# Philadelphia (Repplier)/Introduction

OUT of the mists that mercifully conceal those early school-days which, being forgotten, are unduly praised, comes the spectre of a little American history with green sides and a red back, an odious little history, arranged in questions and answers like a catechism, and wholly destitute of anything that could arouse childish interest or quicken childish enthusiasm. One page and one only lingers in my memory, as a return for the many gloomy hours wasted in the companionship of this book,—a page containing a print of West's picture, of the "Great Treaty" at Shackamaxon.
Our grandfathers loved this picture, and implicitly believed all the details of the incident it portrays. We have outgrown our grandfathers' narrow artistic standards, and their broad historic credulity; and the agreeable consciousness of such double progress enriches our self-esteem. Yet it is a pleasant scene that West painted in those easy, ignorant days, when impressionism had still to be invented, and people had not begun to make a fetich of truth. The "Treaty Elm" spreading its mighty branches, as proud and as ​honoured as England's "Royal Oak." William Penn, years older than his age, dressed as he never did dress in early manhood, benignantly blessing everybody. Venerable Friends, in the loosest and longest of coats, holding a parchment deed of mighty bulk, the document which has been lost for more than two hundred years. Boxes and bales of goods scattered on the sward. Indian braves solemnly inspecting their contents. Indian squaws and papooses grouped picturesquely in the foreground. The whole composition suggesting an entertainment midway between a church fair and an afternoon tea, placid, decorous, satisfactory, and sincere.
This was the peaceful fashion in which the little Quaker colony took her infant steps, this was the atmosphere which nurtured her tender youth. And now, after two centuries have rolled slowly by, something of the same spirit lingers in the quiet city which preserves the decorum of those early years, which does not jostle her sister cities in the race of life, nor shout loud cries of triumph in their ears, nor flaunt magnificent streamers in the breeze to bid the world take note of each pace she advances.
Every community, like every man, carries to old age the traditions of its childhood, the inheritance derived from those who bade it live. And Philadelphia, though she has suffered sorely from rude and alien hands, still bears in her tranquil streets the ​impress of the Founder's touch. Simplicity, dignity, reserve, characterize her now as in Colonial days. She remembers those days with silent self-respect, placing a high value upon names which then were honoured, and are honoured still. The pride of the past mingles and is one with the pride of the present. The stainless record borne by her citizens a hundred and fifty years ago flowers anew in the stainless record their great-great-grandsons bear to-day; and the city cherishes in her cold heart the long annals of the centuries, softening the austerity of her presence for these favoured inheritors of her best traditions. She is not eager for the unknown; she is not keen after excitement; she is not enamoured of noise. Her least noticeable characteristic is enthusiasm. Her mental balance cannot lightly be disturbed. Surtout pas trop de zêle, she says with Talleyrand; and the slow, sure process by which her persuasions harden into convictions does not leave her, like a derelict, at the mercy of wind and wave. She spares herself the arduous labour of forming new opinions every morning, by recollecting and cherishing her opinions of yesterday. It is a habit which promotes solidity of thought.
To those who by right of heritage call themselves her sons, and even to such step-children as are, by nature or grace, attuned to the chill tranquillity of their foster mother, Philadelphia has a subtle charm that endures to the end of life. In the restful atmosphere ​of her sincere indifference, men and women gain clearness of perspective, and the saving grace of modesty. Few pedestals are erected for their accommodation. They walk the level ground, and, in the healthy absence of local standards, have no alternative save to accept the broad disheartening standards of the world. Philadelphians are every whit as mediocre as their neighbours, but they seldom encourage each other in mediocrity by giving it a more agreeable name. Something of the old Quaker directness, something of the old Quaker candour,—a robust candour not easily subdued,—still lingers in the city founded by the "white truth-teller," whose word was not as the words of other men,—spoken to conceal his thoughts, and the secret purpose of his soul.
Deep is the debt of gratitude which the City of Peace owes to the many hands that have laboured for two hundred years in her behalf; but deepest of all is her debt to Penn who knew her little but who loved her well, whom she thrust aside from her councils, and forgot in his hour of need, but whose influence lingers to-day in that atmosphere of serenity which is the finest characteristic of Philadelphia. More impetuous towns speed like meteors on their paths, dazzling the western world by their velocity, and dazzled themselves by their own glitter and glory; but the Quaker City sees them rush by without envy, without ambition, without distaste, without emotions ​of any kind. She knows, and she has known for many years, what is best for her; and if this best be ever out of reach, it is not by mere swiftness of step that she can hope to overtake it. She is content to grow slowly if she can grow symmetrically, and if grace and strength keep pace with her increasing bulk. She is content to face the future if she can hold closely to the past, recalling its lessons, valuing its traditions, respecting its memory, and loving in her cold, steadfast fashion the living links which connect her with her honourable history, with her part in the great story of the nation.