# Philadelphia (Repplier)/Chapter 12

THE history of Philadelphia for the next six years is, in reality, the history of the country. It is impossible to divorce her records from the broader annals of the united colonies, who looked to her as to the central stage on which was played the great drama of rebellion. If she still hesitated, it was, not at action, but at calling that action by its proper name. She flew to arms, but seldom spoke of battle; she prepared decisively for war, but hardly confessed that England was her antagonist. When the encounter at Lexington was made known to the public, an angry and excited crowd of eight thousand men assembled before the State House, declared their intention of defending their rights and liberties, and advocated the immediate enrolling of new bodies of ​militia. We learn from many sources with what ardour young and old offered their services in the first flush of enthusiasm, and how they drilled day and night to be prepared for an imperative emergency. Dr. Graydon who belonged to the third battalion, commanded by John Cadwalader, and sarcastically called the "Silk Stocking Company," in reference to supposed fine feathers and good birth, tells us that he and his companions practised shooting at a target on Race Street, and that one of the party shot a child, which was discouraging, but hardly a matter for surprise.
Congress reassembled on the eleventh of May, and a Committee of Safety was appointed, with Franklin at its head, to look after the needs and the defences of the city. This committee determined to be healthy, wealthy, and wise, by following one of its great leader's maxims, and met every morning at the bracing hour of six. The members found plenty to do in preparing for war, and in trying to preserve order, for already the disturbed condition of the public mind had broken the barriers of security. The mob grew bolder and bolder, until at last, in playful mood, it openly set fire to the jail, as the easiest way of liberating two counterfeiters who were confined within its walls. What wonder that a sober citizen like James Allen, son of Chief Justice Allen, should, even while ready to shoulder ​a musket in the "great and glorious cause," have confided most despondent sentiments to the secrecy of his diary. "The madness of the multitude," he writes, "is but one degree better than submission to the Tea Act. . . . Many thinking people believe America has seen its best days, and even if we be victorious, peace and order will with difficulty be restored. The inconveniences are already sensibly felt. Debts as yet are paid, but this cannot last long, for people begin to plead their inability."
The manufacture of gunpowder, and the building of gunboats to defend the river's front, occupied much of the committee's attention; but it found leisure to inquire very curiously into the goings and comings of men who were suspected of Tory proclivities. It was a time of active interference with other people's affairs, and Joseph Galloway protested that he could not retire for a night to his country-house without explaining publicly why he did not sleep in town. A favourite diversion of the mob was the dragging of Tory citizens in carts through the streets, to the spirited music of the "Rogue's March," until they "politely acknowledged" the erroneous nature of their convictions, and uttered more patriotic sentiments, to the huge delight of their captors. Occasionally the crowds which assembled for this sport were cheated out of their triumph. Dr. John Kearsley, though so roughly handled that the blood ​streamed from his hurts, merely swore with ever-increasing vehemence at his tormentors, who were about to offer the final argument of tar and feathers when their victim—still swearing—was snatched away from them by the militia, and carried back to his house, where the lively populace had broken all the windows. A yet more defiant combatant was Major Skene, who, after his third bottle of port, flung open the shutters, and roared out with drunken loyalty over the heads of the angry rabble, "God save great George, our King."
The Continental Congress, having recommended the people to "abstain from vain amusements," was not disposed to tolerate anything in the nature of gayety, and this resolution checked Philadelphia's generous hospitality. With the approach of war, the Assemblies were given up; but youth is always youth, and as eager to dance in dark days as in bright ones. The presence of Mrs. Washington and Mrs. Hancock in the city during the autumn of 1775 gave excellent excuse for a ball, at which these ladies readily promised to attend. But it was not to be. That portion of the community which never went to balls had for once the power to chill unseasonable mirth. A committee of citizens waited upon Mrs. Washington, and requested her not to grace the festivities, while her "worthy and brave husband was exposed in the field of battle, in defence of his country's liberties." The ​lady, with great good nature, acquiesced in her visitors' views, assured them that "their sentiments on this occasion were perfectly agreeable to her own," and promised to remain at home. As a consequence, the ball was abandoned, to the unfeigned regret of many young girls who, being under no anxiety on the score of worthy and brave husbands, would have welcomed a little cheerful variety.
