Quakers—Presbyterians—Itinerant Methodist Preacher—Market—Influence of
females in society
I had never chanced, among all my wanderings, to enter a Quaker
Meeting-house; and as I thought I could no where make my first visit
better than at Philadelphia, I went under the protection of a Quaker
lady to the principal _orthodox_ meeting of the city. The building is
large, but perfectly without ornament; the men and women are separated
by a rail which divides it into two equal parts; the meeting was very
full on both sides, and the atmosphere almost intolerably hot. As they
glided in at their different doors, I spied many pretty faces peeping
from the prim head gear of the females, and as the broad-brimmed males
sat down, the welcome Parney supposes prepared for them in heaven,
recurred to me,
“Entre done, et garde ton chapeau.”
The little bonnets and the large hats were ranged in long rows, and
their stillness was for a long time so unbroken, that I could hardly
persuade myself the figures they surmounted were alive. At length a
grave square man arose, laid aside his ample beaver, and after another
solemn interval of silence, he gave a deep groan, and as it were by the
same effort uttered, “Keep thy foot.” Again he was silent for many
minutes, and then he continued for more that an hour to put forth one
word at a time, but at such an interval from each other that I found it
quite impossible to follow his meaning, if, indeed, he had any. My
Quaker friend told me she knew not who he was, and that she much
regretted I had heard so poor a preacher. After he had concluded, a
gentleman-like old man (a physician by profession) arose, and delivered
a few moral sentences in an agreeable manner; soon after he had sat
down, the whole congregation rose, I know not at what signal, and made
their exit. It is a singular kind of worship, if worship it may be
called, where all prayer is forbidden; yet it appeared to me, in its
decent quietness, infinitely preferable to what I had witnessed at the
Presbyterian and Methodist Meeting-houses. A great schism had lately
taken place among the Quakers of Philadelphia; many objecting to the
over-strict discipline of the orthodox. Among the seceders there are
again various shades of difference; I met many who called themselves
Unitarian Quakers, others were Hicksites, and others again, though
still wearing the Quaker habit, were said to be Deists.
We visited many churches and chapels in the city, but none that would
elsewhere be called handsome, either internally or externally.
I went one evening, not a Sunday, with a party of ladies to see a
Presbyterian minister inducted. The ceremony was woefully long, and the
charge to the young man awfully impossible to obey, at least if he were
a man, like unto other men. It was matter of astonishment to me to
observe the deep attention, and the unwearied patience with which some
hundreds of beautiful young girls who were assembled there, (not to
mention the old ladies,) listened to the whole of this tedious
ceremony; surely there is no country in the world where religion makes
so large a part of the amusement and occupation of the ladies. Spain,
in its most catholic days, could not exceed it: besides, in spite of
the gloomy horrors of the Inquisition, gaiety and amusement were not
there offered as a sacrifice by the young and lovely.
The religious severity of Philadelphian manners is in nothing more
conspicuous than in the number of chains thrown across the streets on a
Sunday to prevent horses and carriages from passing. Surely the Jews
could not exceed this country in their external observances. What the
gentlemen of Philadelphia do with themselves on a Sunday, I will not
pretend to guess, but the prodigious majority of females in the
churches is very remarkable. Although a large proportion of the
population of this city are Quakers, the same extraordinary variety of
faith exists here, as every where else in the Union, and the priests
have, in some circles, the same unbounded influence which has been
mentioned elsewhere.
One history reached me, which gave a terrible picture of the effect
this power may produce; it was related to me by my mantua-maker; a
young woman highly estimable as a wife and mother, and on whose
veracity I perfectly rely. She told me that her father was a widower,
and lived with his family of three daughters, at Philadelphia. A short
time before she married, an itinerant preacher came to the city, who
contrived to obtain an intimate footing in many respectable families.
