Philadelphia (Repplier)/Chapter 14
A CITY which has been for nine months in the hands of a foreign enemy is always a pitiable sight. Armies are demoralizing things, and it is only after they have taken their departure that the full extent of the mischief they have wrought becomes apparent to every eye. Sober thrift and quiet rectitude have well-nigh vanished. The industrious artisan has become a midnight brawler; the once decent young housewife walks the streets, an outcast, with her bastard baby in her arms. Restlessness and discontent are in the very air, and the old, dull, decorous life has become distasteful, alike to men and women. Poor Philadelphia, bruised, and sore, and shaken, needed a firm and kindly rule to bring her back to health; but having suffered sadly from her foes, she found herself, on the return of friends, to be in a far worse case than ever. It is true there were not wanting men who, like Morris, and Wilson, and Dr. Rush, strove hard to stem the tide of violence, and to save their city from an ignoble reign of terror, which had not even the saving grace of mistaken enthusiasm. But loud-voiced demagogues held the public ear; and the mob, so long repressed by the presence of an unsympathetic soldiery, was once more happy and alert. There was a fierce demand for vengeance upon Tories, and the selection of a few victims to appease the people became a matter of immediate necessity. The men picked out for this purpose were well chosen, being too poor and humble to have troublesome friends, yet not so absolutely insignificant as to make their execution a matter of no moment to anybody. They were both Quakers, a happy stroke of diplomacy, and both were charged with the same offence. Carlisle, a carpenter, had kept one of the city gates during the English occupancy; and Roberts, a miller, though no such important post was ever assigned him, had enlisted under General Howe's command, and would have been wiser had he departed with the rest of the troops.
These two carefully selected malefactors were tried in the criminal court for high treason, and condemned to death. The jury that brought in the verdict of guilty recommended them to mercy, and petitions for their pardon were signed by many hundreds of citizens, including prominent Whigs. But the mob, like the Minotaur, demanded its dole, and on the fourth of November, Elizabeth Drinker writes sadly in her diary:—
"They have actually put to death, Hang'd on ye Commons, John Roberts and Abraham Carlisle, this morning. An awful day it has been."
General Arnold was placed by Washington in command of Philadelphia, and at once began that life of
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costly and formal elegance which gave universal dissatisfaction, and to supply the money for which he plunged deeper and deeper into speculations. It is not always an easy matter to content civilians, who have ever been wont to complain loudly of the wantonness of soldiers; and we find the irascible Christopher Marshall inveighing with much bitterness against the officers of Washington's staff: "Careless of us, but carefully consulting where they shall go to spend the winter in jollity, gaming, and carousing;" a reproach to which the wind-swept hills of Valley Forge could have made answer true. Arnold's unpopularity, however, was a serious matter. In social life he had many friends, and his marriage with Miss Margaret Shippen allied him closely to the most prominent families in Philadelphia; but the people in general—not the rabble, but the respectable portion of the community—were deeply angered by his pride, and regarded his suddenly acquired wealth with equal envy and mistrust. Joseph Reed, the president of the Executive Council and the acknowledged leader of the Constitutionalists, was his avowed enemy; and the quarrels between these two opposing powers relieved Philadelphia of any oppressive dulness during the autumn and early winter of 1779. Reed accused Arnold of gross venality; Arnold accused Reed of inciting riots, and laid upon his shoulders—unjustly—the blame for the shameful inertness which permitted a mob of only two hundred men to destroy what property it pleased on the fourth of October, and to shoot Captain Campbell at the window of his own house.
In truth, it was a time of reckless agitation, and the spirit of revolt against all authority, public or private, was rapidly undermining common safety and domestic restraint. Elizabeth Drinker writes on one page of her journal: "Our great men, or ye men in Power, are quarrelling very much among themselves;" and on the next, with a ludicrous appreciation of her own personal discomfort in this fine, strange atmosphere of freedom: "Our new maid had a visitor all day, and has invited her to lodge with her, without asking leave. Times are much changed, and Maids have become Mistresses."
