Philadelphia (Repplier)/Chapter 16

WITH the return of Congress to Philadelphia, a new life of fleeting gayety and extravagance came to the Quaker City. Robert Morris was held to be so largely responsible for this return, that the caricatures of the day represent him as carrying the congressmen and senators away from New York on his shoulders. Many of them were doubtless very unwilling to go, and deep are the murmurs which have come down to us in the letters of discontented officials at the cost of living in Philadelphia, and at the irritating complacency of Philadelphians. "The city is large and elegant," writes Oliver Wolcott to his wife, "but it did not strike me with the astonishment which the citizens predicted. Like the rest of mankind, they judge favourably of their own place of residence, and of themselves, and their representations are to be admitted with some deduction." A few months later, he expresses an irritation natural enough in a man from whom too many complimentary speeches have been wrung. "The people of this ​State," he complains, "are very proud of their city, their wealth, and their supposed knowledge. I have seen many of their principal men, and discover nothing that tempts me to idolatry."

As a rule, women loved Philadelphia, and the charm of its social life, and paid scant heed to the lamentations of their husbands or fathers. Mrs. Adams, indeed, found Bush Hill, which had no bush nor scrub upon it, a somewhat inconvenient and lonely neighbourhood, and vehemently objected to the high prices demanded for all things needful. "One would suppose," writes the Vice-President's very practical wife, "that the people thought Mexico before them, and fancied the Congress to be its possessors." Even Washington was not without concern at the general extravagance, at the heavy house-rent he was compelled to pay, and at the ever-increasing cost of hospitality. His letters at this time are studies in domestic economy. Apparently the cares of housekeeping were added to the cares of government, and there is a ring of anxiety in his minute directions anent the servants and their wages, in his determination that the cook shall bake his cake, and that the butler shall not drink his wine, and in the complaint which has been so often echoed by less famous men: "It is unaccountable to me how other families, on twenty-five hundred or three thousand dollars a year, should be enabled to entertain more company, or at ​least entertain more frequently than I could do for twenty-five thousand."

It does not appear that Mrs. Washington lifted these vexatious burdens from her husband's shoulders. We know that she was both dignified and affable in society, and that, being by nature fond of gayety, she never quite forgave Philadelphia for having robbed her of a ball in the gloomy autumn of 1775. We know also that she had her old family plate, melted, and "reproduced in more elegant and harmonious forms," which would seem to indicate a lack of taste, common enough in the years which were to follow. But when there was need of new curtains for the windows, new caps for the footmen, or even a new mangle for the kitchen, the President was compelled, or thought himself compelled, to give orders concerning them; though the mangle—it was really a second-hand mangle bought from Mrs. Robert Morris—puzzled him sorely. "I think that is what it is called," he writes to his secretary, Mr. Lear, who was trying to put the house in order; and refers him for further information to Mrs. Morris, "who is a notable lady in family arrangements."

Washington's formal receptions—and they were very formal—were held every second Tuesday, between three and four in the afternoon, his dining-room being turned into a reception hall by the simple process of carrying out the chairs. There was true ​republican simplicity, dignified, reserved, austere, in the President's mode of life, and in his attitude towards the public. The ardours of a stump-speaking, hand-shaking, joke-perpetrating democracy had not then warmed the country into an easy brotherhood, and melted away the barriers between the head of a nation and its subjects. Washington loved his jest as well as lesser men. His private letters are full of jocularities, robust rather than fastidious; and, like Pope and Byron, he was much in the habit of repeating his good things, word by word, to his different correspondents. But though he had probably never in his life read a line of Epictetus,—no man deplored more keenly than he the lack of early education,—he understood instinctively that "to move laughter by thy discourse is a slippery descent into vulgarity, and always relaxes thy neighbour's respect." "His manner in public," says William Sullivan, "was invariably grave. It was sobriety that stopped short of sadness." Slow and rather cumbrous in his motions, and with an indistinct utterance,—a blessed barrier to oratory,—he knew well how to mingle graciousness with dignity, so that none who were admitted to his presence ever felt arrogantly repelled, or wholly at their ease.

