Philadelphia (Repplier)/Chapter 15
THE surrender at Yorktown practically closed the war, although the treaty of peace was not signed until two years later. A burden was lifted from the hearts of men, and every colony joined in the universal thanksgiving. Philadelphia expressed her lively satisfaction after her time-honoured methods; rang her bells with joyful ardour, fired salutes all day long, and sent off countless rockets at night. Weary of war and of politics, she longed to be a little gay and cheerful once again, albeit the State House walls still echoed the wrangling of her leaders. The Southwark Theatre, which had been closed since the English occupation, was opened with cautious courage under the euphonious title of "Academy of Polite Science," as the word theatre still stuck in the throats of the godly; and the first representation was given in honour of General Washington after his return from Virginia. Beaumarchais' "Eugénie" was the play, with "The Lying Valet" for an afterpiece; and there was moreover a fine patriotic prologue, designed to soften the hearts of the Presbyterians, and a grand transparency symbolizing the union of the States, to please all the distinguished officers who were present.
In point of fact, no one was more grateful for a little timely diversion than Washington, for on his shoulders had fallen burdens too heavy to be carried, and anxieties too keen to be endured. Relaxation of some kind was a supreme necessity; and he had, in addition, that love
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of pleasure which was inherent in every Virginia gentleman. It was not the theatre alone which delighted him, but the circus, and every other show, including balloon ascensions, which were perhaps his supreme favourites, and cock-fights, which he relished as unblushingly as Christopher North. The minute record he kept of his expenses enables us to know how ardently he tried to amuse himself, and how little the country afforded in the way of entertainment. He gave nine shillings to a man "who brought an elk to exhibit"; and he went with impartial avidity to see an automaton, a dancing bear, a puppet show, waxworks, and a tiny menagerie, which consisted exclusively of a tiger and a lioness. He had a passion for lotteries and raffles, in both of which he was distinctly unlucky all his life. The money he invested in lottery tickets brought him in scant return, and he never drew one of the alluring things for which he purchased a chance. Whether it were a necklace, a coach, a watch, or a gun, he met with the same unfailing disappointment. "By profit and loss, in two chances in raffling for Encyclopædia Britannica, which I did not win, £1/4,"—is a characteristic entry in his account book.
On the thirteenth of May, 1781, M. de Luzerne formally announced to Congress the birth of the Dauphin of France, a child who escaped by an early death the bitter fate of his younger brother, the boy martyr of the Temple, the most pathetic figure in history's blood-stained page. A letter from the King was presented and read on this occasion, and much public interest was manifested. Indeed, our affection for our allies had by this time reached its height, and the little prince was the object of an enthusiasm as keen and as transient as if we had been his hereditary subjects. The general satisfaction was quickened into delight when, on the fifteenth of July, M. de Luzerne gave his celebrated fête du Dauphin, the most costly and beautiful entertainment Philadelphia had witnessed since the Mischianza. Fifteen hundred guests were invited, who arrived promptly at half-past seven. The gardens surrounding the minister's house were brilliantly illuminated, and a hall or pavilion, open to the air, was erected for the dancers. The contemporary descriptions of this garden and this hall sound like Aladdin's palace. It is difficult to read the glowing paragraphs, and imagine arches, colonnades, leafy bowers, glittering domes, and deep romantic groves as parts of the old Carpenter Mansion at Sixth and Chestnut Streets.
The interior of the dancing-hall, which had been built by a French architect in less than six weeks, was elaborately ornamented, and lit by hundreds of tapers. Four statues stood within four niches: Diana hurling her spear, Flora garlanded with roses, Hebe holding Jove's cup, and Mars leaning on his shield, upon which was appropriately engraved the cipher of General Washington. The entertainment, as generous as the Mischianza, began with a concert, after which came a display of fireworks, "of superior and unrivalled excellence." The ball was then formally opened, and at one o'clock supper was served. Thirty army cooks were engaged to prepare this supper, and, as they were French army cooks, it was probably good. The heat was oppressive, and although we are assured that "joy did not cease to sparkle in every eye," it is evident that it sparkled languidly, and that even the youngest and gayest of the guests felt dancing to be a diversion ill-suited for such a tropical night.
