When a poet, a painter, or a sculptor wishes to personify a city, why does he invariably give it the feminine gender?  Why is this so, even though the city be named for a man, or for a masculine saint?  And why is it so in the case of commonplace cities, commercial cities, and ugly, sordid cities?  It is not difficult to understand why a beautiful, sparkling city, like Washington or Paris, suggests a handsome woman, richly gowned and bedecked with jewels, but it is hard to understand why some other cities, far less pleasing, seem somehow to be stamped with the qualities of woman-nature rather than man-nature.  Is it perhaps because the nature of all cities is so complicated?  Is it because they are volatile, changeful, baffling?  Or is it only that they are the mothers of great families of men?

When I arrive in a strange city I feel as though I were making the acquaintance of a woman of whom I have often heard.  I am curious about her.  I am alert.  I gaze at her eagerly, wondering if she is as I have imagined her.  I try to read her expression while listening to her voice.  I consider her raiment, noticing whether it is fine, whether it is good only in spots, and whether it is well put together.  I inspect the important buildings, boulevards, parks, and monuments with which she is jeweled, and judge by them not only of her prosperity, but of her sense of beauty.  Before long I have a distinct impression of her.  Sometimes, as with a woman, this first impression has to be revised; sometimes not.  Sometimes, on acquaintance, a single feature, or trait, becomes so important in my eyes that all else seems inconsequential.  A noble spirit may cover physical defects; beauty may seem to compensate for weaknesses of character.  The spell of a beautiful city which is bad resembles the spell of such a city’s prototype among women.

Some young growing cities are like young growing women of whom we think:  “She is as yet unformed, but she will fill out and become more charming as she grows older.”  Or again we think:  “She is somewhat dowdy and run down at the heels but she is ambitious, and is replenishing her wardrobe as she can afford it.”  One expects such failings in young cities, and readily forgives them where there is wholesome promise for the future.  But where old cities become slovenly, the affair is different, for then it means physical decay, and physical decay should never come to a city—­for a city is not only feminine, but should be immortal.  The symbol for every city should be a goddess, forever in her prime.

Among southern cities Richmond is the grande dame; she is gray and distinguished, and wears handsome old brocades and brooches.  Richmond is aquiline and crisp and has much “manner.”  But though Charleston is actually the older, the wonderful beauty of the place, the softness of the ancient architectural lines, the sweet scents wafting from walled gardens, the warmth of color everywhere, gives the place that