PHILADELPHIA AND ITS ENVIRONS.

BY J. W. HENGISTON, ESQ.

STEAMERS AND RAILWAYS-THE JERSEYS-FACE OF THE COUNTRY.

THERE is a close connexion between New York, Jersey, and Philadelphia-the Jerseys supplying the connecting link, as I have said. From New York there are two railway and steam-boat routes to Philadelphia. I think the most interesting one is by steamer, down the bay, through the channel between Staten Island and the Jersey shore, to South Amboy, at the mouth of the Rariton river-this channel famous for its oyster fishery -thence by rail to Bordentown, and skirt the river to Camden City-a largish town on the Delaware, opposite Philadelphia-crossing by ferryboat. The upper line I stumbled on, ferrying over from the Battery slips to Jersey City, where we got into the cars; all the luggage being in luggage-vans on board, ready to run on the rail the instant the boat touched the shore-you are given a brass label, and the same number is strapped to your trunk. This arrangement holds good on all the boat and rail routes throughout the States; you are hardly allowed to have in hand the smallest parcel or carpet bag, indeed there is no room for it inside, as you are confined to a double-armed chair in the car beside some stranger, who you hope may not be of large dimensions, or you are jammed! These chairs are fixed in two rows, one on each side, leaving a passage about two feet wide in the middle, the whole length of each car, about fifty feet; along this passage circulates the conductor, who examines, gives and takes tickets, the whole length of the train, the doors at each end slamming as he goes out and in as you proceed, he passing from one car to the next along the projecting platform at each end, where the break-wheel is fixed, and where an iron guard protects the entrance as you mount the steps at either end; no doors at the side.

But to this upper road: In a few miles it crosses a broad, rapid river -the Passayunk-and by Elizabeth Town, Brunswick, and Princeton comes out on the Delaware, near the falls at Trenton-the capital of the Jerseys-crosses by the bridge to the Pennsylvania side, skirting the river twenty-three miles down, to Tacomy, where we are once more fixed in a steamer for seven or eight miles, down to the Keystone City's wharves, close to the rival line. They are both at the same fare, three dollars; dinner or breakfast, half a dollar on board the steamers; the distance about the same, 100 miles. I will here explain that all the great American cities have their second home, or domestic name: thus, New York assumes Empire City;" Boston, "Granite City;" Philadelphia, Keystone;" Baltimore, "Monumental;" Cincinnati, "Buck Eye;" New Orleans," Crescent City," &c.

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At Passayunk river we were in an unhandsome fix! The bridge viaduct was just burned down (not a doubt on purpose by some discontented fellow or gang), but the Americans have no time, and little inclination to ask questions or set on foot expensive detective constables-they were steadily at work clearing away the charred piles, and driving new ones for the immediate planting of a new bridge. The aspect of the Jerseys just here is not inviting, marsh meadows and swamps, framed to the north-west by low hills, getting still more flat in sands to Cape May.

A provisionary steamer took us across, and we scrambled up the embankment, fifty yards beyond the wreck of the bridge, into a fresh set of cars beyond. I was struck by a queer placard on the landing, telling us to "take care of our pockets!"-quite a rural improvement on our pit-door cautions, but the swell mob of the States are great travellers, and do business with a cool assurance-quite a caution! From Princeton on to Trenton we followed the canal side, where the same fine mules were tracking numerous boats; all over the States they spare no pains or expense to cultivate this breed of this most useful creature; in size they rival the Spanish, in speed and docility I dare say exceed them.

Trenton is nicely situated, and looks pleasing beside the falls of the Delaware, but is still but a good large town, and aspires to no saucy second titles, like her sisters. They are great Dissenters, quiet Quakers, sobersided, sober-minded, eschew the vanities, and with a sly chuckle make use of the great vanity fairs each side; so many dollars in market, so many for running backwards and forwards by thousands across their level improvable state. They don't want a great, proud, corrupt city, where the mayors and corporations are afraid to do their duty," and are the mere creatures of the mobocracy!

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Such is the frequency of immense rivers rushing to the Atlantic, that one finds New York on a peninsula, or tongue of land; the Jerseys another; and Philadelphia built on another, between the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers, where they are two miles apart, over a gently rising tongue of land, all the streets now running completely across from one to the other, east and west; while the crossing streets, north and south, extend about three miles, the suburbs fast extending-land, houses, and house-rent, every year growing dearer.

The Schuylkill banks above the city are hilly, rocky, and very picturesque, often beautifully wild, while below, and where it enters the Delaware, it partakes of the same features of flatness, slightly undulating here and there. The whole country divided into moderate sized farms, with patches of woodland, getting more and more scarce near the great towns, and now of the utmost value. Already coal is used as the better and least expensive fuel, extensive beds being worked on the upper branches of the Schuylkill, about forty miles off, of the kind called anthracite; burning with intense heat and little smoke, it is excellent for domestic purposes; so that the numerous and immense wood-yards and piles on the wharves, of thirty years ago in the cities, have nearly disappeared.

