rts were
singularly in accord. Birmingham is too young to have any Civil War
history. Her history is the history of the steel industry in the South,
and one hears always of that: of the affluence of the city when the
industry is thriving, and hard times when it is not. One is invariably
told that Birmingham is not a southern city, but a northern city in the
South, and the chief glories of the place, aside from steel, are (if one
is to believe rumors current upon railroad trains and elsewhere), a
twenty-seven story building, Senator Oscar Underwood, the distinguished
Democratic leader, and the Tutwiler Hotel. Even in Atlanta it is
conceded that the Tutwiler is a good hotel, and when Atlanta admits that
anything in Birmingham is good it may be considered as established that
the thing is very, very good--for Birmingham and Atlanta view each other
with the same degree of cordiality as is exchanged between St. Louis and
Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, San Francisco and Los Angeles.

Having been, in the course of our southern wanderings, in several very
bad hotels, and having heard the Tutwiler compared with Chicago's
Blackstone, my companion and I held eager anticipation of this hostelry.
Nor were our hopes dashed by a first glimpse of the city on the night of
our arrival. It was a modern-looking city--just the sort of city that
would have a fine new hotel. The railroad station through which we
passed after leaving the train was not the usual dingy little southern
station, but an admirable building, and the streets along which we
presently found ourselves gliding in an automobile hack, were wide,
smooth, and brightly illuminated by clustered boulevard lights.

True, we had long since learned not to place too much reliance upon the
nocturnal aspects of cities. A city seen by night is like a woman
dressed for a ball. Darkness drapes itself about her as a black-velvet
evening gown, setting off, in place of neck and arms, the softly glowing
facades of marble buildings; lights are her diamond ornaments, and her
perfume is the cool fragrance of night air. Almost all cities, and
almost all women, look their best at night, and there are those which,
though beautiful by night, sink, in their daylight aspect, to utter
mediocrity.

Presently our motor drew up before the entrance of the Tutwiler--a proud
entrance, all revolving doors and glitter and promise. A brisk bell boy
came running for our bags. The signs were of the best