real gateway to the old South--the South of flavor and of romance. In
Baltimore, you always say "Baltimore City," probably in distinction to
Baltimore county, which surrounds it, and your real Baltimorean delights
to speak of his morning journal as "that _Sun_ paper." The town clings
conservatively to its old tricks of speech, and if you pick up that
newspaper you will perhaps find the advertisement of an auctioneer
preparing to sell the effects of some family "declining housekeeping."
That same fine conservatism is reflected in her nomenclature--first as
you see it upon the shop signs and the door-plates. She has not felt the
flood of foreign invasion as some of our other cities have felt it. She
is not cosmopolitan--and she is proud of that. And the names that one
sees along her streets are for the most part the good names of English
lineage. Even the names of the streets themselves are proof of
that--Alpaca and April alleys, Apple, and Apricot courts, Crab
court, Cuba street, China street--which takes one back to the
days of the famous clipper ships which sailed from the wharves of
Baltimore--Featherbed lane, Johnny-cake road, Maidenchoice lane, Pen
Lucy avenue, Sarah Ann street--who shall say that conservatism does not
linger in these cognomens? And what shall one say of conservatism and
Baltimore's devotion to Charles street, sending that famous thoroughfare
up through the county to the north as Charles Street avenue and then as
Charles Street Avenue extension?
* * * * *
Do not mistake Baltimore conservatism for a lack of progress. You can
hardly make greater mistake. For Baltimore today is constantly planning
to better her harbor, to improve the beginning that she has already made
in the establishment of municipal docks--her jealousy of a certain
Virginia harbor far to the south is working much good to herself. She is
constantly bettering her markets--today they are not only among the most
wonderful but the most efficient in the whole land. And today she is
planning a great common terminal for freight right within her heart--a
sizable enterprise to be erected at a cost of some ten millions of
dollars. For she is determined that her reputation for giving good
living to her citizens and at a low cost shall be maintained. She
realizes that much of that cost is the cost of food distribution, and
while almost every other city in the land is floundering and
experimenting she is going straight ahead--with definite progress in
view. Such purpose and such plans make first-rate aids to conservatism.
* * * * *
"Baltimore can prove to any one who will give her half a chance, what a
good, a dignified, a charming thing it is to be an American town,"
writes one man of her. He knows her well and he does not go by the mark.
Baltimore is good, is dignified, is altogether charming. And she is an
American town of the very first rank.
6
THE AMERICAN MECCA
Just as all the roads of old Italy led to Rome so do all the roads of
this broad republic lead to Washington--its seat of government. At every
season of the year travelers are bound to it. It is in the spring-time,
however, that this travel begins to assume the proportions of the
hegira. It is a patriotic trek--essentially. And the slogan "Every true
American should see Washington at least once" has been changed by shrewd
railroad agents and hotel-keepers to "Every true American should see
Washington once a year," although some of the true Americans after one
experience with Washington hotel-keepers are apt to say that once in a
life-time is quite enough. But the national capital is worth all the
hardships, all the extortions large and small. It is a patriotic shrine
and, quite incidentally, the most beautiful city in America, if not the
world, and so it is that there is not a month in the year that Americans
are not pouring through its gateway--the wonderful new Union station.
That terminal still opens the eyes of those folk who come trooping down
toward the Potomac--old fellows who still remember the last time they
went to Washington and the entire country was a-bristle with military
camps and bristling guns, little shavers entering for the first time the
City of Perpetual Delights, lovelorn bridal couples, excursions from
Ohio, round-trips from off back in the Blue Ridge mountains, parties
from up in Pennsylvania--the broad concourse of the railroad station at
Washington is a veritable parade-ground of latent and varied
Americanism.
The members of a self-appointed Reception Committee are waiting for the
tourists--just outside the marble portals of the station. Some of them
are hotel-runners, others are cab-drivers, but they are all there and
their eyes are seemingly unerring. How quickly they detect the stranger
who has heard the "true American" slogan for the first time, and who has
the return part of his ten-day limit ticket tucked safely away in his
shabby old wallet.
