Travels in Philadelphia/Travels in Philadelphia—As They Would Be Reported by Some Eminent Travelers
During the whole of a dull and oppressive afternoon, when the very buildings that loomed about me seemed to lean forward threateningly as if to crush me with their stony mass, I had been traveling in fitful jerks in a Market street trolley; and at length found myself, as the sullen shade of evening drew on, within view of the melancholy tower of the City Hall. I know not how it was—but, with the first glimpse of the building a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable, for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable sentiment with which the mind usually receives even the sternest images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the simple visages of the policemen on guard in the courtyard—upon the throng of suburban humanity pressing in mournful agitation toward their solemn hour of trial—upon a deserted litter of planks left by the heedless hand of the subway contractor—and an icy anguish seized upon my spirit. What was it—I paused to think—what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the City Hall? Was it the knowledge that any one of these bluecoats could, with a mere motion of his hand, consign me to some terrible dungeon within those iron walls—or the thought that in this vast and pitiless pile sat men who held the destiny of my fellow citizens in their hands—or the knowledge that time was flying and I was in imminent peril of missing my train? It was a mystery all insoluble, and I mused in shadowy fancy, caught in a web of ghastly surmise.
At last I raised my head, breaking away from these unanalyzed forebodings. I gazed upward where the last fire of the setting sun tinged the summit with a gruesome glow—O horror more than mortal!—O fearful sight that drove the blood in torrents on my heart—God shield and guard me from the arch-fiend, I shrieked—had William Penn gone Bolshevist? For they had painted the base of his statue—a glaring, bloodlike red!
II. Henry James
Thorncliff was thinking, as he crossed the, to him, intolerably interwoven confusion of Market street, that he had never—unless it was once in a dream which he strangely associated in memory with an overplus of antipasto—never consciously, that is, threaded his way through so baffling a predicament of traffic, and it was not until halted, somewhat summarily, though yet kindly, by a blue arm which he after some scrutiny assessed as belonging to a traffic patrolman, that he bethought himself sufficiently to inquire, in a manner a little breathless still, though understood at once by the kindly envoy of order as the natural mood of one inextricably tangled in mind and not yet wholly untangled in body, but still intact when the propulsive energy of the motortruck had been, by a rapid shift of gears and actuating machinery, transformed to a rearward movement, where he might be and how.
"This is Market street," said the officer.
"Market street? Ah, thank you."
Market street! Could it be, indeed? His last conscious impression had been of some shop—a milliner's, perhaps?—on, probably, Walnut street where he had been gazing with mild reproach at the price tickets upon the hats displayed, or, if not displayed, a term implying a rather crude concession to commercialism, at least exhibited, and considering whether or not it would be advisable, on so hot a day or a day that had every promise of becoming hot unless those purple clouds that hung over the ferries should liquidate into something not unlike a thunder shower, to carry with him a small hat as an act of propitiation and reconcilement with Mrs. Thornclrff. So this was Market street. He gazed with friendly interest into the face of the policeman, a gaze in which there was not the slightest sign of any animating rebuke at the interruption in his meditation, a meditation which, after all, had been unconscious rather than actively cerebrated and with some vague intention of inquiring ultimately whether it were safe, now and here, to cross the highway or whether it would be better to wait until the semaphore (which, as he had just noticed, was turned to STOP) gave him undoubted privilege to pass unhindered, remarked again, but without malicious motive, which indeed would have been foreign to his mood and purpose: "Market street? How interesting."
III. Walt Whitman
I see the long defile of Market street,
And the young libertad offering to shine my shoes
(I do not have my shoes shined, for am I not as worthy without them shined? I put it to you, Camerado.)
And I see the maidens and young men flocking into the movies.
And I promulge this doctrine, that the government might have imposed twice as heavy a tax on amusements, and still young men and maidens would throng to the movies,
(O endless timidity of statesmen)
And I wonder whether I, too, will go in and give the eidolons the once over,
But putting my hand in my pocket I see that I have only thirteen cents
And it will cost me three cents to get back to Camden.
In a window I see a white-coated savan cooking griddle cakes,
And I think to myself, I am no better than he is,
And he is no better than I am,
And no one is any better than any one else
(O the dignity of labor,
Particularly the labor that is done by other people;
Let other people do the work, is my manifesto,
Leave me to muse about it)
Work is a wonderful thing, and a steady job is a wonderful thing,
And the pay envelope is a wonderful institution,
And I love to meditate on all the work that there is to be done,
And how other people are doing it.
Reader, whether in Kanada or Konshohocken,
I strike up for you.
This is my song for you, and a good song, I'll say so.
IV. Karl Baedeker
* * * Market Street (Marktstrasse). Issuing from the majestic terminus of the Camden ferries the traveler will behold the long prospect of Market street, ending with the imposing tower (548 feet) which was until the recent rise in prices the highest thing in Philadelphia. On the summit of the tower will be observed the colossal statue of William Perm, said to be of German extraction (1644-1718). The Market street is the business center of Philadelphia. A curious phenomenon, exhibiting the perspicacious shrewdness of the natives of this great city, may be observed on any warm day about noon: the natives keep to the shady side of the street. As the thoroughfare runs due east and west, a brief astronomical calculation will show this to be the southern side of the way. Between October and April, however, it is quite safe to walk at a leisurely pace on the sunny side. By all means observe the great number of places where soft drinks may be obtained, characteristic of the American sweet tooth, but expensive (war tax, one cent per ten cents or fraction thereof). The dignified edifice at the corner of Ninth street is the federal building, often carelessly spoken of as the postoffice. An entertaining experiment, often tried by visitors, is that of mailing a letter here. (See note on Albert Sidney Burleson, elsewhere in this edition.) The visitor who wishes to make a thorough tour of Market street may cover the ground between the river (Delaware, a large sluggish stream, inferior to the Rhine) and the City Hall in an hour, unless he takes the subway. (Allow 11⁄2 hrs.)