It is wonderful how much can be accomplished by simple propriety of demeanour. The letters of both Americans and foreigners teem with animated and reverential descriptions of this republican ruler. Mr. ​Richard Rush assures us that when he stood on the steps of Congress Hall, every eye was fixed upon him "in mute, unutterable admiration. Not a word was heard, not a breath. Palpitations took the place of sounds." Mr. Henry Wansey, who crossed the seas to visit us in 1794, confesses he was overwhelmed with "awe and veneration" when permitted to breakfast with the President; though "two small plates of sliced tongue, dry toast, bread and butter," carried a painful sense of incompleteness to his hearty English appetite, and he lamented in a carnal spirit the absence of broiled fish. Mr. Thomas Twining, an Anglo-Indian, who spent the following winter in Philadelphia, never seems to know which he admires the most,—the conversation of Mr. John Adams, or the silence of Washington. He is rather taken back—being fresh from the splendours of India—to find the latter living in "a small brick house on High Street, next door to a hair-dresser"; but he admits with delight that "the moment when Washington entered the room, and Mrs. Washington said 'The President!' made an impression on my mind which no subsequent years can efface."

The equipage of our chief magistrate was more imposing than his modest mansion, which was not small, however, but the roomiest which could be found for him in the city. He drove abroad in a big cream-coloured coach, globular in shape, and or​ornamented in the French style with scantily draped cupids, and flowing wreaths of flowers. A tall German coachman, "possessing an aquiline nose," handled the reins, and the long-tailed Virginia bays were as beautiful as those which drew the virtuous Pamela to her wedding rites. The President walked about town

Morris House, Germantown

with no nervous apprehension of lowering his dignity, and was in the habit of strolling every day at noon to set his watch by Clark's standard at Front and High Streets, gravely saluting the porters who uncovered as he passed.

According to Senator Maclay, the presidential dinners were painfully solemn and serious affairs; but Mrs. Washington's receptions appear to have given ​universal satisfaction. The ladies who attended were, we are told, "elegantly, if not superbly dressed." Mrs. Adams notes "the dazzling Mrs. Bingham and her sisters, the Misses Allen, the Misses Chew, and a constellation of beauties," among the ordinary guests. Miss Sally McKean, with sublime effrontery, writes, after the first of these entertainments, to a friend in New York,—poor New York, still smarting under a sense of loss:—"You never could have had such a drawing-room. It was brilliant beyond anything you can imagine. And though there was a great deal of extravagance, there was so much of Philadelphia taste in everything, that it must have been confessed the most delightful occasion of the kind ever known in this country."

The gayety and charm of the Philadelphia women, their Paris gowns, and lively conversation, form the theme of universal comment. Mrs. Adams, indeed, though well pleased with so much friendly hospitality, seems a trifle bored by meeting "at all places nearly the same company." Her daughter admits that the women of Boston were more highly educated, but finds the Philadelphians easier in their manners, more gracious, and more desirous of pleasing. The Duke de Lauzun, the Marquis de Chastellux, and Count Rochambeau unite in praising both the young girls and the matrons, though wondering a little at their devotion to dress, and to the Paris fashions. ​The Abbé Robin has the unkindness to say that, in the absence of parks and promenades, these fair daughters of Eve went to church, less to pray than to show their pretty frocks; and Brissot, who was nothing if not serious, laments openly that this feminine weakness for finery extended itself to the Quaker women, who tried in many ways to escape from the rigid thraldom of the Society. "These youthful creatures," he writes, "whom nature has so well endowed, whose charms have so little need of art, wear the finest muslins and silks. Oriental luxury would not disdain the exquisite textures in which they take delight." "Ribbons," observes the astute Duke de la Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, "please the young Quakeresses as well as others, and are the great enemies of the sect." Sometimes, indeed, the vanities of the world proved too strong for early principles, and fair apostates, like Mrs. Madison, cast off the yoke with whole-hearted impetuosity, striving to compensate themselves for the enforced seclusion of girlhood by indulging in every gayety and dissipation.

