itain must have grieved
when a London newspaper got up (some years ago) an agitation in favour
of every man in England raising a beard in memory of King Edward. The
plan was that the money thus saved was to be devoted to building--I had
almost said "growing"--a battleship, to be named after the Merry
Monarch. Of course, one should not speak of raising a beard, but of
lowering it. However----

Ridge Avenue begins at Ninth and Vine, in a mood of depression. Perhaps
the fact that it runs out toward the city's greatest collection of
cemeteries has made it morbidly conscious of human perishability. At any
rate, it starts among pawnshops, old clothing and furniture, and bottles
of Old Virginia Bitters, the Great Man Restorer. The famous National
Theatre at Callowhill Street has become a garage; it is queer to see the
old proscenium arch and gilded ceiling dustily vaulted over a fleet of
motortrucks. After a wilderness of railway yards one comes to a curious
bit in the 1100 block; a little brick tunnel that bends around into a
huddle of backyards and small houses, where a large green parrot was
stooping and nodding on a pile of old boxes. This little scene is
overlooked by the tall brown spires of the Church of the Assumption on
Spring Garden Street.

There is matter for tarrying at the Spring Garden Street crossing. Here
is an ambitious fountain built by the bequest of Mary Rebecca Darby
Smith, with the carving by J. J. Boyle picturing another Rebecca (she of
Genesis xxiv, 14) giving a drink to Abraham's servant and his camels. It
is carved in the bronze that the donor gave the fountain "To refresh the
weary and thirsty, both man and beast," so it is disconcerting to find
it dry, as dry as the inns along the way. The horse trough is boarded
over and thirsting equines go up to Broad Street for a draught. The
seat by the fountain was occupied by a man reading the New York
_Journal_, always a depressing sight.

Across from the fountain is one of the best magazine and stationery
shops in the city. Here I overheard a conversation which I reproduce
textually. "What you doing, reading?" said one to another. "Yes, reading
about the biggest four-flusher in the Yew-nited States," said he,
looking over an afternoon paper which had just come in. "Who do you
mean?" "Penrose. Say if it was a Republican in the White House, theyda
passed the treaty long ago." The proprietor of this shop is a humorist.
Someone came in asking for a certain