Philadelphia, like New York, from its level site, makes no very striking appearance from the Delaware; one can form no idea of its size except from the western hills on the Schuylkill, looking down on it.

On the Delaware side nothing is seen along its face but the shipping, warehouses, and wharves, from the Navy-yard below it, upwards for about three miles, with here and there a church spire.

This whole flat, of two miles square, is covered by streets in squares, or blocks," as regular as a chess-board, the centre street being particularly wide (120 feet)-of late called High-street-from river to river, crossed by one still wider, as the centre avenue, running north and south, called Broad-street.

The houses are, as a whole, a size larger than ours, with some very

noble mansions in the fashionable quarter (that is, in Chesnut, Walnut, and Arch streets, towards the middle of the town), but everywhere one is struck by immense buildings for commercial purposes in all the streets. The marble-faced banks, Exchange, hotels, and others, are very conspicuous, and have been too often described to dwell on here. Of late years, the quacks and apothecaries seem to outdo everybody in extraordinary fortunes and immense temples for the sale of drugs; six and seven stories high, with marble and granite facings, hundreds of windows, and richly fantastic façades -one in Chesnut-street, near the busy hum of the Exchange, the brokers, the barrels, and the 'buses, is quite monstrous! but the very last, in everything American, is "bound" to eclipse every other ambitious thing before it, whether a ship, a house, or more airy speculation.

The greatest crowds and the great business haunts of the city lie towards the Delaware of course. The busiest haunts are "First,' "Second," "Third," and "Dock" streets, crossed from the west by Arch, Market, Chesnut, and Walnut streets, the two last only considered extremely fashionable, as they reach from the business end westward, just as it is with ourselves, in the same way that they are filled with omnibuses, running to and fro from all the suburbs to Dock-street and the Exchange, near the wharves. They do not say "Bank," for the fine marble United States Biddle Bank being knocked up, is now the Custom-house, and looks very deserted and chopfallen, being at present about the mark where Chesnut-street beaux and belles turn back upwards, where they parade and show their fine dresses-the limit westward being as high up as Eleventh-street. This three-quarters of a mile of pavement on the south, or State-house side, is crowded of an afternoon, before and after dinner; besides, here are all the most dashing shops; their windows may not quite reach the rich display of our first-rate ones, but very near, and a vast number are even larger than ours within, more lofty and of greater extent. The French, I think, take the lead; but shops, now-adays, like the fashions of the civilised world, are much of the same cut everywhere; here, and all over the Union, they divide their patronage between London and Paris, with rather a leaning to the latter. I thought the poorest show and worst taste was in their silversmiths' and jewellers' displays; all their silver plate, of the most preposterous shapes, very showy.

The street pavements are wretched, as in all their towns-much as ours were fifty years ago the same round, smooth stones set on end, assisted by great mud holes, enough to dislocate one's limbs: how their spider-wheeled vehicles get over them is marvellous. Churches and chapels abound, some very fine buildings, with handsome spires; several public. libraries and concert-rooms; three or four theatres are generally well filled, including Barnum's Museum. He scems to have one of those enormous theatro-museo omnium gatherums in every large city, often with a band outside all day playing (Richardson's booth fashion), and a great display of flags. The Americans are fond of having the star and stripes flying over head in their streets, or hanging from lines drawn across; and this, one would say at first sight, was the only thing to forcibly put one in mind of not being at home, in one of our own towns; but no, there are fifty things to tell the Englishman that he is in a new country, three thousand miles off.

The houses are indeed of brick (better brick, better mortar, and better work than ours), but the façades are half covered by the green blinds or shutters. No under-ground kitchens, no areas, no area-railings. Slanting cellar-doors protrude on the pavement-our fashion in old times. Here we see the anthracite coals shot down, always broke in bits as regular as our Macadamı stones, and shining like black diamonds indeed, or here and there cords of wood sawing ready for the cold weather. Apropos, all the stoves are on Dr. Arnot's principle in the rooms, in all sorts of shapes, and no fire is seen; one requires to get used to not seeing the fire. Some houses are heated by flues from top to bottom, throwing the hot air at you from the fireplace that should be. They have no first-floor drawing-rooms; the ground-floor parlours serve that purpose, which does for dining-room too; or it may be in a back wing, which almost all their houses have.

There is a great profusion of white marble everywhere-door-steps, sills of windows and frames, door jams, pilasters, columns, cornices, pediments on all the façades in profusion, and everywhere perfectly bright and clean; indeed, the pavement is kept too much in a slop by the brass squirts and plug hoses constantly washing windows and steps, forming, in winter, famous slides for the boys, and break-neck affairs for the rest of the citizens.

