University of Virginia Library

14. CHAP. XIV.

The city of Philadelphia, (every thing is a city
here) is a little higgledy-piggledy place, with
hardly a decent house in it, and whose principal
trade consists in the exportation of Toughy and
Pepper Pot. It is situate between two rivers, the
Delaware on the West, and the Schuylkill on the
East; the former is a decent sort of river, but
nothing to be compared to the Thames, or the

Avon. The streets, for the most part, are laid out
in the shape of a ram's horn, at the little end of
which commonly reside that class of people who
have been unfortunate in business. Hence the
phrase of “coming out at the little end of the
horn.” There are no public buildings, nor indeed
any thing else worthy of a stranger's notice, and
so I pass them by as unworthy of notice.

I took lodgings (for I hate your first rate hotels)
at the sign of the Goose and Gridiron, where
for the first time since my arrival in the states, I
tasted sweet bread.[1] I was at a loss to account
for this phenomenon, until I found my landlady
was an English woman. It is a singular fact, noticed
by all travellers in this country, that go
where you will, the bread is sure to be sour.
Whether this is owing to the yeast, to the bad taste
of these republicans, or to some intrinsic quality
in the wheat, I cannot say. I am rather inclined
to the latter opinion, because the grapes in this
country, as well as the apples, peaches, and every
species of fruit I tasted, are as sour as vinegar.
There must be some acidity in the soil or air, or
both, to produce this disagreeable singularity. Or
perhaps it is owing to the turbulent spirit of democracy
after all.

It is not without some reason that Philadelphia
is called the Athens of America, since, among
other advances in civilization, the people sometimes

wash their hands and faces. This practice was
introduced about seven years ago, by the marquess
of Tweedale and his suite. It was at first violently
opposed as an aristocratic custom, unworthy of
freemen; but it gradually made its way, and there
are now few, except the radicals and ultra democrats
that demur to the practice. The popular
opinion is, however, rather against it, and it is
seldom that a person with clean hands and face is
elected to any office, unless he can demonstrate
his republicanism by a red nose, a black eye, or
some other unequivocal mark of his high calling.

The city has also a nightly watch, a peculiarity
I did not observe either at Boston or New-York.
Here watchmen are obliged to call the hour through
the whole night, an excellent regulation, as I supposed,
since this is pretty good evidence of a man
being awake. But the spirit of democracy evades
every salutary regulation it seems, and I was assured
by a worthy alderman, a native of England,
that these fellows from long habit, call the hour as
regularly sleeping as waking, so that this afforded
no additional security to the citizens. The alderman
told me that not less than three or four watchmen
were robbed at their posts every night; and
nothing was more common than a fellow to be
bawling out “all's well,” when somebody was
actually picking his pockets. The alderman related
a humorous instance.

It seems a sturdy watchman, who being considered
the best of the gang at a nap, was always placed

at some responsible post, was in his box nodding,
when a wag of a thief took off his cap, and put in
its place a night-cap, which he had stolen from an
old apple woman who lived near the ferry stairs
in High-street, and to whose house he carried and
left the watchman's hat. The old dame upon discovering
the theft, set out bright and early, with
the watchman's cap on her head for want of a better,
to lay her complaint before the police, when
as luck would have it, she saw the vigilant child
of the night, still nodding in his box with her cap
on his head. The Amazon seized her property, and
cried out “stop thief” with such astonishing
vigour, that she actually awoke the watchman,
although people who best knew him thought it
was impossible. The watchman, rubbing his
eyes, and seeing the apple woman with his cap on
her head, naturally concluded that the cry of
“stop thief” applied to her. Upon which he carried
her forthwith to the police, to which the lady
followed with great alacrity, supposing she had
the watchman in custody. When arrived at the
police, there was the deuce to pay. The watchman
charged the apple woman with stealing his
hat, and the apple woman charged the watchman
with stealing her cap—the police officer scratched
his head, and the clerk gnawed two goose quills
to the stump. But what was most to be admired,
two lawyers were entirely puzzled to death to decide
between the two; and to puzzle a Philadelphia
lawyer, is proverbially difficult. In conclusion,
the watchman was broke, as the safest
course; but the sovereign people considering him
as an oppressed citizen, immediately elected him
an alderman.