"Seein' Washington! A brilliant trip of two hours through the homes of
wealth an' fashion, with a lecture explainin' every point of interest
an' fame."
Here is the first welcoming cry of the Reception Committee--and seasoned
tourist that you are, you do not yield to it. You shake your head in a
determined "no" to the barker at the station but a little while later
over in Pennsylvania avenue you succumb. Two dashing young black-haired
ladies--slender symphonies in white--are sitting high upon one of the
large travel-stained peripatetic grandstands. On another sight-seeing
automobile over across the street are two very blondes--in black. You
cast your fate upon the ladies with the black hair and the white dresses
and climb upon the wagon with them. At intervals you look enviously upon
mere passers-by. Then the intervals cease. Two young men climb upon the
wagon and boldly engage themselves in conversation with the young
ladies. At the very moment when you are about to interfere in the name
of propriety, you discover that the young ladies seem to like it. At any
rate you decide it will be interesting to listen to their conversation
and the important young man who is in charge of the grandstand has taken
your non-refundable dollar for the trip. Otherwise you might still
change in favor of the blondes who are sitting huddled under a single
green sunshade and who look bored with themselves.
You sit ... and sit ... and sit. An old lady finds her cumbersome way up
on the front seat and fumbles for her dollar. A deaf gentleman perches
himself upon the rear bench. After which you sit some more. Three or
four more true Americans find their way upon the wagon. You still sit.
An elderly couple crowds in upon your bench. The man has whiskers like
Uncle Joe Cannon or a cartoon, but his wife seems to have subdued him,
after all these years. The sitting continues. Finally, when patience is
all but exhausted, the personal conductor of the car shouts "All aboard"
and the two young ladies in white duck drop off nimbly. For a moment
their acquaintances seem non-plussed. Then they understand, for they,
too, jump off and follow after.
The chauffeur fumbles with the crank of the top-heavy car. It does not
respond readily. The chauffeur perspires and the personal conductor--who
will shortly emerge in the rôle of lecturer--offers advice. The
chauffeur softly profanes. Interested spectators gather about and begin
to make comments of a personal nature. Finally, when the chauffeur is
about to give it all up and you and yours are to be plunged into
mortification--you can safely suspect those young blondes on the rival
enterprise across the way of laughing in their tight little sleeves at
you--the engine begins to snort violently and throb industriously. The
chauffeur wipes the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand
and smiles triumphantly at the scoffers across the street.
He jumps into his seat briskly, as if afraid that the car might change
its mind, and you are off. The ship's company settles into various
stages of contentment. Seein' Washington at last.... The lecturer
reaches for his megaphone.
But not so fast--this is Washington.
The real start has not yet begun. All these are but preliminaries to the
start of the real start. You are not going to bump into the world of
wealth and fashion as quickly as all this. You go along Pennsylvania
avenue for another two squares and for twenty minutes more traffic is
solicited. The novelty wears off and contentment ceases.
"I don't purpose to pay a dollar for a ride and spend the hull time
settin' 'round like a public hack in front of th' hotels," says a
bald-headed man and he voices a rising sentiment. He is from Baltimore
and he is frankly skeptical of all things in Washington. The lecturer
and the chauffeur confer. The performance with the engine crank is given
once again and you finally make a real start.
Entertainment begins from that start. But you get history as a
preliminary to wealth and fashion, for it so happens that wealth and
fashion do not dwell in that part of Pennsylvania avenue.
"Site of first p'lice station in Washington," the young man rattles out
through his megaphone. "Oldest hotel in Washington. Washington's
Chinatown. Peace Monument. Monument to Albert Pike, Gran' Master of the
Southern Masons; only Confederate monument in the city. Home o' Fightin'
Bob Evans, there with the tree against the window. His house was--"
"What was that about the Confederates?" the deaf man interrupts from the
back seat. The lecturer, with an expression of utter boredom, repeats.