We hear a great deal during the next few years, both in letters and journals, about the vexatious behaviour of servants. Marshall grows eloquent on the subject, and confesses that his wife has been made ill more than once by sheer anxiety for a little lass who has been bound to them, and who persists, notwithstanding many exhortations and corrections, in staying out all night. The streets of Philadelphia, once so quiet and secure, were no longer safe for any woman after the twilight hour. The country roads, once peaceful as those of Arcady, were now infested by prowling soldiers, deserters, and highwaymen. The history of the Doans, five robber brothers, "strong, handsome, generous, and humane,"—if we may trust contemporary records,—affords a pleasing illustration of the time. These famous and very popular outlaws were Tory sympathizers who, in the beginning of the war, hoped to preserve a strict neutrality; but who found themselves soon objects of suspicion and attack. They were heavily fined for non-attendance on militia duty, their stock was sold, their farm was confiscated. They then resolved to follow the memorable examples of Dick Turpin and Claude Duval, and, taking the road, became a terror to the whole country-side. Like their models, they were capriciously generous, giving freely to the poor what they stole from the rich; and the small farmers of the neighbourhood, whose political principles were of the vaguest order, had no fault to find with men who never took so much as a turnip from their fields, and who often assisted them in the profitable but perilous business of supplying food to the hungry English soldiers. Women, with their customary disregard for dull integrity, looked upon the five brothers as heroes of romance; and children, listening eagerly to tales of their intrepid exploits, resolved to be highwaymen themselves as soon as ever they were grown. "The Doans," we are told, "delighted to injure public property, but did no harm to the weak, the poor, or the peaceful."
Even public property, however, deserves some sort of protection, and even the rich weary in time of being despoiled. When the depredations of these spirited outlaws became too heavy for endurance, a strong body of militia was sent to assist the sheriff in tracking them down. They were hunted day and night, were finally brought to bay, and made a most desperate resistance. Two were shot dead by the soldiers, one escaped, and two were brought prisoners to Philadelphia, and hanged without delay. In the city they excited profound sympathy. "Many temperate people," says their historian, "expressed great commiseration for them"; and the memory of their courage and their kindness surviving the memory of their misdeeds, they grew in time to be considered as upholders of a lost cause, rather than criminals brought to justice, and expiating their offences against society upon the gallows-tree.
None of this sentimental regard was evinced for another class of law-breakers, whose transgressions were of the mildest order, and who sinned against the community, only that they might obey the troublesome dictates of their consciences. The Quakers could not and would not serve in the militia. Strict members of the Society held it unlawful to offer an armed resistance to any authority, however tyrannous and oppressive. This subjected them to heavy fines, which, unhappily, they thought it, not only inconvenient, but wrong, to pay. Certain taxes levied for military purposes were also regarded by them as iniquitous, and they opposed to all such measures their old weapon of passive, impregnable obstinacy. In colonial days, wise men like Benjamin Franklin had known how to circumvent these ill-timed scruples; and the Quakers had not always been averse to the diplomacy which wrested from them measures they could not openly concede, and saved them from a dangerous rupture with conflicting powers. But the men now holding authority were in no humour for dallying with the disaffected, or making allowances for perverse conscientiousness. The Friends, moreover, were exceedingly unpopular with the mob, which was sure to applaud any severe measures passed against them. Already many prominent members of the Society had suffered banishment and confiscation. Those who remained were liable at any time to have their houses searched for English goods, or their furniture dragged away to be sold for an unpaid fine. The entries in Elizabeth Drinker's diary show her to have lost in this manner so many of her household chattels, that the reader wonders she had pot or pan, chair or table, left in her pillaged home. There is something irresistibly pathetic in the sight of any woman despoiled of those belongings to which she clings with an affection man seldom understands; and our sympathy for this Quaker housewife is all the keener because she utters no word of complaint, but states as briefly as possible, and without comment, the losses she suffers day by day.
On the fourteenth of June, 1779, she writes: "George Pickering came this afternoon for ye Non-association fine, which came to thirteen pounds, which is thirteen shillings, as ye money now is exchanged twenty to one. He took a Looking-glass worth between forty and fifty shillings, six newfashioned Pewter plates, and a three quart Pewter Bason, little or nothing the worse for ye wear."
Again, in the early autumn, she makes a similar entry: "This morning, in meeting time, (myself at home) Jacob Franks and a son of Cling, ye Vendue Master, came to seize for ye Continental Tax. They took from us one Walnut Dining-Table, one Mahogany Tea-Table, six handsome Walnut Chairs with open backs, crow feet, a shell on ye back and on each knee,"—how lovingly minute this description!—"a Mahogany-framed Sconce Looking-glass, and two large Pewter Dishes. They carried them off in a cart from ye door to Cling's."
