To be charmed by the social side of a city, yet to find little to admire in its physical aspect, is like knowing a brilliant and beautiful woman whose housekeeping is not of the neatest. If one were compelled to discuss such a woman, and wished to do so sympathetically but with truth, one might avoid brutal comment on the condition of her rooms by likening them to other rooms elsewhere: rooms which one knew to be untidy, but which the innocent listener might not understand to be so. By this device one may even appear to pay a compliment, while, in reality, indicating the grim truth. In such a case, I, for example, might say that this supposititious lady's rooms reminded me of those I occupied on the second floor of the famous restaurant called Antoine's, in New Orleans; whereupon the reader, knowing the high reputation of Antoine's cuisine, and never having seen the apartments to which I refer, might assume an implication very favorable.

Let me say, then, that Memphis reminds me of St. Louis. Like St. Louis, Memphis has charming society. Like St. Louis she has pretty girls. Like St. Louis she is hospitable. And without particularizing too much, I may say that her streets remind me of St. Louis streets, that many of her houses remind me of St. Louis houses, and that her levee, with its cobbled surface sloping down to the yellow, muddy Mississippi, the bridges in the distance, the strange looking river steamers loading and unloading below, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, is much like the St. Louis levee. So, if the reader happens to be unfamiliar with the physical appearance of St. Louis, he may, at all events, perceive that I have likened Memphis to a much larger city—thus, (it seems fair to suppose) paying Memphis a handsome tribute.

Memphis has a definite self-given advantage over St. Louis in possessing a pretty little park at the heart of the city, overlooking the river; also she has the advantage of lying to the east of the great stream, instead of to the west, so that, in late afternoon, when the sun splashes down into the mysterious deserted reaches of the Arkansas flats, across the way, sending splatterings of furious color across the sky, one may seat oneself on a bench in the park and witness a stupendous natural masterpiece. A sunset over the sea can be no more wonderful than a sunset over this terrible, beautiful, inspiring, enigmatic domineering flood. Or one may see the sunset from the readingroom of the Cossitt Library, with its fine bay window commanding the river almost as though it were the window of a pilot-house.

The Cossitt Library is only one of several free libraries in the city. There is, for example, a free library in connection with the Goodwyn Institute, an establishment having an endowment of half a million dollars, left to Memphis by the late William A. Goodwyn. The Goodwyn Institute provides courses of free lectures, by well-known persons, on a great variety of subjects. The library is designed to add to the educational work. Books are not, however, loaned, as they are from the Cossitt Library, an institution to which I found myself returning more than once; now for a book, now to look at the interesting collection of mound-builder relics contained in an upper room, now merely because it is a place of such reposeful hospitality that I liked to make excuses to go back.

The library, a romanesque building of Michigan red sandstone, is by a southern architect, but is in the style of Richardson, and is one of the few buildings in that style which I have ever liked. It was given to Memphis as a memorial to Frederick H. Cossitt, by his three daughters, Mrs. A.D. Juilliard, Mrs. Thomas Stokes, and Mrs. George E. Dodge, all of New York. Mr. Cossitt was born in Granby, Connecticut, but as a young man moved South and in 1842 adopted Memphis as his home, residing there until 1861. At the outbreak of the Civil War he made an amicable division of his business with his partner, and removed to New York, where he resided until the time of his death. Finding among his papers a memorandum indicating that he had intended to endow a library in Memphis, his daughters carried out his wish.

Having already spoken of a number of Memphis' interesting citizens, I find myself left with an ill-assorted trio of names yet to be mentioned, because, different as they are, each of the three supplies a definite part of the character of the city. First, then, Memphis has the honor of possessing what not many of our cities possess: a man who stands high among the world's artist-bookbinders. This gentleman is Mr. Otto Zahn, executive head of the publishing house of S.C. Toof & Co. Mr. Zahn himself has done some famous bindings, and books bound by him are to be found in some of the finest private libraries in the land. Until a few years ago he conducted an art-bindery in connection with the Toof company's business, but it was unprofitable and finally had to be given up.