Then, again, most of the streets have rows of trees on each side; but here, too, as in all their cities, no park, no gardens, no walks: two or three squares full of trees are the only lungs left. The old State-housesquare still remains, and becomes precious; and so is the Washingtonsquare near it, where those beautiful creatures the grey squirrel are seen gambolling, undisturbed by schoolboys and scamps, who would soon settle them with us. I often took them chesnuts, and amused myself watching their playful hide-and-seek round the trunks of the trees. I think this tells in favour of the American juveniles; they may, indeed, be watched sharper than ours in public places, but it is certain our boys, from our Eton to our ragged-school tribe, grow up with no inculcated idea of humanity or feeling for any living thing on four legs or two. They torment, kill, and destroy all they can, or amuse themselves, in default, at the sport of tormenting or punching each other.

All the seaboard cities have been so often described, and our cousins so often criticised, that although I jot down a few thoughts and impressions, the very last which reaches us, I am not sure that I shall say anything, beyond marking the change which is taking place in men and things, even more striking than among ourselves. No people are more volatile in fashions: even here, in this drab-coloured domain, broad hats, straight collars, and hooks and eyes, have quite disappeared; the Quaker women alone (as with ourselves) sticking to their drab silk bonnets, with all its primitive ugliness. Nor would the young ones be "read out of meeting" if they appeared in Chesnut-street in all the last feather and lace and velvet fashions. Among the young fellows-beards, mustachios, imperials, Kossuth hats, paletôts, and all sorts of extravagant plaids and rainbow ties confront one. Everywhere dissent from the "Established Church" splits itself up all over the States into hundreds of sects unknown in England. The Quakers are nobodies, if old-nay, old folks, no matter what their belief, chapel, or church, all fathers and mothers are nobodies.

I should say of all places on the face of the earth, grey hairs are least honoured in the United States. They are scarcely masters in their own houses from the moment the young ones are full fledged. But first let me observe the face of the material world here-town and country. In a pleasureloving people one is struck with the besetting sin in every city of having no public gardens (the last were burned in a riot), no parks, no suburb promenade of any sort : here, then, is nothing but Chesnut-street, up and down, with the audience at all the hotel doors and balconies! There is, indeed, the cemetery, which nobody goes to, at Laurel Hill, three miles off, beyond the New Girard College, which has, say they, already cost too much, is in bad taste; and to hide its other faults, is pent up in four high walls.

Yesterday there was a grand commemoration day: some curiously fine speeches at this Girard College; to which all the freemasons of this city marched full dress, two and two, forming a procession a mile or a mile and a half long-some thousands. A fierce hot, dusty day; each lodge with its band, each member with a sprig of cypress at his coat button-hole, to do honour to the memory of this western world Rothschild; but the trustees have made sad hash of the bequeathed dollars (in the same way the secretaries trustees have built a miserable, fantastic College, or Athenæum, at Washington, out of the half million of dollars left them by our late mineralogical philosopher, Mr. Smithson, called the "Smithsonian Institute"). It would seem that moneys left in trust for the good of the public, as it is in England, is made rare ducks and drakes of.

Well, this penitentiary-looking Girard College is on the left of the great avenue running north towards Fairmount Waterworks, where the river Schuylkill is dammed up, and the water thrown up on the hill reservoir; and this is the only thing the fair sex can reckon on for a walk, when they do get there in their omnibuses, a distance of three miles; but as the city keeps creeping northward, it may be now fairly called in the suburbs. Here a range of hills begin on both banks of the Schuylkill, and the ground rises in a healthy schistus rock, running across towards the Delaware, and it forms the favourite spot of late years for the villas of the wealthy merchants from the banks of the river above Fairmount to Germantown; a long, straggling village, six miles off, the healthiest spot anywhere round the city. This Germantown for many years remained in its old stone-housed, steep-roofed, farm-yarded state, in one street of three miles long, for a space out of the "memory of the oldest inhabitant;" but they are now building in it like mad; a single line of rail runs to it, north, out of Ninth-street, and everybody wants to live there, very naturally. Worn out as farms, it cuts up well in buildinglots; nothing is seen along the roads but the shining mica of the rock, which is very soft and dry. Crops are thin-won't pay; but here health is safe from the insidious attacks of the fever and ague, so rife along the banks of both rivers!

Its old woods have long disappeared, and its trees, since sprung up, are Scotch firs, full of robins, who twitter and sing the praises of the spot. Here the country is very agreeably undulated; the hills and valleys are cutting out on each side of the one interminable Dutch street, into lanes full of fine villas and cottages ornée, for which the Philadel