Poor mistress of an empty house who watched her well-kept chairs dragged off in this ignominious way to public execution, and whose grief at losing them was heightened by the knowledge that the miserable sums for which they were to be sold bore no proportion to their value! There is real bitterness—though still no open outcry—in the brief note of May 1, 1780: "Jeremiah Baker took a Mahogany folding Card-Table from us this morning, for a Northern Liberty Tax amounting to about eighteen shillings. Ye Table was worth between three and four pounds."
How very much easier and more agreeable to have paid the eighteen shillings, we cannot help thinking; but there is no tyrant so oppressive as an inexorable conscience, and it is plain that this alternative never even presented itself to the minds of the unfortunate Quakers, despoiled by the strong hand of the law.
All this time, the depreciation of the currency, the scarcity of provisions, the alarmingly high prices demanded for the bare necessities of life, and the growing unwillingness of merchants to sell at any price,
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were fast bringing Philadelphia to a condition of absolute distress. The angry Constitutionalists clung to the notion that the remedy for these evils lay in stringent legislation, and they resolved to bully the State back into its old prosperity. It was not possible, indeed, for the Committee of Inspection to make butter, sorely though the butter was needed; but it was possible to pass a law, forbidding any man to pay more than fifteen shillings a pound for it. Neither could the members of the Committee grow wheat, though the poor cried out for bread; but they could devise another law, forbidding farmers and traders to sell their grain privately, or to ask its full value in the open markets. Nothing is easier than this kind of legislation, and nothing more purely inefficacious.—"There shall be in England seven half-penny loaves sold for a penny; the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small beer." Rather than part with goods at a loss, the merchants closed their shops, the importers concealed their stores, the farmers brought no more provisions for the hungry townsfolk to eat.
Congress, meanwhile, was helping liberally to lead the country to financial dishonour and ruin by repeated issues of worthless paper,—five millions one month, ten millions another, twenty millions the next, until the currency became so absolutely valueless as to pass into a familiar proverb,—"not worth a Continental." By the close of the war, four hundred dollars of American money would not bring four English shillings; but as early as 1780, a man might come perilously nigh starvation while his pockets were lined with notes. "I have more money than ever I had, but I am poorer than ever I was," complained a writer in Dunlap's Packet; and his state was the state of all. An apprentice lad named Leyham, having served two months in the militia, received two hundred dollars for his pay. He bought a pair of shoes for one hundred dollars, invested another hundred in a sleigh-ride, and went empty-handed home. A Philadelphia barber of a humorous turn of mind papered the walls of his shop with the depreciated currency, to the huge delight of his customers. At the sale of Cornelius Land's household effects, a frying-pan brought one hundred and twenty-five dollars; a wood-saw, one hundred and eighty-five dollars; three steel forks, one hundred and twelve dollars, and an old clock, eleven hundred dollars. Silk sold in the Philadelphia shops at one hundred dollars a yard, tea at sixty dollars a pound. A bill of Colonel Allen's has come down to us from this happy period, and illustrates the formidable cost of articles which could never have been considered luxuries.
| "1 Pair Boots | $$600.00 |
| 6¾ yds. Calico, at $85 per Yard | $$752.00 |
| 6 yds. Chintz, at $150 do. | $$900.00 |
| 4½ yds. Moreen, at $100 do. | $$450.00 |
| 4 Handkerchiefs, at $100 each | $$400.00 |
| 8 yds. Quality Binding, at $4 per Yard | $$$32.00 |
| 1 Skein Silk | $$$10.00 |
| $3,144.00 |
"Jan. 5th, 1781."
Quite a little fortune for such a modest account. How many thousands of dollars must a woman have crowded into her purse, when she went forth to do a morning's shopping!