There is a great show, or rather affectation of
literature here, and the good people crow in their
cups a good deal, on account of the oldest periodical
paper in the states being published here. It
is called the Port-Folio, and is really so old that it
may be justly pronounced quite superannuated. But
I did not find any other special indications of a
flourishing state of literature. To be sure, here
and there you meet with a young lady that can
read large print, and a young gentleman that can
tell a B from a bull's foot, by the aid of a quizzing
glass. But there never has been an original
work produced here of American manufacture;
and the only translation I ever met with, is that
of the almanac into High Dutch. They likewise
boast of one Franklin, a great hand at flying kites,
and one of the first manufacturers of lightning rods.
I had heard him spoken of respectfully at home,
so am willing to allow he was clever. But after
all, what have these people to boast of on this head?
Both Washington and Franklin, and indeed all
the respectable sort of men, who figure in the
history of this country, were born under the king's
government, and are therefore to all intents and
purposes Englishmen. Franklin spent a long

time in England, and though there is no account
of Washington ever having been there, his being
able to read and write, of which there are pretty
clear proofs, is a sufficient presumption that he
must have been there, or where could he have got
his learning? At all events, they lived the best
part of their lives under the genial and fostering
influence of monarchial institutions, and that all
their talents and virtues originated in that circumstance,
is proved, first, by their never having done
any thing worthy of admiration, after the establishment
of the republican system here; and secondly,
by the singular fact that from that time
to the present, there has not been a man of ordinary
talents or acquirements produced in the country.
Mr. Cooper and Mr. Irving, have, it is true, gained
some little reputation; but I am credibly informed
that the former of these gentlemen, has been once
or twice in England, and that the latter never
wrote English, until he had been long enough
there to forget the jargon of his own country. So,
after all, they furnish no exemption to my rule,
which I have the happiness to say is sanctioned by
the Quarterly. As to Mr. Walsh, who had the
hardihood to tilt with the Quarterly, he I know
was a good while in England, and there it was,
beyond doubt, he polished his lance, and learned
all the arts of literary warfare. But to put the
matter at rest for ever, it is utterly impossible,
as I have sufficiently proved, for any thing elegant,
or good, or beautiful, or great, to take root in the
polluted sink of that earthly pandemonium, a genuine
republic.[2]

Religion, like literature, is at a low ebb here,
or rather there is neither ebb nor flood, on account
of there being no religion at all. This might be
expected from the absence of an established church,
with exclusive privileges over all other denominations
of sectarians. The quakers are numerous
here, and it is utterly impossible there should be
any pure orthodox religion where they predominate,
since we all know that they preach voluntarily,
as the spirit moves them, and without fee or
reward. Now, I have already proved, that a religion
which costs nothing, is good for nothing.
It unquestionably is with religion as with every
thing else, the more we pay for it, the higher value
we set upon the purchase, and the better we are
likely to become.[3] On the contrary, a people who
get their piety gratis, must, of necessity, in a little
time, become impious. In proof of this, I was
told by my landlady, a very respectable widow,
that there was a society in each of the wards of the
city, composed of the principal quakers and others,
to put down religion altogether, by the simple and
certain means of not persecuting any particular
sect, or giving any one exclusive privileges. This
wicked design, aided by the destruction of all the
bibles which they have bought up and burnt, is
likely, my landlady assured me, to banish, at no

