Travels in Philadelphia/South Broad Street
SOUTH BROAD STREET
One of the singularly futile and freakish little "literary" magazines that flourish among desiccated women and men whose minds are not old enough for the draft proudly raises the slogan that it "Makes no compromise with the public taste."
What I like about South Broad street is that it does make compromise with the public taste, every possible compromise. In the course of a three-mile stroll from the City Hall down to the South Broad street plaza one may see almost every variety of human interest. It is as though South Broad street had made up its mind to see all phases of life before leaping into the arms of Uncle Sam at League Island. It is like the young man's last night with the boys before enlisting.
"Broad and Chestnut" is a Philadelphia phrase of great sanctity. It is uttered with even greater awe than the New Yorker's "Broadway and Forty-second," as though the words summed up the very vibration and pulse of the town's most sacred life. And yet why is it that Broad street seems to me more at ease, more itself, when it gets away from the tremendous cliffs of vast hotels and office mountains? Our Philadelphia streets do not care to be mere tunnels, like the canyon flumes of Manhattan. We have a lust for sun and air.
So when Broad street escapes from the shadow of its own magnificence it runs just a little wild. In its sun-swept airy stretches perhaps it abuses its freedom a little. It kicks up its heels and gets into its old clothes. Certainly as soon as one gets south of Lombard street one sees the sudden change. Even the vast and dignified gray façade of the Ridgway Library does not abash our highway for more than a moment. It dashes on between a vast clothing factory and the old "Southern and Western Railroad Station." It indulges itself in small clothing stores, lemonade stands and all manner of tumble-down monkey business. It seems to say, "I can look just like Spring Garden street, if I want to."
Perhaps it is because William Penn on the City Hall is looking the other way that South Broad street feels it can cut up without reserve.
The Ridgway Library ought to be able to daunt this frisking humor, for a more solemn and repressive erection was never planned. But what a ascinating place it is, though I fear not much of South Broad street ever takes the trouble to open those iron gates marked "Pull." Perhaps if they had been marked "Push" the public would have responded more eagerly. But who are we to discuss the subtleties of advertising psychology? As I pass the long, heavily-pillared frontage of the library I seem to hear the quiet, deliberate ticking of the clock in the cool, gloomy reading room and smell the faint, delicious, musty fragrance of the old volumes. It is no small thrill to step inside and revel in the dim scholarly twilight of this palace of silence, to pore over the rare books in the glass showcases and explore the alcoves where the marvelous collection of chess books is kept. Those alcoves look out over a little playground at the back, where the shady benches would be an ideal place for a solemn pipe; but alas! no men are admitted. The playground is reserved for women and children.
Very different is the old railroad station across the way, now used as a freight depot. Built in 1852, it was Philadelphia's crack terminus fifty years ago, and as one studies the crumbled brownstone front one thinks of all the eager and excited feet that must have passed into the great arched hall. Now it is boarded up in front, but inside it is crammed with box cars and vast cases stenciled "Rush—Military Supplies—U. S. Army." Sixty freight cars can be loaded there at one time. One thinks what emotions that glass-roofed shed must have seen in Civil War times. I suppose many a train of men in blue said good-by to mothers and sweethearts along those platforms. That thought was with me as I stood inside the old station, which in spite of its bustle of freight is filled with the haunting sadness of all places that are old and decayed and echoing with the whispers of long ago. Does it seem absurd to sentimentalize over a railway station less than seventy years old? Well, I think a railway station is one of the most romantic places in the world. I like to imagine the old locomotives with their flaring stacks. And as I crossed Washington avenue (which runs just south of the station) I remembered a hot day in June twenty years ago when I tugged a roll of steamer rugs down that street from the trolley to the American Line pier. We were going on board the old Belgenland, bound for Liverpool. Somewhere along the hot, grimy pavement a barrel of molasses had broken open; I recall the strong, sweet smell. Childhood does not forget such adventures.
Below the quartermaster depot of the marine corps and the Third Regiment Armory, Broad street recalls its more sober responsibilities. Suddenly it realizes the fleeting uncertainty of life; perhaps because half the houses hereabouts are the offices of doctors and undertakers. It falls into a quiet residential humor about Wharton street and lines itself with trees and shady awnings. It seemed to me I could discern a breath of Italy in the air. At an Italian undertaker's a large and sumptuous coffin was lying on the pavement without any embarrassment, name-plate and all; presumably waiting for its silent passenger. Among the womenfolk white stockings and sparkling black eyes betrayed the Latin blood. And I saw that a church lettered its notice board both in Italian and English. "Ingresso Libero," it said, which I take to mean "Everybody welcome!" The same sort of hospitality is evinced by the doctors and dentists. They all have little notices on their doors: "Walk in without knocking."
In a quaint effort to retrieve its brief escapade into shabby Bohemianism, Broad street now goes in for an exaggerated magnificence. It has a taste for ornate metal doorknobs and brass handles. (I cannot resist the thought that these mannerisms were caught from the undertakers.) Moving-picture theatres are done in a kind of Spanish stucco. Basement gratings are gilded; parlor windows are banded with strips of colored glass. The brownstone fronts are gabled and carved; cornices are fret worked. There are plaster statues in the little side gardens. It is the opposite swing of the architect's pendulum from the plain and beautiful old houses of Pine and Spruce streets, where Philadelphia expresses herself in the lovely simplicity of rich old brick and white shutters.
Apparently Broad street lost hope of gaining salvation by ornamenting its house fronts, for about Morris and Mifflin streets it turns to education and philanthropy. It puts up large hospitals, and the vast gray building of the South Philadelphia High School, where, reading backward through the stained glass transom I discerned the grave and very Bostonian motto: "Work—Self-reliance—Culture—Life." But more exhilarating to me was the Southern Home for Friendless Children at Morris street. Its large playground is surrounded by a high stone wall. I could easily have scaled it and would have loved to smoke a pipe sitting up there to watch the children playing inside. (I could hear their laughter, and caught a glimpse of a small boy as he flew up in the air on a swing.) But I feared penalties and embarrassments. It does not do to love anything too well; people naturally are suspicious of you. And though my heart was warm toward the Southern Home, I didn't quite like to do what I yearned for. That would have been to ring the door-bell and ask to go in and play in the garden with the others. Instead I snooped round the wall until I found a corner with a glimpse into the shady ground where the urchins were busy. One small boy was working in his garden, others were burning up rubbish and hammering at something along the wall. I stood there a long time, listening to the warm, drowsy hum of the afternoon, and almost wished I were a friendless child.
After this excursion into culture and charity, Broad street feels the need of one more whistle-wetting before it wanders off onto the vast expanse of sunny, pollen-scented meadows that stretch toward the dry zones of League Island. For this purpose exists the cool haven of McBride, on the corner of Moyamensing avenue. There I encountered one of the best beakers of shandygaff in my experience. And—wonder of wonders—it can still be bought for a nickel.