Her father’s was one of these, and his influence and authority were
great with all the sisters, but particularly with the youngest. The
young girl’s feelings for him seem to have been a curious mixture of
spiritual awe and earthly affection. When she received a hint from her
sisters that she ought not to give him too much encouragement till he
spoke out, she showed as much holy resentment as if they had told her
not to say her prayers too devoutly. At length the father remarked the
sort of covert passion that gleamed through the eyes of his godly
visitor, and he saw too, the pallid anxious look which had settled on
the young brow of his daughter; either this, or some rumours he had
heard abroad, or both together, led him to forbid this man his house.
The three girls were present when he did so, and all uttered a
deprecating “Oh father!” but the old man added stoutly. If you show
yourself here again, reverend sir, I will not only teach you the way
out of my house, but out of the city also. The preacher withdrew, and
was never heard of in Philadelphia afterwards; but when a few months
had passed, strange whispers began to creep through the circle which
had received and honoured him, and, in due course of time, no less than
seven unfortunate girls produced living proofs of the wisdom of my
informant’s worthy father. In defence of this dreadful story I can only
make the often repeated quotation, “I tell the tale as ’twas told to
me;” but, in all sincerity I must add, that I have no doubt of its
truth.
I was particularly requested to visit the market of Philadelphia, at
the hour when it presented the busiest scene; I did so, and thought few
cities had any thing to show better worth looking at; it is, indeed,
the very perfection of a market, the _beau ideal_ of a notable
housewife, who would confide to no deputy the important office of
caterer. The neatness, freshness, and entire absence of every thing
disagreeable to sight or smell, must be witnessed to be believed. The
stalls were spread with snow-white napkins; flowers and fruit, if not
quite of Paris or London perfection, yet bright, fresh, and fragrant;
with excellent vegetables in the greatest variety and abundance, were
all so delightfully exhibited, that objects less pleasing were
overlooked and forgotten. The dairy, the poultry-yard, the forest, the
river, and the ocean, all contributed their spoil; in short, for the
first time in my life, I thought a market a beautiful object. The
prices of most articles were, as nearly as I could calculate between
dollars and francs, about the same as at Paris; certainly much cheaper
than in London, but much dearer than at Exeter.
My letters of introduction brought me acquainted with several amiable
and interesting people. There is something in the tone of manners at
Philadelphia that I liked; it appeared to me that there was less
affectation of ton there than elsewhere. There is a quietness, a
composure in a Philadelphia drawing-room, that is quite characteristic
of a city founded by William Penn. The dress of the ladies, even those
who are not Quakers, partakes of this; they are most elegantly neat,
and there was a delicacy and good taste in the dress of the young
ladies that might serve as a model to the whole Union. There can hardly
be a stronger contrast in the style of dress between any two cities
than may be remarked between Baltimore and Philadelphia; both are
costly, but the former is distinguished by gaudy splendour, the latter
by elegant simplicity.
It is said that this city has many gentlemen distinguished by their
scientific pursuits; I conversed with several well informed and
intelligent men, but there is a cold dryness of manner and an apparent
want of interest in the subjects they discuss, that, to my mind, robs
conversation of all its charm. On one occasion I heard the character
and situation of an illustrious officer discussed, who had served with
renown under Napoleon, and whose high character might have obtained him
favour under the Bourbons, could he have abandoned the principles which
led him to dislike their government. This distinguished man had
retreated to America after the death of his master, and was
endeavouring to establish a sort of Polytechnic academy at New York: in
speaking of him, I observed, that his devotion to the cause of freedom
must prove a strong recommendation in the United States. “Not the least
in the world, madam,” answered a gentleman who ranked deservedly high
among the _literati_ of the city, “it might avail him much in England,
perhaps, but here we are perfectly indifferent as to what people’s
principles may be.”
This I believe to be exactly true, though I never before heard it
avowed as a national feature.
The want of warmth, of interest, of feeling, upon all subjects which do
not immediately touch their own concerns, is universal, and has a most
paralysing effect upon conversation. All the enthusiasm of America is
concentrated to the one point of her own emancipation and independence;
on this point nothing can exceed the warmth of her feelings. She may, I
think, be compared to a young bride, a sort of Mrs. Major Waddle; her
independence is to her as a newly-won bridegroom; for him alone she has
eyes, ears, or heart;—the honeymoon is not over yet;—when it is,
America will, perhaps, learn more coquetry, and know better how to
_faire l’aimable_ to other nations.