distant period, every trace of orthodoxy from this
crooked, quakerish, and abandoned city. It is
better to be a bigot without religion, than religious
without bigotry. Nothing, in short, leads so inevitably
to an indifference to all religion, as the
doctrine of toleration, which makes them all equal
in the participation of wealth and civil rights.
The enjoyment of superior privileges and immunities
on one hand, and the deprivation of them on
the other, generates a salutary opposition between
the two parties, exceedingly favourable to the interests
of religion. The party in the enjoyment
of these superior immunities will endeavour, by
superior piety, to prove that it deserves them; and
the party out of possession, will strive, by the same
means, to prove that though it may not possess, it
at least deserves a full share. Thus will the worst
passions of the mind, envy, hatred, and fear, as it
were by miracle, harmoniously conduce to the preservation
and increase of the true faith. But there
is nothing of this in the pure system of democracy,
and consequently there is no religion but unbelief,
no morals but what consists in a total relaxation of
morality, and no deity but Satan, the first republican
on record, as the Quarterly says.

As these immaculate republicans have neither
religion nor morals, so are they entirely destitute
of gratitude. It will hardly be believed, but is
nevertheless a fact, that Mr. Jefferson, the author
of their famous declaration of independence, the
oracle of republicans, the former president of the

United States, and after Satan, the prince of democrats,
the man whom the people toast at all their
public meetings, and pretend to revere next to
Washington, is, at this moment, an actor on the
Philadelphia boards for bread![4] I saw him myself,
or I would not have believed it, bad as I think
these miserable republicans. Yet, with this damning
fact staring them full in the face, they are every
day boasting of their gratitude to their benefactors,
at the gorgeous feasts given to General La
Fayette. I hope the Quarterly will touch them up
on this score in the next number. Of their other
surviving presidents, Mr. Madison, as I was assured,
teaches a school in some remote part of Virginia,
and Mr. Adams lives in great obscurity somewhere
in the neighbourhood of Boston! This is a
natural consequence of abolishing the excellent system
of pensions and sinecures. I confess, I felt a
little ill-natured satisfaction, at the fate of Jefferson
and Madison, when I considered that the first
picked a quarrel with England on pretence of
maintaining the rights of his country, and the
other had the wickedness to declare war against
her, while she was struggling for the liberties of
Europe, now so happily secured in the keeping
of the Holy Alliance. Nor indeed could I find in
my heart to be sorry for Mr. Adams, who was
one of the prime movers of the rebellion, and a
principal pillar of the revolution. Nothing can furnish
a clearer proof of the divine right of kings,
than the fact, that history does not record an instance
of a man who took arms against his sovereign,
on whom some signal punishment did not
fall, by special interposition of providence.[5]

These reflections, which crossed my mind on
seeing an ex-president performing the character
of Diggory, were suddenly interrupted, by what
seemed the sound of a trumpet, directly behind
me. On turning round, to see what it was, I was
struck with horror—it was the little Frenchman,
blowing his nose, with his confounded flowered
Madras handkerchief. The story of the diabolical
dance at Communipaw; the little black gentleman
who could be no other than Satan himself,
so like the little Frenchman—all rushed upon my
mind. I grew desperate—started up—tumbled
over the people in the box—burst open the door,
and marched through the lobby into the street,
without once looking behind me. Just as I left
the box, I heard the little Frenchman say in reply
to some question, “Monsieur is not mad—diable!
he is only a little afraid of robbers.”

As I walked hastily on towards my lodgings, I
heard a footstep, pat, pat, close behind me. 'Tis
the little Frenchman, thought I—and mended my
pace. Still the footsteps continued pat, pat, pat.
I began to run—still the pat, pat, pat, continued,

until I arrived at the door of my lodgings, where
necessarily stopping for a moment, till the door
was opened, I felt two great paws pressing heavily
upon my shoulders. The door opened, and I
rushed in, almost oversetting my good landlady,
who eagerly inquired what was the matter. “Satan
is at my heels,” replied I. “Lack-a-daisy! is
that all? nobody minds him here. Indeed he is
so popular that the people would send him to congress,
I dare say, if he liked.” “O Sodom and
Gomorrah!” said I—“is there no brimstone left
for these impious, rebellious, republican cities!”
The worthy lady paid no attention to this apostrophe,
but began to pat a great Newfoundland
dog, a mighty favourite, exclaiming, “why poor
old Neptune, where have you been all this while?”
Then turning to me, “he must have followed you
to the play-house. I noticed he took a great liking
to you from the first.”

