In the case of the chief city of Alabama, however, my companion and I noticed, as we journeyed through the South, that reports 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.

The lobby, though spacious, was crowded; the decorations and equipment were of that rich sumptuousness attained only in the latest and most magnificent American hotels; there was music, and as we made our way along we caught a glimpse, in passing, of an attractive supper room, with small table-lights casting their soft radiance upon white shirt fronts and the faces of pretty girls.  In all it was a place to make glad the heart of the weary traveler, and to cause him to wonder whether his dress suit would be wrinkled when he took it from his trunk.