At this moment the chauffeur comes into the limelight. He recognizes a
girl friend on the sidewalk and in the enthusiasm of that recognition
nearly bumps the grandstand into a load of brick. When order is restored
and you go forward in a straight course once again, the lecturer
resumes--
"On our right the United States Pension Office, the largest brick
buildin' in the world and famed for the inaugural balls it has every
four years--only it didn't have one las' time. But when Mr. Taft was
inaugurated nine thousand couples were a-waltzin' an--"
Some of the folk upon the car look shocked. They come from communities
where dancing is taboo, and the lecturer seems to hint at an orgy there
in one of the taxpayer's buildings.
"There is also the largest frieze in the world 'round that building," he
continues, "an' it ain't the North Pole, either. Eighteen hundred
soldiers and sailors--count 'em some day--marchin' there, the sick an'
the wounded laggin' behind, the trail of martyr's blood markin' their
path, comrade helpin' comrade--all a-bringin' honor an' glory to the
flag."
He drops the megaphone to catch his breath and whispers into your ear.
He realizes that you have understood him--and half apologizes for
himself:
"They like that," he explains, in an undertone. "A little oratory now
an' then tickles 'em. An' then they like this:"
The megaphone goes into action.
"We are travelin' west in F street, the Wall street of Washington, the
place of the banker an' broker."
"Ain't we goin' to see the houses of the fashionable people?" demands
the wife of the bald-headed Baltimorean. "Now over in our city Eutaw
place is--"
"We are comin' there, madam," says the lecturer, courteously.
And in a little while you do come there. You sit back complacently in
your seat and smack your mental lips at the sight of the mansion of the
man who owns three banks; of that of him who, the lecturer solemnly
affirms, is the president of the Whiskey Trust; at a third where dwells
"the richest minister of the United States." A little school-teacher,
who has come down from Hartford, Conn., makes profuse notes in a neat
leather-covered book. It is plain to see that she takes the duty of the
true Americans as a serious enterprise, indeed.
You all start and look when ex-Speaker Cannon's house is passed, and you
catch a glimpse of the old man coming down the door-steps. The public
interest in him has not seemed to cease with his retirement from the
center of the national arena. But it has lessened. You realize that a
moment later when your peregrinating grandstand rolls by a solemn-faced
man walking down the street--a big man in a black suit, his face hidden
by a black slouch hat.
"Mr. Bryan," whispers the lecturer, this time without the megaphone.
It is quite unnecessary. For a brief instant Washington is forgotten. In
that instant the crowd regards the second or third best-known man in
America--silently and curiously. The lecturer brings them back to their
dollar's worth. He boldly points out the Larz Anderson house as the home
of "the richest real estate man in the country," the new home of Perry
Belmont as having "three stories above ground and three below"--an
excursionist from Reading, Pa., interrupts to ask how much coal they
will need to fill such a cellar--you see the home of the late Mr. Walsh
with "a forty-five hundred dollar marble bench in the yard, all cut out
of a single piece," the sedate and stately house of Gifford Pinchot.
It is pleasant, driving through these smooth Washington streets, even if
the low-hanging tree branches do make you jump and start at times. You
go up this street, down that, past long rows of neat Colonial houses
that some day are going to look neat and old--turn by one of the lovely
open squares of the city. They have just erected a statue
there--grandstands are already going up around about it and there will
be speeches and oratory before long.
Washington is constantly in the throes of an epidemic of dedications.
There are now more statues in the city than Mr. Baedeker ever can tally
and each of them has undergone dedication--at least once. The President
has been corralled, if possible, although Mr. Wilson has already shown a
reticence for this sort of thing. If the President simply will not come,
a Governor or a rather famous Senator will do as well. And in the far
pinch there are many Representatives in Washington who are mighty good
orators. You can almost get a Representative at the crook of your
finger, and you cannot have a real dedication without a splurry of
oratory. It is almost as necessary as music--or the refreshments.
As you slip by one of those statues--"the equestrian figure of General
Andrew Jackson on horseback"--the gentleman from Reading demands that
the car stop. He wants to ask a question and apparently he cannot ask a
question and be in motion at the same time. So he demands that the car
be stopped. It is one of the privileges of a man who has paid a
perfectly good dollar for the trip. The car stops--abruptly.