Philadelphia was, indeed, singularly unfortunate in having all her anniversaries and grand celebrations in midsummer. George III. had been born, reasonably enough, on the fourth of June; and in the old loyal days it had required no great endurance to eat noontide dinners in his honour on the Schuylkill's pleasant banks. But the French King's birthday, which was now kept with amazing fervour, and made the occasion of yearly banquets and rejoicings, came most inopportunely on the twenty-third of August. Our own national holiday left nothing to be desired in the way of burning heat; and a ball on the fifteenth of July must have been but a doubtful pleasure. Perhaps the people who enjoyed it most were the unbidden guests; for M. de Luzerne, mindful of the charms of publicity as exemplified in the French court, had thrown down the brick walls which encircled his garden, so that the populace could enjoy the brilliant scene, and some ten thousand spectators availed themselves cheerfully of the privilege. General Washington, Count Rochambeau, the Marquis de Chastellux, Robert Morris, Dickinson, Mifflin, and a host of other distinguished men were there to be stared at; while an Indian chief or two lent variety and picturesqueness to the scene. A most unique feature of the entertainment was an apartment fitted up by the thoughtful host for the reception of those Quaker ladies whose principles would not permit them to join in the gayety; but who watched the dancers through a gauze curtain,—themselves unseen,—just as the Moslem women of Cairo look down through the latticed screens of their opera boxes upon the singers on the stage, or, it may be, upon their husbands sitting with fair-haired English girls, at whose feet lie all the forbidden pleasures of the world.
The treaty of peace concluded in Paris was finally signed at Versailles, on the third of September, 1783; Franklin, John Adams, and John Jay acting as our representatives. The independence of the States, of such, at least, as lay between the Atlantic coast and the Mississippi River, was recognized by England; the English troops sailed from New York on the twenty-fifth of November, and General Washington, resigning his commission, went blithely to spend his Christmas at Mount Vernon.
Philadelphia had not lacked occupation or excitement during these last months of uncertainty, for to the fierce quarrels of her politicians had been added the riotous behaviour of the soldiers, who fancied themselves imperious legions ready to terrorize a second Rome. The city had borne upon her shoulders the heaviest burdens and responsibilities of the Revolutionary war. As the birthplace of the infant nation, as the centre of interest, and the scene of the most important movements and events, she had been weighted with obligations which she had striven hard to fulfil, though rent with wounds, and shamed by the violence of her sons. Now that peace was assured, she drew a great breath of joyous relief, and prepared to turn her attention to her long neglected industries and commerce. It was necessary also to do justice to the college she had so wantonly injured, to restore the rights of citizenship to many who had been unwarrantably disenfranchised, to satisfy her public creditors, and to reëstablish that sound financial basis which the Continental currency had hopelessly destroyed.
In none of these laudable ambitions was she destined to immediate success. The ancient charter of the college was given back, but vitality and the spirit of scholarship would not return at the Assembly's persuasive call. The rival university still struggled hard for precedence, albeit there were many in her faculty, who, if we may trust the biting sarcasm of Dr. Rush, "knew not whether Cicero plead in Latin or in Greek, or whether Horace was a Roman or a Scotchman." The Whigs still clamoured vehemently against any concessions to the Tories, and succeeded for years in keeping alive a purposeless spirit of hostility. The creditors were left to mourn their unwise liberality; and the fierce attack of the Constitutionalists, under Reed, upon the Bank of North America, proves that party spirit was still strong enough, and bitter enough, to play havoc with matters of finance. Philadelphia's politicians were in the habit of regarding the charter granted to an institution very much as a mother regards the toy given to a child,—as something to be taken away, placed on a shelf out of reach, and returned again, according to the caprice of the donor, or the amiability of the recipient. This is not a method calculated to produce confidence and security in the public mind; it is difficult to lay strong foundations on the shifting sands of partisanship; and, had the bank not been chartered by Congress as well as by the Assembly, it must inevitably have been destroyed, and the splendid efforts of Robert Morris to remedy the financial weakness of the country would have been, to our lasting shame, frustrated by political animosity.
