Even after nearly ninety years there is a certain pang in learning that while Madam Trollope found nothing comely about the exterior of Independence Hall, she proclaimed New York's City Hall as "noble."
Trying to imagine that we were Mrs. Trollope, we took a stroll up Ninth street in the bright April sun. It was chilly and the burly sandwich-man of Market street, the long-haired, hatless philosopher so well known by sight, was leaning shivering in his shirt-sleeves against an arc light standard trying to wrap his advertising boards around him like an overcoat. "Why don't you walk up and down a bit?" we asked him, after he had rebuked the thermometer with a robust adjective which would have caused Mrs. Trollope to call for hartshorn and ammonia.
"Can't do it," he said. "I've got a bum job today. Got to stand on this corner, advertising a new drug store; 7:30 to 12:30 and 1:30 to 5:30. It's a long day, I'll say so."
Ninth street above Market is a delightful and varied world in itself. At the corner of Filbert we found the following chalked on a modest blackboard:
Irish Stew
Pot Roast
2 Vegatables
15c
Within, a number of citizens were taking those standing drams Mrs. Trollope deprecated. We