I conceive that no place in the known world can furnish so striking a
proof of the immense value of literary habits as the United States, not
only in enlarging the mind, but what is of infinitely more importance,
in purifying the manners. During my abode in the country I not only
never met a literary man who was a tobacco chewer or a whiskey drinker,
but I never met any who were not, that had escaped these degrading
habits. On the women, the influence is, if possible, still more
important; unfortunately, the instances are rare, but they are to be
found. One admirable example occurs in the person of a young lady of
Cincinnati: surrounded by a society totally incapable of appreciating,
or even of comprehending her, she holds a place among it, as simply and
unaffectedly as if of the same species; young, beautiful, and gifted by
nature with a mind singularly acute and discriminating, she has happily
found such opportunities of cultivation as might distinguish her in any
country; it is, indeed, that best of all cultivation which is only to
be found in domestic habits of literature, and in that hourly education
which the daughter of a man of letters receives when she is made the
companion and friend of her father. This young lady is the more
admirable as she contrives to unite all the multifarious duties which
usually devolve upon American ladies, with her intellectual pursuits.
The companion and efficient assistant of her father’s literary labours,
the active aid in all the household cares of her mother, the tender
nurse of a delicate infant sister, the skilful artificer of her own
always elegant wardrobe, ever at leisure, and ever prepared to receive
with the sweetest cheerfulness her numerous acquaintance, the most
animated in conversation, the most indefatigable in occupation, it was
impossible to know her, and study her character without feeling that
such women were “the glory of all lands,” and, could the race be
multiplied, would speedily become the reformers of all the grossness
and ignorance that now degrade her own. Is it to be imagined, that if
fifty modifications of this charming young woman were to be met at a
party, the men would dare to enter it reeking with whiskey, their lips
blackened with tobacco, and convinced, to the very centre of their
hearts and souls, that women were made for no other purpose than to
fabricate sweetmeats and gingerbread, construct shirts, darn stockings,
and become mothers of possible presidents? Assuredly not. Should the
women of America ever discover what their power might be, and compare
it with what it is, much improvement might be hoped for. While, at
Philadelphia, among the handsomest, the wealthiest, and the most
distinguished of the land, their comparative influence in society, with
that possessed in Europe by females holding the same station, occurred
forcibly to my mind.
Let me be permitted to describe the day of a Philadelphian lady of the
first class, and the inference I would draw from it will be better
understood.
It may be said that the most important feature in a woman’s history is
her maternity. It is so; but the object of the present observation is
the social, and not the domestic influence of woman.
This lady shall be the wife of a senator and a lawyer in the highest
repute and practice. She has a very handsome house, with white marble
steps and door-posts, and a delicate silver knocker and door-handle;
she has very handsome drawing-rooms, very handsomely furnished, (there
is a sideboard in one of them, but it is very handsome, and has very
handsome decanters and cut glass water-jugs upon it); she has a very
handsome carriage, and a very handsome free black coachman; she is
always very handsomely dressed; and, moreover, she is very handsome
herself.
She rises, and her first hour is spent in the scrupulously nice
arrangement of her dress; she descends to her parlour neat, stiff, and
silent; her breakfast is brought in by her free black footman; she eats
her fried ham and her salt fish, and drinks her coffee in silence,
while her husband reads one newspaper, and puts another under his
elbow; and then, perhaps, she washes the cups and saucers. Her carriage
is ordered at eleven; till that hour she is employed in the
pastry-room, her snow-white apron protecting her mouse-coloured silk.