Second, to descend to a more popular form of art, but one from which the revenue is far more certain, Memphis has, in W.C. Handy, a negro ragtime composer whose dance tunes are widely known. Among his compositions may be mentioned the "Memphis Blues," the "St. Louis Blues," "Mr. Crump," and "Joe Turner." "Mr. Crump" is named in honor of a former mayor of Memphis who was ousted for refusing to enforce the prohibition law; "Joe Turner" is the name of a negro pianist who plays for Memphis to dance—as Handy also does. Most of Handy's tunes are negro "rags" in fox-trot time, and they are so effective that Memphis dances them generally in preference to the one step.

My third celebrity is of a more astounding type. While in Memphis I called aboard the river steamer Grand, and had a talk with Mrs. Nettie Johnson, who is captain of that craft. Some one told me that Mrs. Johnson was the only woman steamboat captain in the world, but she informed me that at Helena, Arkansas, there lives another Mrs. Johnson—no relative of hers—who follows the same calling.

The steamer Grand is almost entirely a Johnson family affair. Mrs. Johnson is captain; her husband, I.S. Johnson is pilot (though Mrs. Johnson has, in addition to her master's license, a pilot's license, and often takes the wheel); her elder son, Emery, is clerk; Emery's wife is assistant clerk, while Arthur, the captain's younger son, is engineer. Russell Johnson, Mrs. Johnson's grandson, is the only member of the family I saw aboard the boat who does not take part in running it. Russell was five years old when I met him, but that was nearly a year ago, and by now he is probably chief steward, boatswain, or ship's carpenter.

The regular route of the Grand is from Memphis to Mhoon's Landing, on the Arkansas River, a round trip of 120 miles, with thirty landings.

I asked Mrs. Johnson if she had ever been shipwrecked. Indeed she had! Her former ship, the Nettie Johnson, struck thin ice one night in the Arkansas River and went down.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I reached after an iron ring," she replied, "and clumb on up into the rigging. She went down about four-thirty a.m. and we stayed on her till daylight; then we all swum ashore. I tell you it was cold! There was icicles on my dress; my son Emery put his arms around me to keep me warm, and his clothes froze onto mine."

"How long a swim was it to shore?" I asked.

"Oh," put in her husband, "it didn't amount to nothing. She was only swimming about two minutes."

This statement, however, was repudiated by the captain. "Two minutes, my foot!" she flung back at her spouse. "It was more than that, all right!"

Mrs. Johnson has done flood rescue work for the Government, with the Grand. In the spring previous to our visit she rescued sixty families from one plantation, besides towing barge-loads of provisions to various points on the Mississippi and Arkansas rivers.

Captaining and piloting a river boat are clearly good for the health. Mrs. Johnson looks too young to be a grandmother. Her skin is clear, her cheeks are rosy, her brown eyes flash and twinkle, her voice, somewhat hoarse from shouting commands, is deep and strong, and her laugh is like the hearty laugh of a big man.

"Are you a suffragist?" I asked her.

"Not on your life!" was her reply.

"Now, what do you want to talk like that for?" objected her husband. "You know women ought to be allowed to vote."

"I don't think so," she returned firmly.

At that her daughter-in-law, the assistant clerk of the Grand, took up the cudgels.

"Of course they ought to vote!" she insisted. "You know you can do just as good as a man can do!"

"No," asseverated Captain Nettie. "Women ought to stay home and tend to their families."

"As you do?" I suggested, mischievously.

"That's all right!" she flung back. "I stayed home and raised my family until it was big enough to do its own navigating. Then I started in steamboating. I had to have something to do."

But the daughter-in-law did not intend to let the woman suffrage issue drop.

"Do you mean to say," she demanded of Captain Nettie, "that you think women haven't got as much sense as men?"