After Washington, and after Franklin, the man to whom the nation owed its heaviest debt, its deepest gratitude, was Morris. Born in England, and brought as a child to Philadelphia, he made his own way by sheer force of intelligence, without the help of a single outstretched hand. At thirteen, he was sweeping the floors of a counting-house; at thirty, he was a partner in the great mercantile firm of the Willings, and beginning to take an active part in the keen interests and anxieties of public life. Rich, hospitable, popular, with a sound understanding and a complication-proof mind, he gave to the Continental Congress, during the three years in which he sat as delegate, such efficient aid that every emergency added to the burdens that he bore. His personal credit was vast, his generosity knew no bounds, his readiness of resource found a way to extricate his allies from every fresh dilemma. He it was who furnished Washington with artillery and ammunition when the treasury was exhausted. He it was who borrowed on his own promissory notes over a million of dollars, with which to buy necessary food and clothing for the army at the most critical period of the war. He it was who struggled, almost single-handed, for the restoration of specie, and the reëstablishment of our public credit. There is the ring of prophetic wisdom in his speeches, deploring earnestly as he did the uneasy fluctuations of a government torn by conflicting interests, and "changing its measures by the breath of democracy."
When the return of peace gave us leisure to understand our desperate condition; when the Continental currency had ceased to circulate, and there was no hard money to take its place; when the public coffers were empty, and the interest on the public debts unpaid,—then Congress turned to Morris as the only man who could be of any help in times so sadly out of joint. The eminently undesirable post of Superintendent of Finances was offered to him; and, with unflinching courage, he set about the difficult labour of bringing order out of chaos. Face to face with bankruptcy and ruin, he went steadily to his appointed task, sparing neither himself nor his fortune, begrudging no toil and no sacrifice in his country's cause. The arduous nature of his duties, and the heavy responsibilities they involved, broke down his health in three years, so that he was unable to continue in office; but the work which that great financier, Alexander Hamilton, brought to a successful issue, was begun by Robert Morris and his able assistant, Gouverneur Morris,—founder of our system of national coinage,—when they strove to restore to the States some measure of prosperity and credit.
Pennsylvania recognized the obligation which rested upon her to indemnify the Penns for the loss of their quit-rents, and of the proprietary lands which had been confiscated during the Revolutionary war. It was impossible, or at least it was impracticable, to fully compensate them for such vast estates. Indeed, the modest sum of one hundred and thirty thousand pounds which the Assembly voted for this purpose, did not cover more than a tenth of their forfeiture. But the manors and some property of no great value, which had been settled on the children of the Founder, remained in the possession of his great-grandsons, and the English government granted them annuities amounting to four thousand pounds. Mr. Sydney Fisher tells us that, down to the present day, rents from the most closely populated parts of Philadelphia go over the sea to the descendants of William Penn, who have no other connection with, no other interest in, the city of his heart and hopes.
There is little doubt that after Congress had been frightened away by the riotous soldiery, taking refuge in Princeton before migrating to New York, Philadelphia returned in some measure to her old sobriety and decorum. It is true that the spirit of reckless speculation still ran wild, and that many of her citizens had not yet exhausted the delights of living beyond their means. General Lee, as we know, described her as a place of amusement and debauch, by which he probably had in mind the poor little "Academy of Polite Science," with its "moral dialogues," and transparencies. "No other city," says Mr. MacMaster, "was so rich, so extravagant, so fashionable." On the other hand, it is plain that foreigners thought her amazingly discreet, and sometimes just a trifle dull. The Chevalier de Beaujour, for example, found little to amuse him in her boasted gayety, little to please him in her boasted charms. "Philadelphia," he wrote, "is cut, like a chess-board, at right angles. All the streets and houses resemble each other, and nothing is so gloomy as this uniformity, unless it be the sadness of the inhabitants, the greater part of whom are of Quaker or Puritan descent."
Brissot de Warville, who came over the seas—like so many modern French journalists—with the avowed intention of collecting "copy," considered Philadelphia to be altogether admirable, but very far from gay. "The men are grave," he said, "the women serious. There are no finical airs to be found here, no libertine wives, no coffee-houses, no agreeable walks." This is carrying criticism too far. Coffee-houses there were, and walks in plenty, agreeable enough, though not profoundly interesting to the eager young Frenchman who, although disposed as Washington asserted, "to receive favourable impressions of America," was naturally depressed and daunted by its painful dissimilarity to France.
Perhaps the truest verdicts are to be found a little nearer home. The vivacious Miss Franks, while sadly acknowledging that the women of New York were handsomer than the women of Philadelphia, sighed vainly in her exile for the freedom and ease, the wit and grace, which lent gayety to the drawing-rooms of the Chews, and Oswalds, and Allens. Miss Vining, one of the most brilliant and admired of Philadelphia's daughters, admitted, in a letter to Governor Dickinson, that the town had grown strangely quiet since the flight of Congress; but added proudly, "You know that here alone can be found a truly intellectual and refined society, such as one naturally expects in the capital of any country."