It seems incredible that men could be found willing to play their parts in this financial farce, and to thrust the dismal diversion upon others. But in the spring of 1781 a new issue of paper currency was ordered, and, at the same time, stringent laws were passed to compel the people to receive it. Any one who expressed a preference for real money, when this make-believe money was offered to him, should be taught by heavy fines the wickedness of such unpatriotic discrimination. A small minority of Anti-Constitutionalists, led by Robert Morris and Thomas Mifflin, did, indeed, oppose the measure with all their strength; and, knowing too well such opposition was in vain, Morris prepared and offered to the Assembly a protest, in which he expressed in no unfaltering terms the contempt of a sane and honourable man for such wanton destruction of the public credit. The time was soon to come when the finances of the country were to be in his capable hands; but, even in the present chaotic confusion, he laboured hard to bring about some semblance of law and order. The Bank of Pennsylvania, which was founded solely in the interest of Washington's army, was due largely to his ability and munificence. Without its help, the ragged and hungry troops must have either disbanded or starved in their quarters. The Bank of North America, chartered by Congress as well as by the Assembly, was organized upon his plans, and controlled by his policy. In the days of our deepest humiliation it restored credit, quickened commerce, supplied some measure of integrity, and saved us from financial ruin. Its history, however, belongs to a later period, when foreign foes had yielded their place to domestic enemies, less easily
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Stairway in State House
reckoned with, and far less easily subdued.
In January, 1779, Congress celebrated with a great civic banquet the long desired and long delayed alliance with France. It had been no easy task for Franklin to cement this alliance, and to make of sentimental friendship a firm national bond. The French, indeed, had received him with effusive delight. He was the idol of the hour. His house at Passy was the resort of statesmen, scientists, and scholars. If he appeared in the streets, the mob shouted itself hoarse in his honour; when he went to court, fair ladies dropped wreaths upon his head, which must have been inexpressibly embarrassing. Wits praised his conversation, dandies, his dress, and poets dedicated to him verses that were fully as bad as his own. His benignant features were painted over and over again, and his portraits set in lockets, rings, and snuff-boxes. Learned Academicians shed tears of joy on seeing him embraced by Voltaire. The enthusiasm he aroused extended itself to the country he represented; and the cause of the colonists was pronounced to be the cause of justice, liberty, and humanity. Yet none the less, France hesitated long ere she sent her aid to these admirable patriots, the success of whose arms seemed then more than doubtful; and French capitalists prudently declined to lend a single franc to men whose courage and principles they ardently admired, but whose financiering was open to objections. From the universal admiration for all things pertaining to America, the American currency was most unkindly omitted.
It cannot be denied that the allurements of a brilliant society, and the still more congenial companionship of learned men, beguiled Franklin into an occasional neglect of his mission. He wrote some excellent pamphlets which few people read, and which convinced nobody; and he assured his friends at home that nothing but their own success would persuade France to become their ally. This was true. Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga did more service than a year's hard talking. For the first time, French strategists thought it worth while to lend aid to the colonies, in the hope of injuring Great Britain. The treaty which recognized the independence of the United States was signed February sixth, 1778; the following month, Franklin was formally received at court as an American commissioner; and, on the thirteenth of April, D'Estaing sailed with his fleet from Toulon.
The arrival in France of that clear-headed man of affairs, John Adams, brought order out of chaos, and gave a less sentimental basis to the friendship between the two nations. Franklin was appointed our minister; and, while Adams toiled like a clerk in the commissioner's office, the philosopher played chess with Mme. Brillon, or wrote his famous "Bagatelles" for the amusement of that vivacious slattern, Mme. Helvetius. He was now over seventy, and had merited a few years of trifling by a lifetime of arduous and useful labour. Leisure he enjoyed, as well as the lively and affectionate society of women. The enthusiasm manifested by France for himself, and for his work, awakened in his heart corresponding sentiments of cordiality; and he had no fault to find with this Arcadian and misrepresented nation, save that it took too much snuff, and wore too much powder on its hair,—offences so venial they could hardly have merited a revolution for their Nemesis. At times, amid the pleasures and honours of his official life, he sighed for his old home, and begged to be recalled; but his popularity was so great, and his name carried with it such weight and influence in diplomatic circles, that it was not deemed expedient to permit his return until 1785, when Thomas Jefferson was sent to fill his place.
The alliance with France infused fresh hope and courage into the hearts of the despondent Americans. On the twenty-fifth of August, 1780, the Chevalier de Luzerne gave a grand entertainment to the members of Congress and other prominent citizens, in honour of the French King's birthday. Our enthusiasm for our allies was mounting fast to fever heat, and, indeed, the country sorely needed any emotion which could enliven or sustain it. Confidence was lost. Our troops, ill-fed, ill-clad, unpaid, were sullen and mutinous, held in their ranks with difficulty, notwithstanding the brutal punishments inflicted on deserters, and accustomed to revenge their own hardships upon the farmers and country people whom they plundered without mercy. The feeble resources of the revenue had been taxed to the utmost. Political leaders, impotent for good, were quarrelling fiercely among themselves, and Philadelphia was the chosen arena for their disgraceful strife. "It is obvious," wrote Reed to Washington, "that the bulk of the people are weary of the war"; and Washington sadly confessed in return that never before had he seen the discontent so general and so alarming. The French officers were angry and aghast at the forlorn condition of our affairs, which seemed hopeless to men who could not understand what splendours of endurance and action still lay behind that "slough of Despond." "Send us ships, troops, and money," wrote Rochambeau to Vergennes; "but do not depend upon these people, nor upon their means."