There was some excuse for the arbitrary behaviour of the Whigs, inasmuch as they had to deal with so many disunited elements. Men who had nothing to lose were eager for radical measures. Men who, like Mr. Chew, Mr. Tilghman, and Mr. Shippen, enjoyed offices of trust and distinction, were more prone to consider consequences. Men with easy minds, like Mr. John Ross, declared in much the same words as the philosophical Vicar of Bray, "Let who will be king; I know that I shall still be subject." Men as wise and wary as Benjamin Franklin calculated every step they took in such parlous times, and permitted their final decisions to remain long a matter for conjecture. "Franklin's demeanour towards the conflicting parties," says Dr. Graydon, "was so truly accommodating, that it was doubtful where he really belonged. No man had scanned the world more critically than he, and few had profited more by a knowledge of it, or managed that knowledge more to their own advantage."
​Meanwhile events were hastening forward with a ruthless speed that was sadly disconcerting to those who had not yet made up their minds what part to House of Betty Ross, Where the First Flag Was Made play. Washington was appointed commander of the national forces, and joined the army before Boston, taking with him the first American flag, which then bore in the corner a red and blue cross in place of the thirteen stars. Paul Jones hoisted his rattlesnake flag—no pleasing emblem—over one of the new American cruisers. The troops drilling in Philadelphia demanded from the Assembly money for arms, accoutrements, and support. Lead was so scarce that all the fine old standing clocks were robbed of their weights, and stood mute and helpless in their corners. The battle of Bunker Hill added to the general agitation; the departure of the English ​army from Boston quickened the colonists' hopes. Tom Paine, that "disastrous meteor" as Adams calls him, published his "Common Sense," and at once became the most popular man in the country. Even Dickinson's fame paled before the new light, and the "Farmer's Letters" were well-nigh forgotten in the rabid enthusiasm which greeted Paine's bolder theories. Men were just in the humour to believe that governments were antiquated devices, and that the voice of the populace was the voice of God. Each reader felt his soul expand at this splendid recognition of his individual importance, and of his right to clamour with the loudest. In every Philadelphia shop was seen the familiar advertisement, "Common Sense for eighteen pence," and thousands of purchasers thought the article cheap at that very moderate price. Adams, James Allen, and others who disagreed violently with Paine's definition of sense were not slow in putting their opinions into print. Indeed, the approaching election brought down upon the anxious public a storm of pamphlets, in which political opponents under the names of Cato, Cassandra, Forrester, etc., enjoyed such a prolonged and lively combat that if the voters did not know what line of conduct to pursue, it was certainly not from lack of cheap and copious instruction.
For the last time the moderate party triumphed in the Assembly, a dearly bought victory destined to ​lead the way to the final overthrow of the constitution. Congress, on the tenth of May, 1776, passed a resolution recommending to all the colonies a radical change of government, that they might be better equipped to meet the serious emergencies of the war. The Committee of Safety, now grown imperious and despotic, held a week's conference in Carpenters' Hall, and determined that a convention should be called to frame a new constitution. At the inevitable dinner with which this conference terminated—dinners, unlike balls, were considered patriotic amusements—the King's health was not drunk, but, in his place, "The free and independent States of America" were toasted with loud acclamations. The petition sent to the crown met with no response, as the colonies were in open rebellion long before the "dutiful and humble" paper reached England; and it became more and more apparent on both sides that the war was, not for terms, but for freedom. The old Assembly, which had for almost a century watched faithfully over the interest of the province committed to its charge, was rapidly nearing its end, choked out of existence by the vehemence of reformers who scorned the wisdom of the past, and felt an easy confidence in their power to regulate the future. With its destruction, the political power of the Quakers came to an abrupt close. They had done their work for many years wisely ​and well. The tasks which awaited their successors were of a different order, and demanded different hands. There was both rank ingratitude and rank injustice in the treatment the Friends subsequently received; but gratitude has never been a lively factor in politics, and men, when sick with apprehension or elate with victory, are hardly sane enough to know what justice means.