The night was spent in almost sleepless anxiety.
My thoughts continually reverted to the little
Frenchman, the dancing gentleman at Communipaw,
and the great black Newfoundland dog, until
they became so connected together that I could
not separate them. I became feverish with indescribable
terrors; and if I chanced to fall into a
doze, was ever and anon disturbed by attempts
to break open my door, accompanied by strange
and unaccountable moanings and whinings, for
which I could not account. The spirit of democracy
seemed to be letting slip all his legions of

malignant fiends to torture me, and I resolved to
quit for ever this city of horrors. Accordingly I
rose early, hastened my breakfast, inquired of the
good landlady if there was any conveyance to the
South that day.

“There is a steam-boat, which starts about this
hour; but you're not going away in such a hurry?”

“This moment”—I replied, seizing my portmanteau.

“But you had better send for a porter to carry
your baggage.”

“Send for the d—I, in the shape of a little
Frenchman, or a great black dog,” said I impatiently,
removing my portmanteau.

“Better call a hack then,” replied she, exclaiming
“'tis a long way.”

“I'll not wait a minute for all the carriages in
this diabolical city.”

“Why then sir—you had better settle your
bill before you go—if you are not in too great a
hurry.”

This being done, I sallied out with hasty steps
towards the river, where I jumped into the first
steam-boat I met with, and was felicitating myself
on my escape, when I actually ran my nose right
into the mahogany face of the little Frenchman.
Starting back, I fell over a basket of onions belonging
to an old woman, who let fly at me in
the republican style. I was now satisfied in my
own mind—“He must be either the evil one, or
he deals with the evil one. and is therefore a

witch.” To ease myself of these distracting
doubts, after we had left the wharf, I called the
captain of the steam-boat aside, related my story,
and proposed tying the Frenchman neck and heels,
and throwing him overboard, to see if he would
sink or swim. The brute, who I have no doubt
was also in league with Satan, laughed in my face
and replied—

“I would oblige you with pleasure, but we-are
not allowed to try witches nowadays, in this manner.”

“Not try witches!” cried I in astonishment—
“what d'y'e do with them then?” Another proof
thought I, of the absence of all law as well as
gospel here.

“Why we generally let them run—the old boy
will get them at last you know, and pay them
for all their pranks. But, to tell you truth, we
don't believe much in witches nowadays.”

“Nor in fairies?”

“No.”

“Nor in the Prince of Hohenlohe's miracles?”

“No, I never heard of him.”

“Nor Johanna Southcote's?”

“No, I never heard of her either?”

“Nor Vampyres?”

“No.”

“Nor ghosts?”

“Not a single mother's son of them.”

“And what do you suppose has become of them
all?”

“They went away about the time the race of
giants and mammoths disappeared, I suppose.”

“In the name of heaven,” cried I, to this unbelieving
reprobate—“what do you believe then?”

“Why I believe the moon is not made of green
cheese, and that the little Frenchman is no witch,”
quoth he, and went coolly about his business.

He had just gone from me when the little
Frenchman came up, and offered his box.

“Ah monsieur—you ran away from me last
night, but I have caught you again this morning—
diable—I believe the fates ordain we shall never
part again.” Heaven forbid, thought I, but remained
silent, hardly knowing what to say

“Is monsieur going to New Orleans yet?” continued
he after a short pause.

“I am on my way,” replied I, with as much
the air of distant hauteur as I could muster up on
the occasion.

“Then monsieur has somehow or other turned
his nose the wrong way again. Diable! you are
going back to Portsmouth, as sure as a pistol.”