Twenty minutes before her carriage should appear, she retires to her
chamber, as she calls it, shakes, and folds up her still snow-white
apron, smooths her rich dress, and with nice care, sets on her elegant
bonnet, and all the handsome _et cetera_; then walks down stairs, just
at the moment that her free black coachman announces to her free black
footman that the carriage waits. She steps into it, and gives the word,
“Drive to the Dorcas society.” her footman stays at home to clean the
knives, but her coachman can trust his horses while he opens the
carriage door, and his lady not being accustomed to a hand or an arm,
gets out very safely without, though one of her own is occupied by a
work-basket, and the other by a large roll of all those indescribable
matters which ladies take as offerings to Dorcas societies. She enters
the parlour appropriated for the meeting, and finds seven other ladies,
very like herself, and takes her place among them; she presents her
contribution, which is accepted with a gentle circular smile, and her
parings of broad cloth, her ends of ribbon, her gilt paper, and her
minikin pins, are added to the parings of broad cloth, the ends of
ribbon, the gilt papers, and the minikin pins with which the table is
already covered; she also produces from her basket three ready-made
pincushions, four ink-wipers, seven paper matches, and a paste-board
watch-case; these are welcomed with acclamations, and the youngest lady
present deposits them carefully on shelves, amid a prodigious quantity
of similar articles. She then produces her thimble, and asks for work;
it is presented to her, and the eight ladies all stitch together for
some hours. Their talk is of priests and of missions; of the profits of
their last sale, of their hopes from the next; of the doubt whether
your Mr. This, or young Mr. That should receive the fruits of it to fit
him out for Liberia; of the very ugly bonnet seen at church on Sabbath
morning, of the very handsome preacher who performed on Sabbath
afternoon, and of the very large collection made on Sabbath evening.
This lasts till three, when the carriage again appears, and the lady
and her basket return home; she mounts to her chamber, carefully sets
aside her bonnet and its appurtenances, puts on her scolloped black
silk apron, walks into the kitchen to see that all is right, then into
the parlour, where, having cast a careful glance over the table
prepared for dinner, she sits down, work in hand, to await her spouse.
He comes, shakes hands with her, spits, and dines. The conversation is
not much, and ten minutes suffices for the dinner; fruit and toddy, the
newspaper and the work-bag succeed. In the evening the gentleman, being
a savant, goes to the Wister society, and afterwards plays a snug
rubber at a neighbour’s. The lady receives at tea a young missionary
and three members of the Dorcas society.—And so ends her day.
For some reason or other, which English people are not very likely to
understand, a great number of young married persons board by the year,
instead of “going to housekeeping,” as they call having an
establishment of their own. Of course this statement does not include
persons of large fortune, but it does include very many whose rank in
society would make such a mode of life quite impossible with us. I can
hardly imagine a contrivance more effectual for ensuring the
insignificance of a woman, than marrying her at seventeen, and placing
her in a boarding-house. Nor can I easily imagine a life of more
uniform dulness for the lady herself; but this certainly is a matter of
taste. I have heard many ladies declare that it is “just quite the
perfection of comfort to have nothing to fix for oneself.” Yet despite
these assurances I always experienced a feeling which hovered between
pity and contempt, when I contemplated their mode of existence.
How would a newly-married Englishwoman endure it, her head and her
heart full of the one dear scheme—
“Well-ordered home, _his_ dear delight to make?”
She must rise exactly in time to reach the boarding table at the hour
appointed for breakfast, or she will get a stiff bow from the lady
president, cold coffee, and no egg. I have been sometimes greatly
amused upon these occasions by watching a little scene in which the
bye-play had much more meaning than the words uttered. The fasting, but
tardy lady, looks round the table, and having ascertained that there
was no egg left, says distinctly, “I will take an egg if you please.”
But as this is addressed to no one in particular, no one in particular
answers it, unless it happen that her husband is at table before her,
and then he says, “There are no eggs, my dear.” Whereupon the lady
president evidently cannot hear, and the greedy culprit who has
swallowed two eggs (for there are always as many eggs as noses) looks
pretty considerably afraid of being found out. The breakfast proceeds
in sombre silence, save that sometimes a parrot, and sometimes a canary
bird, ventures to utter a timid note. When it is finished, the
gentlemen hurry to their occupation, and the quiet ladies mount the
stairs, some to the first, some to the second, and some to the third
stories, in an inverse proportion to the number of dollars paid, and
ensconce themselves in their respective chambers. As to what they do
there it is not very easy to say, but I believe they clear-starch a
little, and iron a little, and sit in a rocking-chair, and sew a great
deal. I always observed that the ladies who boarded, wore more
elaborately worked collars and petticoats than any one else. The plough
is hardly a more blessed instrument in America than the needle. How
could they live without it? But time and the needle wear through the
longest morning, and happily the American morning is not very long,
even though they breakfast at eight.