"Sure I do!" the captain tossed back. "There never was a woman on earth that had as much sense as the men. Take it from me, that's so. I know what I'm talking about—and that's more than a half of these other women do!"

Then, as it was about time for the Grand to cast off, Captain Nettie terminated the interview by blowing the whistle; whereupon my companion and I went ashore.

One of the best boats on the river is the Kate Adams and one of the most delightful two-days' outings I can imagine would be to make the round trip with her from Memphis to Arkansas City. But if I were seeking rest I should not take the trip at the time when it is taken by a score or more of Memphis young men and women, who, with their chaperones, and with Handy to play their dance-music, make the Kate Adams an extremely lively craft on one round trip each year.

Apropos of Arkansas, I am reminded that Memphis is not only the metropolis of Tennessee, but is the big city of Arkansas and Mississippi, as well. The Peabody Hotel in Memphis, a somewhat old-fashioned hostelry, is a sort of Arkansas political headquarters, and is sometimes humorously referred to as "Peabody township, Arkansas." It is also used to a considerable extent by Mississippi politicians, as well as by the local breed. The Peabody grill has a considerable reputation for good cookery, and the Peabody bar, though it still looks like a bar, serves only soft drinks, which are dispensed by female "bartenders." The Gayoso hotel, named for the Spanish governor who intruded upon Memphis territory for a time, stands where stood the old Gayoso, which figured in Forrest's raid. The Gayoso made me think a little of the old Victoria, in New York, torn down some years ago. The newest hotel in town, at the time of our visit, was the Chicsa, an establishment having a large and rather flamboyant office, and considerably used, we were told, as a place for conventions. If I were to go again to Memphis I should have a room at the Gayoso and go to the Peabody for meals.

The axis of the earth, which Oliver Wendell Holmes declared, "sticks out visibly through the center of each and every town or city," sticks out in Memphis at Court Square, which the good red Baedeker dismisses briefly with the remark that it "contains a bust of General Andrew Jackson and innumerable squirrels." This is not meant to indicate that the squirrels are a part of the bust of Jackson. The two are separate and distinct. So are the pigeons which alight on friendly hands and shoulders as do other confident pigeons on Boston Common, and in the Piazza San Marco, in Venice.

I am always disposed to like the people of a city in which pigeons and squirrels are tame. Every day, at noon, an old policeman, a former Confederate soldier I believe he is, comes into the square with a basket of corn. When he arrives all the pigeons see him and rush toward him in a great flapping cloud, brushing past your face if you happen to be walking across the square at the time. Nor is he the only one to feed them. Numbers of citizens go at midday to the square, where they buy popcorn and peanuts for the squirrels and pigeons—which, by the way, are all members of old Memphis families, being descendants of other squirrels and pigeons which lived in this same place before the Civil War. One might suppose that the pigeons, being able to fly up to the seventeenth floor windowsills of the Merchants' Exchange Building, where men of the grain and hay bureau of the exchange are in the habit of leaving corn for them, would prosper more than the squirrels, but that is not the case for—and I regret to have to report such immorality—the squirrels are in the habit of adding to the stores of peanuts which are thrown to them, by thievery. Like rascally urchins they will watch the peanut venders, and when their backs are turned, will make swift dashes at the peanut stands, seizing nuts and scampering away again. Sometimes the venders detect them, and give chase for a few steps, but that is dangerous, for the minute the vender goes after one squirrel, others rush up and steal more. It is saddening to find that even squirrels are corrupted by metropolitan life!

In reviewing my visit to Memphis I find myself, for once, kindly disposed toward a Chamber of Commerce and Business Men's Club. I like the Business Men's Club because, besides issuing pamphlets shrieking the glory of the city, it has found time to do things much more worth while—notably to bring to Memphis some of the great American orchestras.

A pamphlet issued by these organizations tells me that Memphis is the largest cotton market in the country, the largest hardwood producing market, the third largest grocery and jobbing market.