In truth, the city was occupied with matters of such serious moment, that she might be pardoned for not always finding the leisure to be gay. The time had now arrived when, to quote Washington's very moderate language, success in arms had given the United States "the opportunity to become a respectable nation." The framing of a constitution was a supreme necessity, and in May, 1787, the delegates chosen for this Herculean task assembled in Philadelphia, and went immediately to work. Washington was elected to preside over the convention, which debated within closed doors for four months. Its meeting-place was the old State House; and the hall which had first echoed the Declaration of Independence now rang with the earnest eloquence of men whose work it was to make this independence worth preserving, and upon the success of whose measures depended the future welfare of their land. The duty assigned them was the moulding of thirteen provinces, widely separated, sparsely peopled, wholly dissimilar, into a united and "respectable nation." It was fitting that the venerable walls which had witnessed the birth of liberty should lend their hallowed associations and traditions to the sincere efforts of inexperienced statesmen, who strove to complete the work begun by their predecessors in 1776.
By September the National Constitution, under which we now live, was framed, and submitted for ratification to the States, which, one by one, consented to adopt it, though never without a sharp struggle, and a bitter protest from the disaffected,—natural enough, when so many conflicting interests were forced into an uneasy alliance. Pennsylvania, having given her adherence
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with unwonted promptness, watched these struggles impatiently; and when ten out of the thirteen States had consented to the inevitable, Philadelphia prepared to celebrate their acquiescence with a grand Federal procession on the fourth of July, 1788. It was an industrial rather than a military parade, the parent of many more to follow, and it could hardly have been a very gay or brilliant affair; though in a lofty car—shaped like an eagle, and representing the triumphant Constitution—sat Judge Atlee, Judge Rush and Chief Justice McKean, clad in their official robes, and making up in splendour what they lacked in comfort and safety. All the trades and all the industries were amply represented. Mr. Richard Willing, dressed as a farmer, guided a plough drawn by four oxen,—a pleasant sight to see,—and Mr. Charles Willing, in the character of a ploughboy, walked by the oxen's side. A ship of state riding proudly on a canvas sea, with a gallant crew, and four pretty little boys for midshipmen, was dragged through the streets on a float; patriotic addresses were delivered without stint; and an ode, admirable in sentiment if not in execution, was written for the occasion by Francis Hopkinson, and attributed, on general principles, to Franklin. Copies of this ode were scattered among the crowd, and sent by carrier pigeons to different parts of Pennsylvania. The bells of Christ Church rang all day long, the ships along the river front were gayly decorated, bonfires blazed merrily at night, and a grand supper was eaten at Bush Hill in honour of the accepted Constitution. It was emphatically a celebration by the people, who understood clearly what they were celebrating, and its most pleasing characteristic was sincerity. "Every countenance," says a contemporary writer, "wore an air of dignity as well as of delight. Every tradesman's boy in the procession seemed to consider himself as a principle in the business."
So keen was the general enthusiasm that the word "Federal," which stood for the party of success, became popular enough for universal misapplication. Federal stables were made ready for gentlemen's horses, Federal hats were sold in the shops, Federal punch was ladled out liberally in taverns, and an enterprising dancing-master, quick to glean profit out of patriotism, secured many pupils by promising to teach a Federal minuet. Pennsylvania rightly considered that this was a favourable moment to rid herself of the cumbrous and bungling laws—the work of Rittenhouse and Franklin—under which she had struggled to live since 1776. The Anti-Constitutionalists, the party of moderation, now ruled the city and the State. The voices of such men as Benjamin Rush, John Cadwalader, Thomas Mifflin and Robert Morris were listened to with some degree of deference, and they united in urging the necessity for a more practical and reasonable form of local government. A convention was summoned, and a new State Constitution, bearing a general resemblance to the National Constitution, was framed in 1790. Philadelphia was re-incorporated, and even her old armorial bearings were altered, and made emblematic of the progress and prosperity which it was ardently hoped lay waiting for her grasp.