Frivolity was the order of the day. In vain would-be economists expressed with Oliver Wolcott a reasonable hope that "the example of the President and his family will render parade and expense improper and disreputable." No such pleasing result ensued. In vain the more conservative Friends pro​tested loudly against sinful luxury, and a prominent member of the Society refused to enter the house of an acquaintance, because a carpet was spread upon the hall. "Better," he said, "to clothe the poor than to clothe the earth." Reproaches were unheeded, and the careless city waxed more and more extravagant as the merry months ran on. If husbands and fathers looked grave, feeling, as they must have felt, the unsoundness of this apparent prosperity, wives and daughters listened to no forebodings, but made hay blithely while still the warm sun shone. Of the amusements they loved, and of the admiration they excited, none of them seem ever to have wearied. "The young women of Philadelphia," writes the Duke de la Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, "are accomplished in different degrees, but beauty is common to all. They lack the ease and grace of French women, but they are charming, and have singularly brilliant complexions."

The acknowledged leader in all the gayeties of these unwontedly gay winters was Mrs. William Bingham, of whom we hear so much in contemporary records. Beautiful, rich, pleasure-loving, gentle in speech and light of heart, she lent a vivacity of her own to the limited society of a little city, where, as Mrs. Adams said, the same people met each other day after day, and night after night. Up the broad marble stairway, which we are told gave "a truly Roman elegance" to ​her spacious home, thronged the Willings, the Byrds, the Powels, the Shippens, the McCalls, the Blackwells, the Cadwaladers, the Chews and Oswalds, many of whom were—in true Philadelphia fashion—cousins, first, second, or third, of their hostess, and of whom we can only trust she did not weary in these somewhat
Tea-room in Morris House monotonous entertainments. Mrs. Robert Morris also enjoyed a distinguished position, upheld by her husband's great wealth, his important services to the country, and his splendid hospitality which knew no limit nor restraint. Washington, whose own household was conducted simply and abstemiously, notes again and again in his diary the elegance of the dinners at which he was a guest. Indeed, his constant presence on these occasions shows how rigidly he performed the very fatiguing social duties which he deemed his rank demanded. Nor were the privileges of any class ​of people ignored. In 1792 the Dancing Assembly gave a grand ball in honour of his birthday. A society which called itself the New Dancing Assembly, and which was largely composed of tradespeople excluded from the older association, determined to celebrate the anniversary in the same fashion. The President attended the two balls, remained for the same space of time at each, and at each proposed the same toast,—"The State of Pennsylvania."

In curious contrast to the brilliancy of Philadelphia's social life, to which the constant presence of foreigners like Chateaubriand, the Viscount de Noailles, M. Talleyrand and the Duke de la Rochefoucauld lent interest and distinction, were the crudeness of her literary and artistic developments, the badness of her roads,—always a test of civilization,—and the unutterable discomfort of travel. Men, indeed, still read the robust English classics of the eighteenth century, and occasionally a woman who, like Elizabeth Drinker, possessed both leisure and intelligence, confessed to an acquaintance with Fielding. But scholarship was on the wane, carrying with it all real appreciation of letters; and with the exception of Charles Brockden Brown, whose novels are still sometimes talked about though seldom read, the prose and verse of literary Philadelphians were for many years equally and strikingly inadequate. Only in correspondence, and in diaries not meant for publication, do we discern that intelli​gence and acumen which promised possibilities for the future.

Portrait painting was exceedingly fashionable in all American cities, and Washington set an admirable example by being painted over and over again,—as often, though not so well, as that least vain of monarchs, Philip IV. of Spain. Pennsylvania sent Benjamin West to England, where, like Mrs. Jarley, he became the delight of the royal family, the nobility, and gentry. Naturally he stayed amid these powerful patrons; but in his place came Robert Pine, Gilbert Stuart of Rhode Island, John Trumbull of Connecticut, and afterwards, Thomas Sully, who crossed the sea when a child of nine, and spent most of his life in Philadelphia. Charles Wilson Peale was born, like West, in Pennsylvania. He expressed his reverence for art by naming his six children Raphael, Rembrandt, Vandyke, Titian, Rubens, and Angelica Kaufmann. It is pleasant to record that two, at least, out of the six acted on their father's suggestion, and followed in his footsteps. Peale and his fellow artists were kept hard at work painting Philadelphia's judges and doctors, her rich merchants, her politicians, and, above all, her handsome daughters, as lavish apparently with their charms as were their English great-grandmothers in the gay days of the second Charles.

