At a period about twenty years subsequent to that of our former sketch,
we again attempt a delineation of some of the characteristics of life
and manners in New England. Our text-book, as before, is a file of
antique newspapers. The volume which serves us for a writing-desk is a
folio of larger dimensions than the one before described; and the
papers are generally printed on a whole sheet, sometimes with a
supplemental leaf of news and advertisements. They have a venerable
appearance, being overspread with a duskiness of more than seventy
years, and discolored, here and there, with the deeper stains of some
liquid, as if the contents of a wineglass had long since been splashed
upon the page. Still, the old book conveys an impression that, when the
separate numbers were flying about town, in the first day or two of
their respective existences, they might have been fit reading for very
stylish people. Such newspapers could have been issued nowhere but in a
metropolis the centre, not only of public and private affairs, but of
fashion and gayety. Without any discredit to the colonial press, these
might have been, and probably were, spread out on the tables of the
British coffee-house, in king Street, for the perusal of the throng of
officers who then drank their wine at that celebrated establishment. To
interest these military gentlemen, there were bulletins of the war
between Prussia and Austria; between England and France, on the old
battle-plains of Flanders; and between the same antagonists, in the
newer fields of the East Indies,—and in our own trackless woods, where
white men never trod until they came to fight there. Or, the travelled
American, the petit-maitre of the colonies,—the ape of London foppery,
as the newspaper was the semblance of the London journals,—he, with his
gray powdered periwig, his embroidered coat, lace ruffles, and glossy
silk stockings, golden-clocked,—his buckles of glittering paste, at
knee-band and shoe-strap,—his scented handkerchief, and chapeau beneath
his arm, even such a dainty figure need not have disdained to glance at
these old yellow pages, while they were the mirror of passing times.
For his amusement, there were essays of wit and humor, the light
literature of the day, which, for breadth and license, might have
proceeded from the pen of Fielding or Smollet; while, in other columns,
he would delight his imagination with the enumerated items of all sorts
of finery, and with the rival advertisements of half a dozen
peruke-makers. In short, newer manners and customs had almost entirely
superseded those of the Puritans, even in their own city of refuge.
It was natural that, with the lapse of time and increase of wealth and
population, the peculiarities of the early settlers should have waxed
fainter and fainter through the generations of their descendants, who
also had been alloyed by a continual accession of emigrants from many
countries and of all characters. It tended to assimilate the colonial
manners to those of the mother-country, that the commercial intercourse
was great, and that the merchants often went thither in their own
ships. Indeed, almost every man of adequate fortune felt a yearning
desire, and even judged it a filial duty, at least once in his life, to
visit the home of his ancestors. They still called it their own home,
as if New England were to them, what many of the old Puritans had
considered it, not a permanent abiding-place, but merely a lodge in the
wilderness, until the trouble of the times should be passed. The
example of the royal governors must have had much influence on the
manners of the colonists; for these rulers assumed a degree of state
and splendor which had never been practised by their predecessors, who
differed in nothing from republican chief-magistrates, under the old
charter. The officers of the crown, the public characters in the
interest of the administration, and the gentlemen of wealth and good
descent, generally noted for their loyalty, would constitute a
dignified circle, with the governor in the centre, bearing a very
passable resemblance to a court. Their ideas, their habits, their bode
of courtesy, and their dress would have all the fresh glitter of
fashions immediately derived from the fountain-head, in England. To
prevent their modes of life from becoming the standard with all who had
the ability to imitate them, there was no longer an undue severity of
religion, nor as yet any disaffection to British supremacy, nor
democratic prejudices against pomp. Thus, while the colonies were
attaining that strength which was soon to render them an independent
republic, it might have been supposed that the wealthier classes were
growing into an aristocracy, and ripening for hereditary rank, while
the poor were to be stationary in their abasement, and the country,
perhaps, to be a sister monarchy with England. Such, doubtless, were
the plausible conjectures deduced from the superficial phenomena of our
connection with a monarchical government, until the prospective
nobility were levelled with the mob, by the mere gathering of winds
that preceded the storm of the Revolution. The portents of that storm
were not yet visible in the air. A true picture of society, therefore,
would have the rich effect produced by distinctions of rank that seemed
permanent, and by appropriate habits of splendor on the part of the
gentry.