The Convention of 1776 amply satisfied the public appetite for novelties. It was generous and even profuse in the matter of new laws, both big and little. Nothing was too important to be settled offhand, nothing too trivial to occupy its attention. Pennsylvania was declared an independent state; delegates were sent to Congress; heavy taxes were laid on Germans and Quakers who refused to serve in the militia. A new constitution was prepared which received Franklin's enthusiastic support. In place of the single governor with whom Pennsylvania had always quarrelled lustily in the past, twelve governors, forming a council, were given her as suitable antagonists for the future; and a "General Assembly" was furthermore provided to fight fairly and squarely with the twelve. Then, lest an ignoble tranquillity should still be possible, a second council, called the Council of Censors, was appointed, the members of which had the pleasant duty of finding fault with both the executive and the legislative bodies. Altogether there was abundant ​opportunity for hostilities, and no sooner had the new laws gone into operation than hostilities began with fervour. The province was sharply divided into two irreconcilable parties: those who upheld this constitution, and those who saw in it certain and disastrous ruin. Philadelphia was the battlefield on which the opponents prepared for the coming combat.
But other and larger issues, weighted with the welfare of the whole nation, were pressing hard for recognition, and it was no longer possible to ignore or to stifle the agitation in favour of independence. The Pennsylvania delegates to Congress in the spring of 1776 were Franklin, Morris, Willing, Morton, Humphreys, Wilson and Dickinson; men of moderate views who were keenly anxious that the province should be won over wholly to the cause of freedom, before it was forced to yield its consent to a measure which could never be retracted. It was not in their power, however, to restrain the impetuosity of the Virginia and Massachusetts delegates, and, on the seventh of June, Richard Henry Lee offered his resolutions, absolving the colonies from their old allegiance, and proclaiming them free and independent States.
The following weeks were absorbed in strenuous debate. Seven of the thirteen colonies were in favour of the resolutions; six, with Pennsylvania at their head, held firmly back, believing that the time had not yet come for open and absolute rebellion. But ​the fierce enthusiasm of the majority was well calculated to override the prudent hesitation of the minority. Enthusiasm, moreover, is contagious, and hesitation is ever an ungrateful part to play. Agents were sent by Congress to quicken the spirit of revolt in New York, New Jersey, Maryland and Delaware. Every argument was used to persuade the colonists that only by the closest union could they hope to achieve their freedom, or even to preserve their safety; they must hang together, as Richard Penn dryly observed, unless they wanted to be hanged separately. The nine hours' debate of July 1st left four colonies still unconvinced. Pennsylvania and South Carolina voted against Lee's resolutions, Delaware was hopelessly divided, and New York refused to vote at all, her delegates having received no authority from home to support the popular measure.
The final decision was deferred until the next day, and a last urgent appeal made to the conservatives who still held back from action. It was not without avail. By the evening of July 2d, South Carolina and Delaware, either converted or overwearied, voted for independence. Pennsylvania was still disunited. Three of her delegates, Franklin, Wilson and Morton, supported the resolutions; Willing and Humphreys, consistent to the end, bravely and obstinately opposed them; Morris and Dickinson evaded the necessity for a decision by keeping out of the way. Their absence ​enabled the advocates of liberty to carry the Pennsylvania vote by a handsome majority of one. New York, waiting like Casabianca for orders that never came, declined with an almost sublime apathy to take any part in the proceedings. Twelve of the thirteen colonies, however, had now been won over; and before sunset, July 2, 1776, Lee's resolutions were passed by an almost unanimous vote. The nation had determined to be free.
Two days later the Declaration of Independence was formally adopted, and on July 8th the document was read to the people—to the few at least who gathered to hear it—from the observatory in the State House yard. One unseen auditor there was who has left us an account of that day. Deborah Norris, then a girl of fifteen, had climbed her garden wall to catch a glimpse of what was going on. The reader was hidden from her by the side of the observatory, but she heard distinctly from her high perch every word he uttered, and was awed into a childish terror as the grave voice—Charles Thomson's voice, she fancied, but it was really that of Captain John Nixon—repeated slowly those memorable words, the full significance of which she was too young to understand. "It was," she wrote years afterwards, "a time of fearful doubt and great anxiety with the people, many of whom were appalled by the boldness of the measure; and the first audience of the Declaration was neither ​very numerous, nor composed of the most respectable class of citizens." The church bells, however, were rung assiduously, and a few bonfires were lit at night, that being a form of celebration as popular with the boys of 1776 as with their successors to-day.