You will probably recall that Jackson statue, standing in the center of
Lafayette square and directly in front of the White House. Perhaps
General Jackson rode a horse that way and perhaps he did not, but there
the doughty old warrior sits, his bronze mount plunging high upon hind
legs.
"What is ever going to keep that statue from falling over some day?"
demands the man from Reading. He has a keen professional interest in the
matter, for he has been a blacksmith up in that brisk Pennsylvania town
for many a year.
[Illustration: Through the portals of this Union Station come all the
visitors to Washington]
The lecturer explains that the tail of the bronze horse is heavily
weighted and that the whole figure is held in balance that way. But the
blacksmith is Pennsylvania Dutch--of the sort not to be convinced in an
instant--and he sets forth his opinion of the danger at length, to
the bald-headed man from Baltimore, who sits just behind him.
The lecturer goes forward once again. You look at the proud old mansion
that faces Lafayette square, and gasp when the intelligent young man
with the megaphone tells you that it was given to Daniel Webster by the
American people and that he gambled it away. You notice the house that
Admiral Dewey got from the same source, and wonder if he could not have
contrived possibly to gamble it away. You note St. John's church--"the
Church of State," the young man calls it--and turn into Sixteenth
street. But alas, it is Sixteenth street no longer. Through a bit of the
official snobbery that frequently comes to the surface in the governing
of the national capital that fine highway has been named "the Avenue of
the Presidents," a name that is so out of harmony of our fine American
town that it will probably be changed in the not distant future.
The lecturer points your attention to another house.
"The Dolly Madison Hotel, for women only," he announces. "No men or dogs
allowed above the first floor. The only male thing around the premises
is the mail-box and it is--"
He has gone too far. You fix your steely glance of disapproval upon him
and he withers. He drops his megaphone and whispers into your ear once
again:
"I hate to do it," he apologizes, "but I have to. The boss says:--'Give
'em wit an' humor, Harry, or back you goes to your old job on a
Fourteenth street car.' Think of givin' that bunch wit an' humor! Look
at that old sobersides next to you, still a-worryin' about that statue!"
Wit and humor it is then. Wit and humor and wealth and fashion. It
almost seems too little to offer a mere dollar for such joys. You make
the turn around the drive in back of the White House and you miss the
Taft cow--which in other days was wont to feast upon the greensward. You
ask the lecturer what became of Mr. Taft's cow.
"She was deceased," he solemnly explained, "a year before his term was
up--of the colic."
And of that somewhat ambiguous statement you can make your own
translation.
* * * * *
The sight-seeing car stops at the little group of hotels in Pennsylvania
avenue, near the site of the old Baltimore & Potomac railroad station.
The lecturer begins to use his megaphone to expatiate upon the
advantages of a trip to Arlington which is about to begin, but Arlington
is too sweetly serious a memorial to be explored by a humorous
motor-car. And--in the offing--you are seeing something else. Another
car of the line upon which you have been voyaging is moored at the very
point from which you started, not quite two hours ago. Upon that car sit
the same two young black-haired ladies. Two young men are climbing up to
sit beside them. Your gaze wanders. On the rival car across the way the
two very blondes in black are still holding giggling conversation. Your
suspicions are roused.
Do they ever ride?
Apparently not. Tomorrow they will be upon the cars again, the blondes
upon the right, the brunettes upon the left. And the day after tomorrow
they will sit and wait and appear interested and in joyous anticipation.
And if it rains upon the following day they will don their little
mackintoshes and talk pleasantly about its being nearly time to clear
up.
Now you know. Seein' Washington employs cappers. Those young ladies sit
there to induce dollars--faith, 'tis seduction, pure and simple--from
narrow masculine pockets. You do know, now.
* * * * *
If we are giving much space to the tourist view of Washington it is
because the tourist plays so important a part in the life of the town.
