# Travels in Philadelphia/The Enchanted Village

| “ | If I were a sketcher I would plant my easel at the corner of Summer and Randolph streets and spend a long day puffing tobacco and trying to pencil the quaint domestic charm of that vista. The children would crowd round to watch and comment and little by little I would learn—what the drawing would be only a pretext for learning—something of their daily mirth and tears.... | ” |
THE ENCHANTED VILLAGE
It was a warm morning. Everybody knew it was going to be hot later on and was bustling to get work well under way before the blaze of noon. The broad vista of Market street was dimmed by the summer haze that is part atmospheric and part gasoline vapor. And as I strolled up Sixth street I kept to the eastern side, which was still in pleasant shadow.
Sixth street has a charming versatility. Its main concern in the blocks north of Market street seems to be machinery and hardware—cutlery and die stamping and tools. But it amuses itself with other matters—printing and bookbinding, oysters and an occasional smack of beer. Like most of our downtown streets, it is well irrigated. It is a jolly street for a hot day, calling out many an ejaculation of the eye. For instance, I cannot resist the office window of a German newspaper. The samples of job printing displayed are so delightful a medley of the relaxations which make the world safe for democracy. Dance Program of the Beer Drivers' Union, Annual Ball of the Bellboys of Philadelphia, Russian Tea Party, First Annual Picnic of the Young People's Socialist League, Banquet of the Journeymen Barbers' Union—who would not have found honest mirth (and plenty of malt and hot dogs) at these entertainments! Just so we can imagine Messrs. ​Lenine and Trotzky girding their seidels for a long midsummer day's junket with the Moscow Soviet. There also are the faded announcement cards for some address by Mme. Rosika Schwimmer (of Budapest), secretary of the International Woman Suffrage Alliance. Dear me, what has happened to the indefatigable Rosika since she and Henry Ford and others went bounding and bickering on a famous voyage to Stockholm? As some steamship company used to advertise, "In all the world, no trip like this."
At Race street I turned east to St. John's Lutheran Church. The church stands between Fifth and Sixth. In front of it, in a little semi-circle of sun-bleached grass, stands the family vault of Bohl Bohlen. In this vault lie Brigadier General W. Henry C. Bohlen, killed in action at Freeman's Ford on the Rappahannock River, August 22, 1862, and his wife, Sophie. It is interesting to remember that they were the grand-parents of the present Herr Krupp.
The little burying ground behind St. John's is one of the most fascinating spots in Philadelphia. I found George Hahn, the good-natured sexton, cutting the grass, and he took me round to look at many of the old tombstones, now mostly unreadable. Several Revolutionary veterans came to their resting in that little acre, among them Philip Summer, who died in 1814, and who is memorable to me because his wife was called Solemn. Solemn Summer—her name is carved ​on the stone. If I were an artist I should love to picture the quaint huddle of tawny red brick overlooking St. John's churchyard, the vistas of narrow little streets, the corners and angles of old houses. The sunny walls of the burying ground are a favorite basking place for cats of all hues—yellow, black and gray. I envy George Hahn his quiet hours of work in that silent inclosure, but he assured me that the grass is rank and grows with dreadful speed. The somewhat desolate and forgotten air of the graveyard, with its broken stones and splintered trees, adds greatly to the wistfulness of its charm.
Behind the churchyard is a kind of enchanted village. Summer street bounds the cemetery, and from this branch off picturesque little lanes—Randolph street, for instance, with its row of trim little red houses, the white and green shutters, the narrow cobbled footway. It was ironing day and, taking a furtive peep through basement doors, I could see the regular sweep of busy sadirons on white boards. Children abound, and I felt greatly complimented when one infant called out Da-Da, as I passed. Parallel with Randolph street run Fairhill and Reese—tiny little byways, but a kind of miniature picture of the older Philadelphia. Snowy clothes were fluttering from the lines and pumps gushing a silver stream into washtubs. Strong white arms were sluicing and lathering the clothes, sousing them in the bluing-tinted water. Everywhere children were playing merrily ​in the overflow. And there were window-boxes with bright flowers.
At the corner of Reese and Summer streets is a little statuary workshop—a cool dim place, full of white figures and an elderly man doing something mysterious with molds. I would have liked to hear all about his work, but as he was not very questionable I felt too bashful to insist.
If I were a sketcher I would plant my easel at the corner of Summer and Randolph streets and spend a long day puffing tobacco and trying to pencil the quaint domestic charm of that vista. The children would crowd round to watch and comment and little by little I would learn—what the drawing would be only a pretext for learning—something of their daily mirth and tears. I would hear of their adventurous forays into the broad green space of Franklin Square, only a few yards away. Of scrambles over the wall into St. John's churchyard when George Hahn isn't looking. Of the sweets that may be bought for a penny at the little store on the corner. I should say that store sells more soap than anything else. Randolph street simply glistens with cleanliness—all except the upper end, where the city is too lazy to see that the garbage is carried away. But then a big city is so much more concerned with parades on Broad street than removing garbage from the hidden corners where little urchins play.
Round the corner on Fifth street is the quaint cul de sac of Central place, which backs up against ​Reese street, but does not run through. It is a quiet little brick yard, with three green pumps (also plopping into washtubs) and damp garments fluttering out on squeaky pulley lines from the upper windows. The wall at the back of the court is topped with flowers and morning-glory vines. On one of the marble stoops a woman was peeling potatoes and across the yard a girl with a blue dress was washing clothes. It seemed to me like a scene out of one of Barrie's stories.
Who is the poet or the artist of this little village of ruddy brick behind St. John's graveyard? Who will tell me how the rain lashes down those narrow passages during a summer storm, when the children come scampering home from Franklin Square? Who will tell me of the hot noons when the hokey-pokey man tolls his bright bell at the end of the street and mothers search their purses for spare pennies? Or when the dripping ice wagon rumbles up the cobbles with its vast store of great crystal and green blocks of chill and perhaps a few generous splinters for small mouths to suck? I suppose poets may have sung the songs of those back streets. If they haven't they are very foolish. The songs are there.