Cotton is, indeed, much in evidence in the city. The streets in some sections are full of strange little two-wheel drays, upon which three bales are carried, and which display, in combination, those three southern things having such perfect artistic affinity: the negro, the mule, and the cotton bale. The vast modern cotton warehouses on the outskirts of the city cover many acres of ground, and with their gravity system of distribution for cotton bales, and their hydraulic compresses in which the bales are squeezed to minimum size, to the accompaniment of negro chants, are exceedingly interesting.

The same pamphlet speaks also of the unusually large proportion of the city's area which is given over to parks and playgrounds, and it seems worth adding that though Memphis follows the general southern custom of barring negroes—excepting, of course, nursemaids in charge of children—from her parks, she has been so just as to provide a park for negroes only. In this she stands ahead of most other southern cities.

Memphis has the only bridge crossing the Mississippi below the mouth of the Ohio. At the time of our visit a new bridge was being built very near the old one, and an interesting experience of our trip was our visit to this bridge, under the guidance of Mr. M.B. Case, a young engineer in charge.

On a great undertaking, such as this one, where the total cost mounts into millions, the first work done is not on the proposed bridge itself, but on the plant and equipment to be used in construction—derricks, barges, concrete-mixers, air compressors for the caissons, small engines, dump-cars and all manner of like things. This preparatory work consumes some months. Caissons are then sunk far down beneath the river bed. Caisson work is dangerous, and the insurance rate on "sand hogs"—the men who work in the caissons—is very high. The scale of wages, and of time, varies in proportion to the risk, which is according to the depth at which work is being done. On this enterprise, for example, men working from mean level to a depth of 50 feet received $3 for an eight-hour day. From 50 to 70 feet they worked but six hours and received $3.75. From 90 to 105 feet they worked in three shifts of one hour each, and received $4.25. And while they were placing concrete to seal the working chamber there was an additional allowance of fifty cents a day.

The chief danger of caisson work is the "bends," or "caisson disease." In the caisson a man works under high air pressure. When he comes out, the pressure on the fluids of the body is reduced, and this sometimes causes the formation of a gas bubble in the vascular system. If this bubble reaches a nerve-center it causes severe pain, similar to neuralgia; if it gets to the brain it causes paralysis. Day after day men will go into the caisson and come out without trouble, but sooner or later from 2 to 8 per cent. of caisson workers are affected. Of 320 "sand-hogs" who labored in the caissons of this bridge, three died of paralysis, and of course a number of others had slight attacks of the "bends," in one form or another.

The bridge, when we visited it, was more than half completed. On the Memphis side the approaches were almost ready, and the steel framework of the bridge reached from the shore across the front pier, and was being built out far beyond the pier, on the cantilever principle, hanging in the air above the middle of the stream. By walking out on the old bridge we could survey the extreme end of the new one, which was being extended farther and farther, daily, by the addition of new steel sections. There were then about 100 journeymen bridgemen on the work—these being workmen of the class that erects steel skyscraper frames—with some fifty apprentices and carpenters, and about twenty common laborers. Bridgemen are among the highest paid of all workmen. In New York, at that time, their wage was $6 for eight hours' work. Here it was $4.50. Very few of the men had families with them in Memphis. They are the soldiers of fortune among wage-earners, a wild, reckless, fine looking lot of fellows, with good complexions like those of men in training, and eyes like the eyes of aviators. No class of men in the world, I suppose, have steadier nerves, think quicker, or react more rapidly from stimulus to action, whether through sight or sound. They have to be like that. For where other workmen pay for a mistake by loss of a job, these men pay with life. Yet they will tell you that their work is not dangerous. It is "just as safe as any other kind of job"—that, although four of their number had already been lost from this bridge alone. One went off the end of the structure with a derrick, the boom of which he lowered before the anchor-bolts had been placed. Two others fell. A fourth was struck by a falling timber.