The people at large had been somewhat changed in character, since the
period of our last sketch, by their great exploit, the conquest of
Louisburg. After that event, the New-Englanders never settled into
precisely the same quiet race which all the world had imagined them to
be. They had done a deed of history, and were anxious to add new ones
to the record. They had proved themselves powerful enough to influence
the result of a war, and were thenceforth called upon, and willingly
consented, to join their strength against the enemies of England; on
those fields, at least, where victory would redound to their peculiar
advantage. And now, in the heat of the Old French War, they might well
be termed a martial people. Every man was a soldier, or the father or
brother of a soldier; and the whole land literally echoed with the roll
of the drum, either beating up for recruits among the towns and
villages, or striking the march towards the frontiers. Besides the
provincial troops, there were twenty-three British regiments in the
northern colonies. The country has never known a period of such
excitement and warlike life; except during the Revolution,—perhaps
scarcely then; for that was a lingering war, and this a stirring and
eventful one.
One would think that no very wonderful talent was requisite for an
historical novel, when the rough and hurried paragraphs of these
newspapers can recall the past so magically. We seem to be waiting in
the street for the arrival of the post-rider—who is seldom more than
twelve hours beyond his time—with letters, by way of Albany, from the
various departments of the army. Or, we may fancy ourselves in the
circle of listeners, all with necks stretched out towards an old
gentleman in the centre, who deliberately puts on his spectacles,
unfolds the wet newspaper, and gives us the details of the broken and
contradictory reports, which have been flying from mouth to mouth, ever
since the courier alighted at Secretary Oliver’s office. Sometimes we
have an account of the Indian skirmishes near Lake George, and how a
ranging party of provincials were so closely pursued, that they threw
away their arms, and eke their shoes, stockings, and breeches, barely
reaching the camp in their shirts, which also were terribly tattered by
the bushes. Then, there is a journal of the siege of Fort Niagara, so
minute that it almost numbers the cannon-shot and bombs, and describes
the effect of the latter missiles on the French commandant’s stone
mansion, within the fortress. In the letters of the provincial
officers, it is amusing to observe how some of them endeavor to catch
the careless and jovial turn of old campaigners. One gentleman tells us
that he holds a brimming glass in his hand, intending to drink the
health of his correspondent, unless a cannon ball should dash the
liquor from his lips; in the midst of his letter he hears the bells of
the French churches ringing, in Quebec, and recollects that it is
Sunday; whereupon, like a good Protestant, he resolves to disturb the
Catholic worship by a few thirty-two pound shot. While this wicked man
of war was thus making a jest of religion, his pious mother had
probably put up a note, that very Sabbath-day, desiring the “prayers of
the congregation for a son gone a soldiering.” We trust, however, that
there were some stout old worthies who were not ashamed to do as their
fathers did, but went to prayer, with their soldiers, before leading
them to battle; and doubtless fought none the worse for that. If we had
enlisted in the Old French War, it should have been under such a
captain; for we love to see a man keep the characteristics of his
country.*
[* The contemptuous jealousy of the British army, from the general
downwards, was very galling to the provincial troops. In one of the
newspapers, there is an admirable letter of a New England man, copied
from the London Chronicle, defending the provincials with an ability
worthy of Franklin, and somewhat in his style. The letter is
remarkable, also, because it takes up the cause of the whole range of
colonies, as if the writer looked upon them all as constituting one
country, and that his own. Colonial patriotism had not hitherto been so
broad a sentiment.]
These letters, and other intelligence from the army, are pleasant and
lively reading, and stir up the mind like the music of a drum and fife.