On the thirtieth of April, 1789, Washington was inaugurated, and the United States possessed at last a settled government and a visible head. When the President passed through Philadelphia, on his way to New York, he was received with joyous and disconcerting enthusiasm. Triumphal arches were raised in the streets, the houses were hung with flags, soldiers and citizens accompanied him at every step, and young girls strewed flowers along his path. Perhaps the most severely trying moment of all was at Gray's Ferry, where a crown of laurel hung dangling from an arch, under which he was doomed to ride. A little boy, robed in white and garlanded with flowers, held a string attached to this laurel wreath, and, at the critical moment when the hero passed beneath, it was lowered precipitately "upon his brow,"—he having presumably taken off his hat for its accommodation,—while the multitude shouted itself hoarse with delight. Such are the penalties of greatness, and the settled gravity of Washington's demeanour permitted no one to know how much or how little he suffered upon these occasions. He was at all times fully alive to the dignity of his position, and took an open interest in the controversy which raged so hotly anent a proper title for the President. Congress and the Senate were equally averse to granting him any; but the sentiment of Philadelphia was strongly in favour of some good high-sounding phrase, and Chief Justice McKean urged "Serene Highness," as the most elegant and appropriate that could be chosen. Washington, it is said, fancied the title of the Stadtholder,—"High Mightiness,"—and was deeply offended at General Muhlenberg for his wanton jest on the subject, when asked for a serious opinion.
It was no easy task at this time to steer safely between the rival claims of aristocracy and democracy; to satisfy at once the demands of what has been called "The Republican Court," and the demands of a most uncourtly public, which voiced its sentiments shrilly. John Adams had already been abused with fervour for using the obnoxious word "well-born," when speaking of certain prominent citizens. All men, he was reminded, are equally well-born, and it was not for him to draw distinctions between classes. When Thomas Jefferson returned from France, he had acquired a not unpardonable weakness for fine clothes, and appeared, so Mrs. Deborah Logan tells us, in "a suit of silk, ruffles, and an elegant topaz ring." This gave offence, and was held to be hardly consistent with republican simplicity; so he obligingly adopted a plainer costume, and was immediately and bitterly reproached "with going to the other extreme, as a bait for popularity." People who served the public were beginning to realize how very hard the public was to please.
The death of Benjamin Franklin in 1790 severed the last great link between colonial Philadelphia and the arrogant, uneasy city, struggling to adjust herself to new and necessary conditions. "For my personal ease," he wrote sadly to Washington during his long illness, "I should have died two years ago." To the very close of his life there was work for him to do, but his influence and popularity waned with his waning powers. Mrs. Logan, who sincerely admired and reverenced him, and who was generous enough to forgive his wanton attack on the memory of that fine and faithful public servant, James Logan, tells us that even his preëminence could not escape depreciation amid the rush of new events, and the conflict of warring powers.
"I have often thought," she writes, "that Dr. Franklin must have sensibly felt the difference between the éclat which he enjoyed in France, and the reception he met with upon his final return to his native country. The elements of two parties were then fermenting themselves into the form which they afterwards assumed. The mass of Pennsylvania was, as it has ever since been, decidedly democratic; but there was a contrary spirit then dominant, and thinly diffused over the surface of society, which rejected the philosopher because it thought he was too much of that stamp. The first Constitution of our State after the Revolution, which was his work, though adopted by the great body of the people, was disliked;"—small wonder!—"and I well remember the remark of a Fool, though a fashionable party man, at the time, that it was by no means 'fashionable' to visit Franklin."
And this in little Philadelphia, which had been patted and moulded into shape by his tireless intelligence and activity! It was not for her to play the part of critic where there was much to criticise, nor to reject too sharply that spirit of utility which, as Sainte-Beuve admits, was Franklin's measure for all things, and which, its work once finished, has no further message for the restless generations to come. The city he served should have even now a keener recollection of his services. The city he loved should have now a more generous affection for his name. When he died, she awoke, indeed, to a transient glow of gratitude and reverence. Twenty thousand people followed him to his grave in the yard of Christ Church, where the plain stone that bears the inscription, "Benjamin and Deborah Franklin. 1790." is visible to all who pass in the noisy street outside. The oration preached some time afterwards by Provost Smith was as laudatory and as emotional as those pronounced by Mirabeau before l'Assemblée Nationale, by Condorcet before l'Académie des Sciences, and by Fauchet before the Commune of Paris. Congress wore mourning badges for a month, the French Assembly for three whole days. What more could be asked in return for a lifetime of labour? What more could
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be given by the world to the memory of a man who had lived long enough to finish his work, and whose death at eighty-four left no tragic sense of incompleteness which could be recognized as a personal loss, and as such sincerely deplored?