The Declaration of Independence was not signed until August, and in the meantime the anger of the
community, now directed against the Pennsylvania delegates who had refused it their support, assumed more and more ominous proportions. Morris and Wilson were indeed reëlected to Congress on the twentieth of July, and subsequently became signers; but Wilson was not so easily pardoned, and Dickinson, once the idol of every heart, was loaded with recrimination and abuse. "Popular enthusiasm is a fire of straw," says ​Mr. Froude; and the crowd who had hailed the "Farmer's Letters" as a veritable message from the gods, now found no words of contumely strong enough for its author. If he had been unduly elated by success, he was at least tolerably resigned to injustice. There was still work to do, and he marched with his battalion straight to the field of war. When the malice of his many enemies, striking hard at his honour, left him no battalion to lead, he simply shouldered a musket and served as a common soldier, determined to aid his country, notwithstanding the opposition of his countrymen. It may be observed that Dickinson and McKean were the only members of the Continental Congress who ever saw active service, a circumstance which posterity has thought it worth while to remember.
Philadelphia was a proud, but not altogether a comfortable city, after her ancient State House had witnessed the signing of the Declaration of Independence. In the first place the new Constitution was manifestly unpopular, which was hardly surprising; and in the second place the depreciation of the paper currency had begun, and the necessities of life were growing terribly dear. Above all, the scarcity of salt was working serious evil. In the autumn of 1776, fine salt was selling at twenty-five shillings a bushel. In December, the Rev. Henry Muhlenberg notes in his diary: "The people push and jostle each other wherever there is the smallest quantity of salt to be found about town. The ​country people complain bitterly because they suppose there are hidden stores in Philadelphia."
Meanwhile every effort was made to strengthen the defences of the city, and to increase the "flying camp" which grew but slowly, although a bounty of three pounds was offered for every volunteer, and a reward of three pounds for the arrest of every deserter. Graydon's account of the difficulties he experienced in raising recruits is pathetically droll. Men would utter sentiments of glowing patriotism, and would drink copiously to their country and their country's cause; but when pressed to enlist, they melted away like snow-flakes, leaving him not a single soldier out of a most promisingly noisy crowd. It was a season of disasters. The colonists' high hopes grew fainter and fainter as the weary months brought nothing but tidings of defeat, and the lines of war drew ever closer to Philadelphia. Sick and wounded troops were brought in great numbers to the city, and the Pennsylvania hospital was set apart for their exclusive use. Camp-fever and small-pox raged among these unfortunates, destroying ten good men, says John Adams, where the enemy killed one. Shallow trenches were dug in Washington Square, and two thousand corpses were buried hastily in that field of death where, years before, the Guinea negroes had been wont to steal at dusk, or in the early dawn, with little offerings of food and rum for their departed kinsfolk.
​On the nineteenth of November the news reached Philadelphia that General Howe had taken Fort Washington, and was marching on the city. Graydon, who was made a prisoner on this occasion, has left us a lively description of the fray, of his own capture, and of the kindness of the big Scotch sergeant who said to him, as to a froward child, "Young man, ye should never fight against your King." Some of the English officers, however, spoke to him so rudely, that he confesses he was unmanned. "I was obliged to apply my handkerchief to my eyes,"—an avowal which sounds more like the sensitive Mr. Pecksniff than an American soldier. He was subsequently released on parole through the kindness of General Howe, and his fighting days were over.
By the second of December the British were at Brunswick, and a general panic ensued in Philadelphia. Christopher Marshall's diary describes the lamentable confusion: "Families loading wagons with their furniture, and all ranks sending their goods out of town into the country." Even the Congress departed with what speed it could to Baltimore, leaving a committee in charge of affairs, with the unterrified Morris—who had so much to lose—as chairman. Washington appointed General Putnam the military governor of the city, and this peremptory officer ordered all able-bodied men to muster at once for the militia, and all merchants to receive the Continental currency at its full value, neither of which mandates was obeyed. In fact, the ​Committee of Safety was so determined that the people should accept the paper money for more than it was worth, that it was made a criminal offence to ask higher prices for merchandise when the depreciated notes were offered in payment. This is the kind of lawmaking which is happily always rendered inactive by its own viciousness, and by the plain common sense of the people. It was the last authoritative act of the Committee, before its power passed into the hands of the Supreme Executive Council, organized March 4, 1777.