Thou father of lies and deceit, thought I, you
shall not impose upon me again, either in the
shape of a little Frenchman, or a great black dog.
So I said nothing, but eyed him with a look of
most mortifying incredulity. He shrugged up his
shoulders, took a pinch of snuff, and walked away,
to frisk among the ladies, with whom the old
Harry has always been somewhat a favourite. The

captain, who had just been ashore to steal a score
or two of pigs, for the supply of his passengers,
soon after came up, and asked me with a smile if
I had found out whether the little man was a witch
or not? I evaded his question, in the true republican
style, by asking which way we were going,
south or north.

“Why north, to be sure, sir.”

“Towards New-Orleans?”

“No—right from it as straight as an arrow.”

“And why didn't you tell me so?” replied I
in a rage, for I could not stand this imposition.

“I did, as soon as you inquired. “It's not
my business to tell every passenger the way to
New-Orleans. Every steam-boat is not going
there, and the best thing a stranger can do is to
ask before he goes on board.”

I now positively insisted that he should turn the
vessel right about, and land me where he took me
up.

“What, go back twenty-miles, with a hundred
people, to rectify the blunder of one! No—no—
sir, you must go on to Bristol. I shall return in
the morning, and take you back, so you will only
lose one day after all. But here comes the witch,
perhaps he will take you back on a broomstick”—
So saying he went away without paying any attention
to my remonstrances. Presently the little
Frenchman came up, and inquired what was the
matter. I stated my case, and asked his advice,

for at this moment I felt that to trust to Satan himself
was better than to rely on a republican.

“What shall I do?” said I.

“Appeal to posterity and the immortal gods!”
said he, with an air of diabolical sublimity, at the
same time taking a mortal pinch of snuff that smelt
like brimstone.

“There are no gods in this impious country,”
answered I in despair—“and as for posterity, I
am a bachelor and never mean to be married—so
I can have no posterity!”

“There is a way, Monsieur,” quoth the little
Frenchman with an insinuating diabolical smile.

“What!” cried I, with an ungovernable burst
of indignation—“would you tempt me, Satan!
But thy arts are vain. No, diabolical instigator.
Know I am a true-born Englishman, a defender of
the faith and a bulwark of religion. No! be thou
Asmodeus, Ashtaroth, Belshazzar, or the Devil on
two Sticks—be all mankind extinct, for want of posterity,
and be there no posterity to appeal to, let
me be going north or south, or east or west, to
New-Orleans or New-Guinea, all this shall happen
before Satan shall tempt me to the sin of—.”

“Of what?” said the little d—I of a man.—
“Of what shall never defile my tongue in the
utterance,” said I, with the air of a hero.

“Well, if Monsieur will neither appeal to posterity,
nor to the immortal gods, there is no more
to be said. And now I think of it, no more is necessary.
See! we are just at Bristol, where they

land passengers. You can stop here to-night, and
return to Philadelphia to-morrow morning. I am
sorry to lose your agreeable company, but I am
going on a little way farther to the north.”

This last information was of itself sufficient to
determine me to take his advice, though I could
not help suspecting in my own mind that he had
some diabolical design in his head. Accordingly
here I landed, the little Frenchman taking leave of
me in the most friendly manner. “I am sorry,
to lose Monsieur's agreeable company—but as I
am going north, and Monsieur south, who knows
but we may meet again?” Heaven forbid, thought
I, as they loosed the rope, and the boat ploughed
her way down the stream.

I found out a lodging where I ordered supper, and
while it was getting ready, could not help reflecting
on the brutal inhospitality, the unfeeling rudeness
and ferocity generated in the polluted hot-bed of
republicanism. The conduct of the Captain of the
steam-boat, in first receiving me on board—his refusal
to turn back only twenty or thirty miles to
land me again—and the brutal indifference with
which the passengers listened to my just complaints
—all these rushed together on my mind, and put
me into such a passion that I determined to be revenged
on the whole race of republicans, by going
to bed without my supper, which I did to the utter
discomfiture of the landlord, the chambermaid,
the ostler, and particularly the cook, who killed
himself with a spit, in a fit of despair, at my refusing
to taste his terrapin soup.