Washington Square—American Beauty—Gallery of Fine
Arts—Antiques—Theatres—Museum
Our mornings were spent, as all travellers’ mornings must be, in asking
questions, and in seeing all that the answers told us it was necessary
to see. Perhaps this can be done in no city with more facility than in
Philadelphia; you have nothing to do but to walk up one straight
street, and down another, till all the parallelograms have been
threaded. In doing this you will see many things worth looking at. The
United States, and Pennsylvania banks, are the most striking buildings,
and are both extremely handsome, being of white marble, and built after
Grecian models. The State House has nothing externally to recommend it,
but the room shown as that in which the declaration of independence was
signed, and in which the estimable Lafayette was received half a
century after he had shed his noble blood in aiding to obtain it, is an
interesting spot. At one end of this room is a statue in wood of
General Washington; on its base is the following inscription:-
First in Peace,
First in War,
and
First in the hearts of his Countrymen.
There is a very pretty enclosure before the Walnut Street entrance to
the State House, with good well-kept gravel walks, and many of their
beautiful flowering trees. It is laid down in grass, not in turf; that,
indeed, is a luxury I never saw in America. Near this enclosure is
another of much the same description, called Washington Square. Here
there was an excellent crop of clover; but as the trees are numerous,
and highly beautiful, and several commodious seats are placed beneath
their shade, it is, in spite of the long grass, a very agreeable
retreat from heat and dust. It was rarely, however, that I saw any of
these seats occupied; the Americans have either no leisure, or no
inclination for those moments of _delassement_ that all other people, I
believe, indulge in. Even their drams, so universally taken by rich and
poor, are swallowed standing, and, excepting at church, they never have
the air of leisure or repose. This pretty Washington Square is
surrounded by houses on three sides, but (lasso!) has a prison on the
fourth; it is nevertheless the nearest approach to a London square that
is to be found in Philadelphia.
One evening, while the rest of my party went to visit some objects
which I had before seen, I agreed to await their return in this square,
and sat down under a magnificent catalpa, which threw its fragrant
blossoms in all directions; the other end of the bench was occupied by
a young lady, who was employed in watching the gambols of a little boy.
There was something in her manner of looking at me, and exchanging a
smile when her young charge performed some extraordinary feat of
activity on the grass, that persuaded me she was not an American. I do
not remember who spoke first, but we were presently in a full flow of
conversation. She spoke English with elegant correctness, but she was a
German, and with an ardour of feeling which gave her a decidedly
foreign air in Philadelphia, she talked to me of her country, of all
she had left, and of all she had found, or rather of all she had not
found, for thus ran her lament:-
“They do not love music. Oh no! and they never amuse themselves—no; and
their hearts are not warm, at least they seem not so to strangers; and
they have no ease, no forgetfulness of business and of care—no, not for
a moment. But I will not stay long, I think, for I should not live.”
She told me that she had a brother settled there as a merchant, and
that she had passed a year with him; but she was hoping soon to return
to her father land.
I never so strongly felt the truth of the remark, that expression is
the soul of beauty, as in looking at, and listening to this young
German. She was any thing but handsome; it is true she had large eyes,
full of gentle expression, but every feature was irregular; but, oh!
the charm of that smile, of that look of deep feeling which animated
every feature when she spoke of her own Germany! The tone of her voice,
the slight and graceful action which accompanied her words, all struck
me as so attractive, that the half hour I passed with her was
continually recurring to my memory. I had often taxed myself with
feeling something like prejudice against the beautiful American women;
but this half hour set my conscience at rest; it is not prejudice which
causes one to feel that regularity of features is insufficient to
interest, or even to please, beyond the first glance. I certainly
believe the women of America to be the handsomest in the world, but as
surely do I believe that they are the least attractive.
We visited the nineteenth annual exhibition of the Pennsylvanian
academy of the fine arts; 431 was the number of objects exhibited,
which were so arranged as to fill three tolerably large rooms, and one
smaller called the director’s room. There were among the number about
thirty engravings, and a much larger proportion of water-colour
drawings; about seventy had the P.A. (Pensylvanian Academician) annexed
to the name of the artist.
The principal historical composition was a large scripture piece by Mr.
Washington Alston. This gentleman is spoken of as an artist of great
merit, and I was told that his manner was much improved since this
picture was painted, (it bears date, 1813). I believe it was for this
picture Mr. Alston received a prize at the British Gallery.
There was a portrait of a lady, which, in the catalogue, is designated
as “the White Plume,” which had the reputation of being the most
admired in the collection, and the artist, Mr. Ingham, is said to rank
highest among the portrait-painters of America. This picture is of very
high finish, particularly the drapery, which is most elaborately
worked, even to the pile of the velvet; the management of the light is
much in the manner of Good; but the drawing is very defective, and the
contour, though the face is a lovely one, hard and unfleshy. From all
the conversations on painting, which I listened to in America, I found
that the finish of drapery was considered as the highest excellence,
and next to this, the resemblance in a portrait; I do not remember ever
to have heard the words _drawing_ or _composition_ used in any
conversation on the subject.
One of the rooms of this academy has inscribed over its door,
ANTIQUE STATUE GALLERY
The door was open, but just within it was a screen, which prevented any
objects in the room being seen from without. Upon my pausing to read
this inscription, an old woman who appeared to officiate as guardian of
the gallery, hustled up, and addressing me with an air of much mystery,
said, “Now, ma’am, now; this is just the time for you—nobody can see
you—make haste.”
I stared at her with unfeigned surprise, and disengaging my arm, which
she had taken apparently to hasten my movements, I very gravely asked
her meaning.