When General Howe reached Trenton, he issued the proclamation which won over many wavering Tories, like Galloway and the Allens, who placed themselves under his protection. There is little doubt that the general insecurity of the country impelled them to take this step. James Allen's diary is half comical in its mournful, but not unreasonable lamentations over the marauding habits of the undisciplined militia, and the obstinacy of his tenants, who plainly intimated that a patriotic landlord would never expect them to pay their rents in such a troubled time. "The prevailing idea," he writes angrily, "is that no man has any right to property that the public has use for, and it is seldom they even ask the owner." On the other hand, Philadelphia was actively engaged in strewing the Tory path with thorns. In July, 1777, forty gentlemen ​were arrested on the charge of disloyalty to the Government. Among them were John Penn, Jared Ingersoll, Benjamin Chew, and the always unfortunate Provost Smith, who was the stanchest of patriots,—save that he would fain have delayed the Declaration,—and who had exhausted himself in fervid speech-making at every stage of the fight. A few of these prisoners were committed to jail; but the greater number were banished from the city, confined in their own homes, or released on parole, with the certainty of being suspected and closely watched in the future.
On the fourth of July, 1777, Philadelphia celebrated for the first time our great national holiday, and set the example which has been followed—with modifications—for more than a hundred years. There was much firing of guns all day, a civic banquet in the evening, notwithstanding the dearness of provisions, and a brisk smashing of Quaker windows at night, to keep up the spirits of the mob. Elizabeth Drinker, whose husband, Henry Drinker, was one of the banished Friends, writes tersely and without comment in her invaluable diary:—
"July 4th, 1777. The town illuminated, and a great number of windows broken on ye Anniversary of Independence and Freedom."
The new oath of allegiance to the State, which was exacted from all citizens under penalty of being deprived of every office and every civic right, caused ​great division in the Quaker ranks. Hitherto the Friends had played a purely passive part in the general excitement. They had issued their yearly warnings against deeds of violence, and open rebellion, and they had stayed quietly at home when other people fled from the city. It seemed as if, in their aversion to war, they regarded even running away—that very material part of contest—as opposed to their principles. But all this time dissentient voices had been heard uttering strange heresies, and insisting that upon the shoulders of every man lay the sacred duty of defending his country from oppression. These voices had grown stronger and more insistent with the rush of events during the past twelve months, and the leading spirit of revolt was Samuel Wetherill, Junior, a great-grandson of one of the first settlers of New Jersey. He had come to Philadelphia as a boy, had been apprenticed to Mordicai Yarnall, a wealthy house carpenter, and had in the course of time married his master's daughter, after the good old fashion approved by Hogarth. He helped to found the first factory for weaving cloths in the colonies, and was an influential man, deeply respected by the Quakers until he severed himself abruptly from their ranks.
For it was not enough for this ardent combatant to take the oath of allegiance publicly and gladly at the head of a band of resolute young Friends. It ​was not even enough to advocate the bearing of arms, or to give money generously for the defences of the town. He must needs, following the example of those about him, rush into print; and, as the "Meeting Record" attests, "violate the established order of our discipline, by being concerned in publishing and distributing a book tending to promote dissension and division among Friends." For these unpardonable offences he was formally but very gently cut off from the Society, with none of the "current compliments of theological parting"; but rather with regret at his obstinacy, and a pious hope that he would one day see his errors, and be restored to membership.
There was no room for repentance, however, in Samuel Wetherill's belligerent soul. He was a Quaker war-horse, scenting the battle from afar, and eager to rush into the thickest of the fray. Followers he had in plenty, men, who like himself, were disowned by the Friends because they advocated forcible resistance against foreign enemies and oppressive laws, and because they declared—of course in print—that no man nor woman could justly be excommunicated from any Christian church, provided he or she believed in the word of God. This was the substance of Wetherill's famous "Apology for the Religious Society, called Free Quakers, in the City of Philadelphia," which made him many converts and many ​enemies, both of which acquisitions he thoroughly enjoyed. "Free Quakers" was the name given to themselves by these determined seceders; but the people generally called them by the more stirring title of "Fighting Quakers," which was well deserved, and the Friends never mentioned them save briefly as "Apostates."—"T. Matlock takes upon himself to be speaker for ye Apostates," writes Elizabeth Drinker, as usual without comment. She possessed the unfeminine gift of expressing her sentiments fully without help from explanations or expletives.