Once, while we were watching the men scrambling about upon the steel members of the uncompleted cantilever arm, one of them thought something was about to fall, and ran swiftly in, over a steel beam, toward the body of the structure; whereafter, as nothing did fall, he was unmercifully twitted by his fellow workers for having shown timidity.

Many of the men working on this bridge had worked on the older structure paralleling it. This was true not only of the laboring men, but of the engineers. Ralph Modjeski, the consulting engineer at the head of the work (he is, by the way, a son of Madame Modjeska), was chief draughtsman when the earlier structure was designed; W.E. Angier, assistant chief engineer in the present work, was a field engineer on the first bridge, and it is interesting to know that, in constructing the approach to the old bridge he unearthed a Spanish halbert which, it is thought, may date from the time of De Soto. These bridge engineers and bridgebuilders move in a large orbit. Their last job may have been in Mexico, in the far West, or in India; their next may be in France. Many of the men here, worked on the Blackwell's Island bridge, on the Quebec bridge (which fell), on the Thebes bridge over the Mississippi, twenty miles above Cairo, on the Vancouver and Portland bridges over the Columbia and Willamette rivers, and on the great Oregon Trunk Railway bridges.

After standing for a time on the old bridge watching work on the new, and shuddering, often enough, at the squirrel-like way in which the men scampered about up there, so far above the water, we walked in and moved out again upon the partially completed floor of the new bridge. Here it was necessary to walk on railroad ties, with gaps, six or eight inches wide, between them. Even had one tried, one could hardly have managed to squeeze one's body through these chinks; to fall through was impossible; nevertheless it gave me an uncomfortable feeling in the region of the stomach to walk out there, seeing the river all the time between the interstices. When we had progressed for some distance we came to a gap where, for perhaps a yard, there were no ties—just open space, with the muddy water shining cold and cruel below. The opening was only about as wide as the hall of a small New York flat, and heaven knows that to step across such a hall is easy enough. But this was not so easy. When we came to the gap I stopped. Mr. Case, the young engineer, who loved all bridges with a sort of holy passion, and loved this bridge in particular, was talking as we went along. I liked to hear him talk. He had been telling us how a thing that is to be strong ought to look strong, too, and from that had got somehow to the topic of expansion and contraction in bridges, with variations of temperature. "It isn't only the steel bridges that do it," he said. "Stone arch bridges do it, too. The crown of the arch rises and falls. The Greeks and Romans and Egyptians knew that expansion and contraction occurred. They—"

While talking he had gone across the gap, stepping lightly upon a stringpiece probably a foot wide, and proceeding over the ties. Now, however, he ceased speaking and looked back, for I was no longer beside him. At the gap I had stopped. I intended to step across, but I did not propose to do so without giving the matter the attention it seemed to me to deserve.

Mr. Case did not laugh at me. He came back and stood on the string-piece where it crossed the opening, telling me to put my hand on his shoulder. But I did not want to do that. I wanted to cross alone—when I got ready. It took me perhaps two minutes to get ready. Then I stepped over. It was, of course, absurdly easy. I had known it would be. But as we walked along I kept thinking to myself: "I shall have to cross that beastly place again when we come back," and I marveled the more at the amazing steadiness of eye and mind and nerve that enables some men to go continually prancing about over emptiness infinitely more engulfing than that which had troubled and was troubling me.

Returning I stepped across without physical hesitation. But after I had crossed I continued to hate that gap. I hated it as I drove back to the hotel, that afternoon, as I ate dinner that night, as I went to bed, and in my dreams I continued to cross it, and to see the river waiting for me, seeming to look up and leer and beckon. I woke up hating the gap in the bridge as much as ever; I hated it down into the State of Mississippi, and over into Georgia; and wherever I have gone since, I have continued to hate it. Of course there isn't any gap there now. It was covered long ago. Yet for me it still exists, like some obnoxious person who, though actually dead, lives on in the minds of those who knew him.