Spins
along a bit again, and pulls up at North Philadelphia. Stops later along
the way at Trenton, Newark, and Manhattan Junction. I really do not see,
putting a wreck out of the calculation, where else it could stop.
I took from a boy in the Pennsylvania station a copy of one of New
York's most popular evening papers. It came apart in the middle.
Straightening it out, I caught a headline on the "Talks to Women" page.
It read "Short Skirts Remain." Below a cut of a beaming lass attired,
the caption said, in "frock of navy blue ruffled taffeta with short
sleeves and 'shorter' skirt."
When I came out onto the street the temperature (in skirts) seemed to
have risen since my departure a couple of days before.