He is one of its chief assets and, seriously speaking, there is
something rather pathetic in the joy that comes to the faces of those
who step out from the great portals of the new station for the very
first time. There is something in their very expressions that seems to
express long seasons of saving and of scrimping, perhaps of downright
deprivation in order that our great American mecca may finally be
reached. You will see the same expressions upon the faces of the humbler
folk who go to visit any of the great expositions that periodically are
held across the land.
That expression of eminent satisfaction--for who could fail to see
Washington for the first time and not be eminently satisfied--reaches
its climax each week-day afternoon in the East Room of the White House.
If President Wilson has reached a finer determination than his
determination to let the folk of his nation-wide family come and see
him, we have yet to hear of it. And there is not a man or woman in the
land who should be above attending the simple official reception that
the President gives each afternoon at his house to all who may care to
come.
There is little red-tape about the arrangements in advance. The tendency
to hedge the President around with restrictions has been completely
offset in the present administration. A note or a hurried call upon the
President's secretary in advance--a card of invitation is quickly
forthcoming. And at half-past two o'clock of any ordinary afternoon you
present yourself at the east wing of the White House. Your card is
quickly scrutinized and you may be sure of it that the sharp-eyed
Irishman who is more than policeman but rather a mentor at the gate, has
scrutinized you, too. His judgment is quick, rarely erring. And unless
you meet his entire approval, you are not going to enter the President's
house. But he has approved and before you know it you--there are several
hundred of you--are slipping forward in a march into the basement of the
Executive Mansion and up one of its broad stairs. There are numerous
attendants along the path.
"Single file!" shouts one of them and single file you all go--just as
you used to play Indian or follow-your-leader in long-ago days. And you
all step from the stair-head into the East Room, while the women-folk
among you conjure imagination to their aid and endeavor to see that
lovely apartment dressed for a great reception or, best of all, one of
the infrequent White House weddings.
Other attendants quickly and easily form you into a great crescent, two
or three human files in width and extending in a great sweep from a vast
pair of closed doors which give to the living portion of the house. No
one speaks, but every one takes stock of his neighbors. If it is in
vacation season there are many boys and girls--for whole schools make
the Washington expedition in these days--there may be several Indians in
war-paint and feather making ceremonious visit to the Great White
Brother. If you are traveled you will probably see New England or
Carolina or Kansas or California in these folk, whose hearts are
quickened in anticipation.
Suddenly--the great door opens, just a little. A thin, wiry man in gray
steps into the room and takes his position near the head of the
crescent. An aide in undress military uniform stands close to him, two
sharp-faced young men stand a little to the left of them and act as a
human Scylla and Charybdis through which all must pass. There are no
preliminaries--no hint of ceremony. Within five seconds of the time when
the President has taken his place, the line begins to move forward. In
twenty minutes he has shaken hands with three or four hundred people and
the reception is over. But in the brief fraction of a single minute when
your hand has grasped that of the President you feel that he knows no
one else on earth. He concentrates upon you and that, in itself, is a
gift of which any statesman may well be proud. And while you are
thinking of the pleasure that his word or two of greeting has given you,
you awake to find yourself out of the room and hunting for your umbrella
at the check-stand in the lower hall. The pleasant personal feeling is
with you even after you have left the shelter of the White House roof.
It is showering gently and a man under a tree is murmuring something
about Secretary Bryan seeing visitors at a quarter to five but neither
makes impress upon you. You are merely thinking how much easier it is to
come to see the President of the greatest republic in the world than
many a lesser man within it--railroad heads, bankers, even petty
politicians.
In other days it was not as easy to gain admittance to the President,
but the tourist who was not above guile could be photographed shaking
hands with the great person. A place on that always alluring
Pennsylvania avenue did the trick. You stepped in a canvas screen into
the place of the enlarged image of a sailor who was once snapped shaking
hands with President Taft. When the picture was finished you were where
the sailor had been, and you had a post-card that would make the folks
back home take notice. True you were a little more prominent in it than
the President, but then Mr. Taft was not paying for the picture. In fact
Mr. Taft, when he heard of the practice, grew extremely annoyed and had
it stopped, so ending abruptly one of the tourist joys of Washington.