“Only, ma’am, that ladies like to go into that room by themselves, when
there be no gentlemen watching them.”
On entering this mysterious apartment, the first thing I remarked, was
written paper, deprecating the disgusting depravity which had led some
of the visitors to mark and deface the casts in a most indecent and
shameless manner. This abomination has unquestionably been occasioned
by the coarse-minded custom which sends alternate groups of males and
females into the room. Were the antique gallery thrown open to mixed
parties of ladies and gentlemen, it would soon cease. Till America has
reached the degree of refinement which permits of this, the antique
casts should not be exhibited to ladies at all. I never felt my
delicacy shocked at the Louvre, but I was strangely tempted to resent
as an affront the hint I received, that I might steal a glance at what
was deemed indecent. Perhaps the arrangements for the exhibition of
this room, the feelings which have led to them, and the result they
have produced, furnish as good a specimen of the kind of delicacy on
which the Americans pride themselves, and of the peculiarities arising
from it, as can be found. The room contains about fifty casts, chiefly
from the antique.
In the director’s room I was amused at the means which a poet had hit
upon for advertising his works, or rather HIS WORK, and not less at the
elaborate notice of it. His portrait was suspended there, and attached
to the frame was a paper inscribed thus:-
“PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR
of
The Fredoniad, or Independence Preserved, a political,
naval, and military poem, on the late war of 1812,
in forty cantos; the whole compressed in
four volumes; each volume averaging
more than 305 pages,
By RICHARD EMMONS,
M.D.”
I went to the Chesnut Street Theatre to see Mr. Booth, formerly of
Drury Lane, in the character of Lear, and a Mrs. Duff in Cordelia; but
I have seen too many Lears and Cordelias to be easily pleased; I
thought the whole performance very bad. The theatre is of excellently
moderate dimensions, and prettily decorated. It was not the fashionable
season for the theatres, which I presume must account for the
appearance of the company in the boxes, which was any thing but
elegant; nor was there more decorum of demeanour than I had observed
elsewhere; I saw one man in the lower tier of boxes deliberately take
off his coat that he might enjoy the refreshing coolness of shirt
sleeves; all the gentlemen wore their hats, and the spitting was
unceasing.
On another evening we went to the Walnut Street Theatre; the chief
attraction of the night was furnished by the performance of a young man
who had been previously exhibited as “a living skeleton.” He played the
part of Jeremiah Thin, and certainly looked the part well; and here I
think must end my praise of the evening’s performances.
The great and most striking contrast between this city and those of
Europe, is perceived after sunset; scarcely a sound is heard; hardly a
voice or a wheel breaks the stillness. The Streets are entirely dark,
except where a stray lamp marks an hotel or the like; no shops are
open, but those of the apothecary, and here and there a cook’s shop;
scarcely a step is heard, and for a note of music, or the sound of
mirth, I listened in vain. In leaving the theatre, which I always did
before the afterpiece, I saw not a single carriage; the night of Miss
Wright’s lecture, when I stayed to the end, I saw one. This darkness,
this stillness, is so great, that I almost felt it awful. As we walked
home one fine moonlight evening from the Chestnut Street house, we
stopped a moment before the United States Bank, to look at its white
marble columns by the subdued lights said to be so advantageous to
them; the building did, indeed, look beautiful; the incongruous objects
around were hardly visible, while the brilliant white of the building,
which by daylight is dazzling, was mellowed into fainter light and
softer shadow.
While pausing before this modern temple of Theseus, we remarked that we
alone seemed alive in this great city; it was ten o’clock, and a most
lovely cool evening, after a burning day, yet all was silence. Regent
Street, Bond Street, with their blaze of gas-light _bijouterie_, and
still more the Italian Boulevard of Paris, rose in strong contrast on
the memory; the light, which outshines that of day—the gay, graceful,
laughing throng—the elegant saloons of Tortoni, with all their
varieties of cooling nectar—were all remembered. Is it an European
prejudice to deem that the solitary dram swallowed by the gentlemen on
quitting an American theatre indicates a lower and more vicious state
of manners, than do the ices so sedulously offered to the ladies on
leaving a French one?
The museum contains a good collection of objects illustrative of
natural history, and some very interesting specimens of Indian
antiquities; both here and at Cincinnati I saw so many things
resembling Egyptian relics, that I should like to see the origin of the
Indian nations enquired into, more accurately than has yet been done.
The shops, of which there appeared to me to be an unusually large
proportion, are very handsome; many of them in a style of European
elegance. Lottery offices abound, and that species of gambling is
carried to a great extent. I saw fewer carriages in Philadelphia than
either at Baltimore or Washington, but in the winter I was told they
were more numerous.
Many of the best families had left the city for different
watering-places, and others were daily following. Long Branch is a
fashionable bathing place on the Jersey shore, to which many resort,
both from this place and from New York; the description given of the
manner of bathing appeared to me rather extraordinary, but the account
was confirmed by so many different people, that I could not doubt its
correctness. The shore, it seems, is too bold to admit of bathing
machines, and the ladies have, therefore, recourse to another mode of
ensuring the enjoyment of a sea-bath with safety. The accommodation at
Long Branch is almost entirely at large boarding-houses, where all the
company live at a _table d’hôte_. It is customary for ladies on
arriving to look round among the married gentlemen, the first time they
meet at table, and to select the one her fancy leads her to prefer as a
protector in her purposed visits to the realms of Neptune; she makes
her request, which is always graciously received, that he would lead
her to taste the briny wave; but another fair one must select the same
protector, else the arrangement cannot be complete, as custom does not
authorise _tete a tete_ immersion.