A MUNICIPAL REPORT.
The cities are full of pride, Challenging each to each--This from her mountainside, That from her burthened beach.
R.KIPLING.
Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennessee! There are justthree big cities in the United States that are "story cities"--New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco.--FRANK NORRIS.
East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.
Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a State.They are the Southerners of the West.Now, Chicagoans are no less loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building.
But Californians go into detail.
Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear.But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the Bagdad of the New World.So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation is necessary.But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: "In this town there can be no romance--what could happen here?" Yes, it is a bold and a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and McNally.
NASHVILLE--A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the N.C.& St.L.and the L.& N.railroads.This city is regarded as the most important educational centre in the South.
I stepped off the train at 8 P.M.Having searched the thesaurus in vain for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the form of a recipe.
Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of honeysuckle 15 parts.Mix.
The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville drizzle.It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup; but 'tis enough--'twill serve.
I went to a hotel in a tumbril.It required strong self-suppression for me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of Sidney Carton.The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and driven by something dark and emancipated.
I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you).I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old "marster" or anything that happened "befo' de wah."The hotel was one of the kind described as 'renovated." That means $20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L.& N.time table and a lithograph of Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above.The management was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy, the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as Rip Van Winkle.The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for.There is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers _en brochette_.
At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town.He pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: "Well, boss, I don't really reckon there's anything at all doin' after sundown."1It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum.
As I left the hotel there was a race riot.Down upon me charged a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with--no, I saw with relief that they were not rifles, but whips.And I saw dimly a caravan of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, "Kyar you anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents," I reasoned that I was merely a "fare" instead of a victim.
I walked through long streets, all leading uphill.I wondered how those streets ever came down again.Perhaps they didn't until they were "graded." On a few of the "main streets" I saw lights in stores here and there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and yon; saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a burst of semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor.The streets other than "main" seemed to have enticed upon their borders houses consecrated to peace and domesticity.In many of them lights shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled orderly and irreproachable music.There was, indeed, little "doing."I wished I had come before sundown.So I returned to my hotel.
In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas.
The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.
All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the tobacco-chewing regions.But in my hotel a surprise awaited me.There were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a ball into one of them at five paces distant.But, although a terrible battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood.But, shades of Jefferson Brick! the tile floor--the beautiful tile floor! I could not avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.
Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell.I knew him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him.A rat has no geographical habitat.My old friend, A.Tennyson, said, as he so well said almost everything:
Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, And curse me the British vermin, the rat.
