Travels in Philadelphia/Putting the City to Bed
PUTTING THE CITY TO BED
It was a delicious cool evening when I strolled abroad to observe the town composing itself for slumber. The caustic Mrs. Trollope, who visited Philadelphia in 1830, complained bitterly that there was no carousal or cheer of any kind proceeding in the highways after sunset: "The streets are entirely dark, scarcely a step is heard, and for a note of music, or the sound of mirth, I listened in vain." But the lady would find us much more volatile now.
The Weather Man tries to set us a good example by pulling down the front of his little booth at Ninth and Chestnut soon after 10 o'clock, but there are few who take the hint. It was a night almost chilly—67 degrees—a black velvety sky to the northward, diluted to a deep purple and blue where the moon was shining in the south. At 10.45 letter writing was in full scratch along the counters of the main postoffice. Every desk was busy; the little stamp windows were lively caves of light. Hotel signs the old signs that used to say ROOMS $1 UP, and now just say ROOMS—were beaconing along the street. Crowds were piling out of movies. The colored man who letters cards with delicate twirls of penmanship was setting up his little table on Market street. In spite of the cool air every soda fountain was lined with the customary gobs. The first morning papers were beginning to be screamed about the streets, with that hoarse urgency of yelling that always makes the simple-minded think that something fearful has happened.
A crowd gathered hastily in front of a big office building on Chestnut street. Policemen sprang from nowhere. A Jefferson ambulance clanged up. Great agitation, and prolonged ringing of the bell at the huge iron-grilled front door. What's up? Finally appeared a man with blood spattered over his shirt and was escorted to the ambulance. The engineer had walked too near an electric fan and got his head cut. Lucky he didn't lose it altogether, said one watcher.
Eleven o'clock. In a cigar store served by a smiling damsel, two attractive ladies were asking her if it would be safe for them to visit a Chinese restaurant a little farther up the street. "We're from out of town," they explained, "and all alone. We want some chop suey. Is that the kind of place ladies can go to?" The cigar saleslady appealed to me, and I assured the visitors they would be perfectly serene. Perhaps if I had been more gallant I should have escorted them thither. Off they went, a little timorous.
Eleven fifteen. The first of the typical nighthawk motors begin to appear: huge runabouts, with very long bonnets and an air of great power. One of them, a vivid scarlet with white wheels, spins briskly round the City Hall. Trills and tinklings of jazz clatter from second-story restaurants. But Chestnut street is beginning to calm down. Lights in shop windows are going off. The old veteran takes his seat on a camp-stool near Juniper street and begins to tingle his little bell merrily. If you drop something in his box, he will tell you the sign of the zodiac under which you were born, prognosticate your lucky days and planetary hours and advise you when to take a journey. He explained to me that this happened to be the night of Venus. I had been sure of it already after some scrutiny of the pavements. As the lights are dimmed along the street, the large goldfish in a Chestnut street cafe window grow more placid and begin to think of a little watery repose.
Half-past eleven. The airy spaces round the City Hall are full of a mellow tissue of light and shadow. The tall lamp standards are like trees of great pale oranges. The white wagons of the birchbeer fleet are on their rounds. The seats where the band concerts are held are deserted save for one meditative vagrant, drooping with unknown woes. Swiftly flowing cars flit mysteriously round the curve and bend into the long expanse of North Broad street where their little red stern-lights twinkle beneath the row of silver arcs stretching away into the distance. Broad Street Station is comparatively quiet, though there is the usual person gazing up at the window lettered SCRIP CLERGY STOPOVERS COMMUTATION. He wonders what it means. I do not know, any more than he. Standing at the corner of the station the lights of the sky are splendid and serene. Over the Finance Building a light wispy plume of steam hovers and detaches itself, gleaming in the moonshine like a floating swan's feather. The light catches the curves of the trolley rails like ribbons of silver.
Midnight. The population seems to have sorted itself into couples. Almost all the ladies in sight wear silk sports skirts, and walk with their escorts in a curiously slow swishing swing. Some of them may have been dancing all evening, and still pace with some of the rhythm of the waxed floor. In darkened banks are little gleams of orange light behind trellises of bars, where watchmen sit and grind away the long hours. Down the dark narrow channel of Sansom street it is very silent. The rear of a ten-cent store shows a gush of brightness, where some overhauling of stock is going on. The back door is open, and looking in I can see a riotous mouse darting about under the counters, warily watching the men who are rearranging some display. The Jefferson Hospital is silent, with occasional oblongs of light in windows. I seem to detect a whiff of disinfectants, and wonder how the engineer is getting on.
Market street is still lively. A "dance orchard" emits its patrons down a long stair to the street. Down they come, gaily laughing. The male partners are all either gobs, who love dancing even more than ice cream soda; or youths with tilted straw hats of coarse weave, with legs that bend backward most oddly below the knee, very tightly and briefly trousered. Two doughboys with ace of spades shoulder insignia greet the emerging throng, showing little booklets for sale. They urge the girls to buy, with various arts of cajolery and bright-eyed persuasion. "Who'll buy a book?" they say, "forty short stories, put out by a wounded soldier." The girls all wear very extensive hats, and are notably pretty. "Which way do we go?" is the first question on reaching the street. It is usually the way to the nearest soda fountain.
Twelve forty. The watering tank roars down Chestnut street, shedding a hissing tide from curb to curb. The fleet of To Hire night taxis wheel off one by one as fares leap in to escape from the deluge, which can be heard approaching far up the silent street. It is getting quiet, save in the all-night lunch rooms, where the fresh baking of doughnuts and cinnamon buns is being set out, and the workers of the night shift are streaming in for their varied and substantial meals. They eat leisurely, with loud talk, or reading the morning papers.
One fifteen. The population consists mostly of small groups on corners waiting patiently for cars, which are rare after one o'clock. Chauffeurs sit in twos, gossiping over the fares of the evening. Along the curb of the Federal Building on Ninth street linger a few resolute loungers, enjoying the calm of the night. A fruit stall man is wondering whether to trundle home. The pile of fresh doughnuts in the lunch room is rapidly diminishing. Street cleaning trucks are on their nightly rounds. It's time to go to bed.