When the skies were darkest, and brave hearts were heaviest, came the news of Arnold's proposed treachery, casting a taint of dishonour upon the whole country, and adding a burden of bitter humiliation to the accumulated disasters of the war. The plot, indeed, was discovered, West Point was saved, and André died a shameful death on the bleak hillside of Tappan.
and the tragic sharpness of his fate has made imperishable the name of the blithe young soldier whose race was so swiftly run. He is truly the world's conqueror whose name the world holds dear. Not years of honourable work, well done and amply rewarded, win this capricious and undying regard; but rather the sudden snatching away of life full to the brim of gladness, and gay courage, and the promise of noble things. André's remains were carried over the sea in 1821, and interred in the south aisle of LORDS OF MISRULE 255
Westminster Abbey, where sleep the best and bravest of England's soldier sons. The inscription on his monument states simply that he was beloved by his fellow officers, and that he died for his country and his King.
In Philadelphia, where Arnold was so well known, and where the proudest and happiest period of his life had been passed, the news of his treason awakened a fierce but easily allayed excitement. His estate was immediately confiscated, and everything that belonged to him was publicly sold. His wife entreated permission to remain under her father, Mr. Edward Shippen's, protection; but this grace was denied her, and she received orders from the Executive Council to leave Pennsylvania within two weeks. She joined her husband in New York, and subsequently went with him to London, where Sir Banastre Tarleton was wont to declare her the handsomest woman in Great Britain. The Philadelphia mob solaced itself by hanging Arnold in effigy, and expended much wit in devising a figure with two faces, which held a mask in its hand, and represented the traitor. This puppet was dragged in a cart through the streets, accompanied by a picturesque and, it was hoped, accurate facsimile of the devil, and preceded by a band of music making all the noise it could. The populace was so well amused by the procession, and by the hanging and burning of the effigy, that it neglected its usual pastimes. No Tories were stoned, no doors nor windows broken, no property of any kind destroyed, though many citizens, as guiltless as the puppet, passed anxious hours before the peaceful rising of the sun.
In September, 1781, the French troops under Count Rochambeau passed through Philadelphia on their way south, where the repeated successes of the American arms had given a new aspect to the war, and filled despondent hearts with hope. The splendid appearance of these foreign allies, their martial bearing, their debonair gayety and good-humour won universal admiration. The regiment De Soissonnais especially, in its picturesque uniform with rose-coloured facings and white and rose-coloured plumes, lent a most welcome air of brightness and well-being to our forlorn, threadbare army, which had never been fine, and which was now pathetically shabby. The Frenchmen were reviewed by Chief Justice McKean, who wore on this occasion a brave suit of black velvet which must have cost at least five thousand dollars of Continental currency. General Washington, Count Rochambeau, and M. de Luzerne were present; and the universal satisfaction was vastly increased when it was made known that four hundred thousand crowns had come over from France, and that there was once more a prospect of our own troops wearing—not rose-coloured plumes, but sound shoes and decent breeches. So great was the public joy over this brighter outlook, that the mob in buoyant mood surrounded the residence of M. de Luzerne, and kept him awake all night by shouting lustily for King Louis XVI.
Before the allied armies left for the south, news of a still more important character was brought to cheer them on their way. The French fleet under the command of Count de Grasse had crossed the seas in safety, and lay awaiting further orders in the Chesapeake. It was this fleet which, closing in on the Virginia coast, cut off from the English army all chance of escape by water, and compelled Lord Cornwallis to surrender to General Washington at Yorktown, October 19, 1781. On the twenty-third of October, two hours before sunrise, the word was carried by an express rider into sleepy Philadelphia; and a German watchman, who was the first to hear the news, proceeded tranquilly on his rounds, announcing at intervals to such as lay awake to listen: "Past three o'clock, and Lord Cornwallis is taken."