Yet was the Quaker City deeply imbued with her own conceptions of propriety, and not without her own ​ard of taste. Her women might unveil their bosoms to the careless eyes of men; but when the English painter, Pine, brought over the ocean a plaster cast of the Venus de Medici, he was not permitted to keep it in his
"A Nymph Holding a Swan" studio where it could be generally seen. The bronze statue of a nymph holding a swan upon her shoulder, which is now in the oldest corner of Fairmount Park, was originally carved in wood by Rush, and placed in Centre Square. But though amply and even prodigally draped, the poor thing's clinging petticoats shocked public modesty, and she was loudly denounced as indecorous, and unfit for the open street. Twenty years later, the infant Academy of the Fine Arts imported a number of casts, copies of the famous statues in the Louvre; and so great was the disedification which they gave that the managers were obliged to set apart one day in the week for female visitors, when the nude figures were swathed from head to feet in muslin sheets.

​standAs for the difficulties of travel, they mattered little to people who habitually stayed at home. In the early days, when the city was still in her innocent childhood, she sought no easy communication with distant towns. Adventurous spirits from time to time gratified a thirst for novelty, or were summoned to neighbouring provinces by the urgent cares of business. Mrs. Joseph Shippen journeyed on horseback from Boston to Philadelphia in 1702, with her young baby lying in her lap, and the lodestar which drew her along this weary way was the desire to see again her family and her friends. The first coach that ran between Philadelphia and New York was started in 1756, and took three whole days to make the trip. When a swifter conveyance covered the distance in two days, it was boastfully christened the Flying Machine, and twenty shillings were demanded for a seat. By 1789 this time had been greatly reduced; and the Rev. Jeremy Belknap, author of the "History of New Hampshire," gives us an animated account of travelling from New York to Philadelphia in the "New Flying Diligence," which outsped all competitors. "Between three and four in the morning," he writes, "we set off in the stage, rode nine miles to Bergen Neck, and then crossed a ferry which brought us to Woodbridge. Just before we reached the second ferry we perceived the dawn of day, and, when we were two miles from it, the sun rose, so that ​we had ridden sixteen miles and crossed two ferries before sunrise, besides shifting horses twice. The third stage brought us to Brunswick, where we breakfasted. We here crossed the Raritan in a scow, open at both ends to receive and discharge the carriage without unharnessing or dismounting, and the scow was pulled across the river by a rope. We passed through Princeton about noon, and got to Trenton to dinner; then passed the Delaware in another scow which was navigated only by setting poles; drove thirty miles over a plain, level country at a great rate, and arrived in Philadelphia at sunset."

Brissot, who made this pleasant trip a few years later, describes the diligence as "a kind of open wagon, hung with double curtains of leather and wool"; in which jolting vehicle, he perceived the principle of equality to be well maintained. "The member of Congress rides in fraternal fashion beside the shoemaker who elected him."

Other cities, however, were less easy of access than New York. Mr. Thomas Twining, who desired to go from Philadelphia to Baltimore in 1795, found that the only public conveyance was the mail wagon, which, for the accommodation of travellers, held four rough benches, without backs. Under these benches the luggage was stowed, so that the wretched passengers, aching all over, and unable to gain a minute's rest, could not even thrust their feet a little way before ​them. Heavy leather curtains were kept fastened down the whole time, and no glimpse of the surrounding country afforded a minute's distraction or relief. The roads were uncompromisingly bad, and the wagon jolted heavily over ruts and stones. Two entire days were passed in this misery. At the midway inn where the voyagers spent the night, they were all packed into a single garret room, called up the second morning at two-thirty a.m., and sent off breakfastless at three. Mr. Twining appears to have been the most amiable Englishman who ever visited our shores. He praises everything in Philadelphia, from his very select boarding-house—"a private house for the reception of members of Congress"—to "the most esteemed article of an American breakfast," buckwheat cakes. Even the monotonous sameness of the streets, he considers perplexing rather than disagreeable. But the two days in the mail wagon strained even his good-humour, and he mildly insinuates in his diary that a leather strap, on which passengers could rest their backs, would be neither difficult nor expensive to adjust, and would add immeasurably to the comfort of travellers. It seems a moderate demand.