It is less agreeable to meet with accounts of women slain and scalped,
and infants dashed against trees, by the Indians on the frontiers. It
is a striking circumstance, that innumerable bears, driven from the
woods, by the uproar of contending armies in their accustomed haunts,
broke into the settlements, and committed great ravages among children,
as well as sheep and swine. Some of them prowled where bears had never
been for a century, penetrating within a mile or two of Boston; a fact
that gives a strong and gloomy impression of something very terrific
going on in the forest, since these savage beasts fled townward to
avoid it. But it is impossible to moralize about such trifles, when
every newspaper contains tales of military enterprise, and often a
huzza for victory; as, for instance, the taking of Ticonderoga, long a
place of awe to the provincials, and one of the bloodiest spots in the
present war. Nor is it unpleasant, among whole pages of exultation, to
find a note of sorrow for the fall of some brave officer; it comes
wailing in, like a funeral strain amidst a peal of triumph, itself
triumphant too. Such was the lamentation over Wolfe. Somewhere, in this
volume of newspapers, though we cannot now lay our finger upon the
passage, we recollect a report that General Wolfe was slain, not by the
enemy, but by a shot from his own soldiers.
In the advertising columns, also, we are continually reminded that the
country was in a state of war. Governor Pownall makes proclamation for
the enlisting of soldiers, and directs the militia colonels to attend
to the discipline of their regiments, and the selectmen of every town
to replenish their stocks of ammunition. The magazine, by the way, was
generally kept in the upper loft of the village meeting-house. The
provincial captains are drumming up for soldiers, in every newspaper.
Sir Jeffrey Amherst advertises for batteaux-men, to be employed on the
lakes; and gives notice to the officers of seven British regiments,
dispersed on the recruiting service, to rendezvous in Boston. Captain
Hallowell, of the province ship-of-war King George, invites able-bodied
seamen to serve his Majesty, for fifteen pounds, old tenor, per month.
By the rewards offered, there would appear to have been frequent
desertions from the New England forces: we applaud their wisdom, if not
their valor or integrity. Cannon of all calibres, gunpowder and balls,
firelocks, pistols, swords, and hangers, were common articles of
merchandise. Daniel Jones, at the sign of the hat and helmet, offers to
supply officers with scarlet broadcloth, gold-lace for hats and
waistcoats, cockades, and other military foppery, allowing credit until
the payrolls shall be made up. This advertisement gives us quite a
gorgeous idea of a provincial captain in full dress.
At the commencement of the campaign of 1759, the British general
informs the farmers of New England that a regular market will be
established at Lake George, whither they are invited to bring
provisions and refreshments of all sorts, for the use of the army.
Hence, we may form a singular picture of petty traffic, far away from
any permanent settlements, among the hills which border that romantic
lake, with the solemn woods overshadowing the scene. Carcasses of
bullocks and fat porkers are placed upright against the huge trunks of
the trees; fowls hang from the lower branches, bobbing against the
heads of those beneath; butter-firkins, great cheeses, and brown loaves
of household bread, baked in distant ovens, are collected under
temporary shelters or pine-boughs, with gingerbread, and pumpkin-pies,
perhaps, and other toothsome dainties. Barrels of cider and spruce-beer
are running freely into the wooden canteens of the soldiers. Imagine
such a scene, beneath the dark forest canopy, with here and there a few
struggling sunbeams, to dissipate the gloom. See the shrewd yeomen,
haggling with their scarlet-coated customers, abating somewhat in their
prices, but still dealing at monstrous profit; and then complete the
picture with circumstances that bespeak war and danger. A cannon shall
be seen to belch its smoke from among the trees, against some distant
canoes on the lake; the traffickers shall pause, and seem to hearken,
at intervals, as if they heard the rattle of musketry or the shout of
Indians; a scouting-party shall be driven in, with two or three faint
and bloody men among them. And, in spite of these disturbances,
business goes on briskly in the market of the wilderness.
