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 perfectly1 without ornament2; 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 glided3 in at their different doors, I spied many pretty faces peeping from the prim4 head gear of the females, and as the broad-brimmed males sat down, the welcome Parney supposes prepared for them in heaven, recurred5 to me,
“Entre done, et garde ton chapeau.”
The little bonnets7 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 surmounted8 were alive. At length a grave square man arose, laid aside his ample beaver9, and after another solemn interval10 of silence, he gave a deep groan11, 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 forth12 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, infinitely13 preferable to what I had witnessed at the Presbyterian and Methodist Meeting-houses. A great schism14 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 chapels16 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 awfully17 impossible to obey, at least if he were a man, like unto other men. It was matter of astonishment18 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 conspicuous19 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 prodigious20 majority of females in the churches is very remarkable21. 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 veracity22 I perfectly rely. She told me that her father was a widower23, and lived with his family of three daughters, at Philadelphia. A short time before she married, an itinerant24 preacher came to the city, who contrived25 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 awe26 and earthly affection. When she received a hint from her sisters that she ought not to give him too much encouragement till he spoke27 out, she showed as much holy resentment28 as if they had told her not to say her prayers too devoutly29. At length the father remarked the sort of covert30 passion that gleamed through the eyes of his godly visitor, and he saw too, the pallid31 anxious look which had settled on the young brow of his daughter; either this, or some rumours32 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 stoutly33. 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 worthy34 father. In defence of this dreadful story I can only make the often repeated quotation35, “I tell the tale as ’twas told to me;” but, in all sincerity36 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 confide37 to no deputy the important office of caterer38. 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 fragrant39; with excellent vegetables in the greatest variety and abundance, were all so delightfully40 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 amiable41 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 delicacy42 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 costly43, but the former is distinguished44 by gaudy45 splendour, the latter by elegant simplicity46.
It is said that this city has many gentlemen distinguished by their scientific pursuits; I conversed47 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 renown48 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 Polytechnic49 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 avowed50 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 emancipation51 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 Waddle52; her independence is to her as a newly-won bridegroom; for him alone she has eyes, ears, or heart; — the honeymoon53 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 abode54 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 incapable55 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 discriminating56, she has happily found such opportunities of cultivation57 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 contrives58 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 skilful59 artificer of her own always elegant wardrobe, ever at leisure, and ever prepared to receive with the sweetest cheerfulness her numerous acquaintance, the most animated60 in conversation, the most indefatigable61 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 modifications62 of this charming young woman were to be met at a party, the men would dare to enter it reeking63 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 possessed64 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 maternity65. 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 scrupulously66 nice arrangement of her dress; she descends67 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 apron68 protecting her mouse-coloured silk. Twenty minutes before her carriage should appear, she retires to her chamber69, 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 bonnet6, 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 gilt70 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 spouse71. 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 snug72 rubber at a neighbour’s. The lady receives at tea a young missionary73 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 insignificance74 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 hovered75 between pity and contempt, when I contemplated76 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 tardy77 lady, looks round the table, and having ascertained78 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 considerably79 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 inverse80 proportion to the number of dollars paid, and ensconce themselves in their respective chambers81. 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 situated82, 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 chapel15; 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 solitude83 of their chamber, or, what appeared to me much worse, remain in the common sitting-room84, in a society cemented by no tie, endeared by no connexion, which choice did not bring together, and which the slightest motive85 would break asunder86. 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 sages87 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 lamentable88 insignificance of the American woman appears, and till this be remedied, I venture to prophesy89 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 reprieved90, 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 conjectured91 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 canvassing92 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 ascertaining93; all I know is, that I heard it made. On this occasion, however, the Irishman was hanged, and the American was not.
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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beaver
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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forth
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infinitely
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schism
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| n.分派，派系，分裂 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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awfully
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astonishment
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conspicuous
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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remarkable
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veracity
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widower
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itinerant
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contrived
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awe
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spoke
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resentment
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devoutly
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covert
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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rumours
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stoutly
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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sincerity
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confide
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caterer
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| n. 备办食物者，备办宴席者 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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polytechnic
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| adj.各种工艺的，综合技术的；n.工艺(专科)学校；理工(专科)学校 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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waddle
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| vi.摇摆地走；n.摇摆的走路(样子) | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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inverse
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| adj.相反的，倒转的，反转的；n.相反之物；v.倒转 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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reprieved
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| v.缓期执行（死刑）( reprieve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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