For several years after their expulsion from the Society, the Free Quakers met for worship in private houses, or in one of the college rooms. They considered, however, that they had a legal right to occupy the old meeting-house, and applied for permission, which was naturally but civilly refused. They also boldly announced that they meant to use the Friends' burial ground, without asking leave, whenever they required it. "For however the living may contend, surely the dead may lie peaceably together." This was not so easily accomplished as they fancied. The dead, indeed, were peaceable enough, and cared little who lay by their sides; but the burial ground was under the control of the living, who would have none but orthodox graves dug within its tranquil enclosure. The would-be intruders then took a step alien to all Quaker principles, and to the whole his​tory of their church: they appealed to the civil authorities to interfere in their behalf, setting forth their own claims as loyal citizens, and plainly intimating that their opponents were Tories, royalists, and traitors at heart to the Republic. This petition was promptly met by a memorial from the Friends, stoutly denying any treasonable intent, and asserting that they too were loyal and law-abiding men, who, in the matter of the meeting-house and burial ground, merely followed the rules of their community, and the dictates of their consciences. The lawmakers with unwonted sapiency decided that religious dissensions were no concern of theirs, and left to the pious disputants the privilege of settling the quarrel as best they could alone.
They did not settle it at all. They quarrelled bravely on, and the Free Quakers built a new meeting-house at Fifth and Arch Streets, a quaint little edifice of red brick, to which Washington, and Franklin and a great many distinguished people lent liberal aid. On a tablet inserted in the wall are cut these four lines:—
The word "Empire" has puzzled good Republicans for more than a century. A prominent member of ​the first congregation being asked why it had been used, replied valiantly, "I tell thee, Friend, it is because our country is destined to be the great empire over all the world,"—a loyal sentiment, but one that affords no explanation.
During the Revolutionary war, and in the troubled years which immediately followed it, the Free or Fighting Quakers enjoyed great popularity, and were far better off than their persecuted brethren in the fold. They took an active part in politics, and even the women gave distinguished proof of their devotion to the cause of liberty. Lydia Darragh, who brought to Washington's camp at White Marsh news of the English army's intended attack, and Elizabeth Ross, who made the first flag carried by the American army, were both Free Quakers. But when the Federal government was firmly established, and the bitterness of dissension was at an end, the little congregation shared the fate of so many vigorous branches lopped from a parent stem. Some of its members returned to their old allegiance, and were received back into the Society of Friends; some died, and their families gradually ceased to attend the Sunday meetings. Elizabeth Ross, afterwards Elizabeth Claypoole, the last of the original seceders, lived until 1836, but was too old and infirm to leave her own roof. Finally, John Price Wetherill, son of Samuel Wetherill, who had inherited his father's undaunted spirit, ​was reduced to the mournful necessity of worshipping alone, or nearly alone, for several years, a strain too great to be endured by any man. Accordingly, one Sunday morning he closed the meeting-house for the last time, and acknowledged the long, long struggle to be over. As a religious society, the Free Quakers had passed out of existence.
Yet a career of true usefulness remained to make the name honoured and beloved. Mr. Wetherill, clearly recognizing the needs of the community in which he lived, devoted himself to organizing a committee, the members of which should use the funds at their disposal for charitable and philanthropic purposes. If they could no longer minister to the souls of men, they could at least feed their bodies and their minds. So the red brick house at Fifth and Arch Streets was made over to the Apprentices' Library, then the only free library in Philadelphia; and for many years the nominal rent of fifty dollars was regularly given back, to be spent in "good and useful books." Other charities were added from time to time as the income of the society permitted; and even now this admirable organization continues to do its work, without parade, without salaried officials, without asking help from the public, and without any shadow of sectarianism. The Quakers, whether "Free" or in subjection, have never sympathized with the pious almsgiving peculiar to Christian churches, which follow the example of the ​careful Jacob, and bestow their mess of pottage, only at the price of a brother's birthright. The making, especially the buying of converts, finds no place in the annals of the Friends.
Nor did the spirit which impelled these obstinate schismatics to play their part in the Revolution die with the death of their schism, and the closing of their meeting-house. It survived to face another great emergency, and, with the breaking out of the Civil War, the old combative instinct flared into vehement life. Once more the Free Quakers became Fighting Quakers, and marched gayly to the front; while the treasurer of the Society, too old for active service, raised and equipped a company of soldiers at his sole expense, and presented them, ready for service, to the State. And still inherited characteristics survive, giving ample promise for the future. In the sudden mad revolts of organized labour, in the bloody scenes at the roundhouse of Pittsburg, and in the Homestead riots, the Philadelphia militia were never without some representatives of the Society, some descendants of the Fighting Quakers, ready and keen to preserve unbroken the ancient traditions of their name.