It is generally about two o’clock that the boarding gentlemen meet the
boarding ladies at dinner. Little is spoken, except a whisper between
the married pairs. Sometimes a sulky bottle of wine flanks the plate of
one or two individuals, but it adds nothing to the mirth of the
meeting, and seldom more than one glass to the good cheer of the
owners, it is not then, and it is not there, that the gentlemen of the
Union drink. Soon, very soon, the silent meal is done, and then, if you
mount the stairs after them, you will find from the doors of the more
affectionate and indulgent wives, a smell of cigars steam forth, which
plainly indicates the felicity of the couple within. If the gentleman
be a very polite husband, he will, as soon as he has done smoking and
drinking his toddy, offer his arm to his wife, as far as the corner of
the street, where his store, or his office is situated, and there he
will leave her to turn which way she likes. As this is the hour for
being full dressed, of course she turns the way she can be most seen.
Perhaps she pays a few visits; perhaps she goes to chapel; or, perhaps,
she enters some store where her husband deals, and ventures to order a
few notions; and then she goes home again—no, not home—I will not give
that name to a boarding-house—but she re-enters the cold heartless
atmosphere in which she dwells, where hospitality can never enter, and
where interest takes the management instead of affection. At tea they
all meet again, and a little trickery is perceptible to a nice observer
in the manner of partaking the pound-cake, &c. After this, those who
are happy enough to have engagements hasten to keep them; those who
have not, either mount again to the solitude of their chamber, or, what
appeared to me much worse, remain in the common sitting-room, in a
society cemented by no tie, endeared by no connexion, which choice did
not bring together, and which the slightest motive would break asunder.
I remarked that the gentlemen were generally obliged to go out every
evening on business, and, I confess, the arrangement did not surprise
me.
It is not thus that the women can obtain that influence in society
which is allowed to them in Europe, and to which, both sages and men of
the world have agreed in ascribing such salutary effects. It is in vain
that “collegiate institutes” are formed for young ladies, or that
“academic degrees” are conferred upon them. It is after marriage, and
when these young attempts upon all the sciences are forgotten, that the
lamentable insignificance of the American woman appears, and till this
be remedied, I venture to prophesy that the tone of their drawing-rooms
will not improve.
Whilst I was at Philadelphia a great deal of attention was excited by
the situation of two criminals, who had been convicted of robbing the
Baltimore mail, and were lying under sentence of death. The rare
occurrence of capital punishment in America makes it always an event of
great interest; and the approaching execution was repeatedly the
subject of conversation at the boarding table. One day a gentleman told
us he had that morning been assured that one of the criminals had
declared to the visiting clergyman that he was certain of being
reprieved, and that nothing the clergyman could say to the contrary
made any impression upon him. Day after day this same story was
repeated, and commented upon at table, and it appeared that the report
had been heard in so many quarters, that not only was the statement
received as true, but it began to be conjectured that the criminal had
some ground for his hope. I learnt from these daily conversations that
one of the prisoners was an American, and the other an Irishman, and it
was the former who was so strongly persuaded he should not be hanged.
Several of the gentlemen at table, in canvassing the subject, declared,
that if the one were hanged and the other spared, this hanging would be
a murder, and not a legal execution. In discussing this point, it was
stated that very nearly all the white men who had suffered death since
the declaration of Independence had been Irishmen. What truth there may
be in this general statement, I have no means of ascertaining; all I
know is, that I heard it made. On this occasion, however, the Irishman
was hanged, and the American was not.