It must not be supposed that the martial character of the times
interrupted all pursuits except those connected with war. On the
contrary, there appears to have been a general vigor and vivacity
diffused into the whole round of colonial life. During the winter of
1759, it was computed that about a thousand sled-loads of country
produce were daily brought into Boston market. It was a symptom of an
irregular and unquiet course of affairs, that innumerable lotteries
were projected, ostensibly for the purpose of public improvements, such
as roads and bridges. Many females seized the opportunity to engage in
business: as, among others, Alice Quick, who dealt in crockery and
hosiery, next door to Deacon Beautineau’s; Mary Jackson, who sold
butter, at the Brazen-Head, in Cornhill; Abigail Hiller, who taught
ornamental work, near the Orange-Tree, where also were to be seen the
King and Queen, in wax-work; Sarah Morehead, an instructor in
glass-painting, drawing, and japanning; Mary Salmon, who shod horses,
at the South End; Harriet Pain, at the Buck and Glove, and Mrs.
Henrietta Maria Caine, at the Golden Fan, both fashionable milliners;
Anna Adams, who advertises Quebec and Garrick bonnets, Prussian cloaks,
and scarlet cardinals, opposite the old brick meeting-house; besides a
lady at the head of a wine and spirit establishment. Little did these
good dames expect to reappear before the public, so long after they had
made their last courtesies behind the counter. Our great-grandmothers
were a stirring sisterhood, and seem not to have been utterly despised
by the gentlemen at the British coffee-house; at least, some gracious
bachelor, there resident, gives public notice of his willingness to
take a wife, provided she be not above twenty-three, and possess brown
hair, regular features, a brisk eye, and a fortune. Now, this was great
condescension towards the ladies of Massachusetts Bay, in a threadbare
lieutenant of foot.
Polite literature was beginning to make its appearance. Few native
works were advertised, it is true, except sermons and treatises of
controversial divinity; nor were the English authors of the day much
known on this side of the Atlantic. But catalogues were frequently
offered at auction or private sale, comprising the standard English
books, history, essays, and poetry, of Queen Anne’s age, and the
preceding century. We see nothing in the nature of a novel, unless it
be “The Two Mothers, price four coppers.” There was an American poet,
however, of whom Mr. Kettell has preserved no specimen,—the author of
“War, an Heroic Poem”; he publishes by subscription, and threatens to
prosecute his patrons for not taking their books. We have discovered a
periodical, also, and one that has a peculiar claim to be recorded
here, since it bore the title of “THE NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE,” a
forgotten predecessor, for which we should have a filial respect, and
take its excellence on trust. The fine arts, too, were budding into
existence. At the “old glass and picture shop,” in Cornhill, various
maps, plates, and views are advertised, and among them a “Prospect of
Boston,” a copperplate engraving of Quebec, and the effigies of all the
New England ministers ever done in mezzotinto. All these must have been
very salable articles. Other ornamental wares were to be found at the
same shop; such as violins, flutes, hautboys, musical books, English
and Dutch toys, and London babies. About this period, Mr. Dipper gives
notice of a concert of vocal and instrumental music. There had already
been an attempt at theatrical exhibitions.
There are tokens, in every newspaper, of a style of luxury and
magnificence which we do not usually associate with our ideas of the
times. When the property of a deceased person was to be sold, we find,
among the household furniture, silk beds and hangings, damask
table-cloths, Turkey carpets, pictures, pier-glasses, massive plate,
and all things proper for a noble mansion. Wine was more generally
drunk than now, though by no means to the neglect of ardent spirits.
For the apparel of both sexes, the mercers and milliners imported good
store of fine broadcloths, especially scarlet, crimson, and sky-blue,
silks, satins, lawns, and velvets, gold brocade, and gold and silver
lace, and silver tassels, and silver spangles, until Cornhill shone and
sparkled with their merchandise. The gaudiest dress permissible by
modern taste fades into a Quaker-like sobriety, compared with the deep,
rich, glowing splendor of our ancestors. Such figures were almost too
fine to go about town on foot; accordingly, carriages were so numerous
as to require a tax; and it is recorded that, when Governor Bernard
came to the province, he was met between Dedham and Boston by a
multitude of gentlemen in their coaches and chariots.
Take my arm, gentle reader, and come with me into some street, perhaps
trodden by your daily footsteps, but which now has such an aspect of
half-familiar strangeness, that you suspect yourself to be walking
abroad in a dream. True, there are some brick edifices which you
remember from childhood, and which your father and grandfather
remembered as well; but you are perplexed by the absence of many that
were here only an hour or two since; and still more amazing is the
presence of whole rows of wooden and plastered houses, projecting over
the sidewalks, and bearing iron figures on their fronts, which prove
them to have stood on the same sites above a century. Where have your
eyes been that you never saw them before? Along the ghostly
street,—for, at length, you conclude that all is unsubstantial, though
it be so good a mockery of an antique town,—along the ghostly street,
there are ghostly people too. Every gentleman has his three-cornered
hat, either on his head or under his arm; and all wear wigs in infinite
variety,—the Tie, the Brigadier, the Spencer, the Albemarle, the Major,
the Ramillies, the grave Full-bottom, or the giddy Feather-top. Look at
the elaborate lace-ruffles, and the square-skirted coats of gorgeous
hues, bedizened with silver and gold! Make way for the phantom-ladies,
whose hoops require such breadth of passage, as they pace majestically
along, in silken gowns, blue, green, or yellow, brilliantly
embroidered, and with small satin hats surmounting their powdered hair.
Make way; for the whole spectral show will vanish, if your earthly
garments brush against their robes. Now that the scene is brightest,
and the whole street glitters with imaginary sunshine,—now hark to the
bells of the Old South and the Old North, ringing out with a sudden and
merry peal, while the cannon of Castle William thunder below the town,
and those of the Diana frigate repeat the sound, and the Charlestown
batteries reply with a nearer roar! You see the crowd toss up their
hats in visionary joy. You hear of illuminations and fire-works, and of
bonfires, built oil scaffolds, raised several stories above the ground,
that are to blaze all night in King Street and on Beacon Hill. And here
come the trumpets and kettle-drums, and the tramping hoofs of the
Boston troop of horseguards, escorting the governor to King’s Chapel,
where he is to return solemn thanks for the surrender of Quebec. March
on, thou shadowy troop! and vanish, ghostly crowd! and change again,
old street! for those stirring times are gone.
Opportunely for the conclusion of our sketch, a fire broke out, on the
twentieth of March, 1760, at the Brazen-Head, in Cornhill, and consumed
nearly four hundred buildings. Similar disasters have always been
epochs in the chronology of Boston. That of 1711 had hitherto been
termed the Great Fire, but now resigned its baleful dignity to one
which has ever since retained it. Did we desire to move the reader’s
sympathies on this subject, we would not be grandiloquent about the sea
of billowy flame, the glowing and crumbling streets, the broad, black
firmament of smoke, and the blast or wind that sprang up with the
conflagration and roared behind it. It would be more effective to mark
out a single family at the moment when the flames caught upon an angle
of their dwelling: then would ensue the removal of the bedridden
grandmother, the cradle with the sleeping infant, and, most dismal of
all, the dying man just at the extremity of a lingering disease. Do but
imagine the confused agony of one thus awfully disturbed in his last
hour; his fearful glance behind at the consuming fire raging after him,
from house to house, as its devoted victim; and, finally, the almost
eagerness with which he would seize some calmer interval to die! The
Great Fire must have realized many such a scene.
Doubtless posterity has acquired a better city by the calamity of that
generation. None will be inclined to lament it at this late day, except
the lover of antiquity, who would have been glad to walk among those
streets of venerable houses, fancying the old inhabitants still there,
that he might commune with their shadows, and paint a more vivid
picture of their times.