# Philadelphia (Repplier)/Chapter 5

THE death of William Penn closes one period of Philadelphia's history. His proprietary rights passed to his widow, for the worthless son did not long survive his father, and Hannah Penn's children were still minors, under her exclusive guardianship. She remained in England, and was ably assisted in her cares by Sir William Keith, the governor of the province, a man who behaved with great discretion for years, and then, losing his mental balance under pressure of a too sustained success, quarrelled with Logan, defied the Assembly, and, returning to London, perished miserably in the Old Bailey. He it was who first suggested paper currency to supply the needs of the colony, continually drained of gold by the excess of its imports over its exports,—a dangerous measure, but one which, in prudent Quaker hands, succeeded beyond all anticipation. For fifty years the notes never depreciated, and only with the darkening of the revolutionary cloud came their melancholy and disgraceful downfall. In 1726, Franklin, then a sanguine young man of twenty, who, like other ​sanguine young men, believed in cheap money and plenty of it, rushed into the field with a pamphlet on "The Nature and Necessity of a Paper Currency," which, in the general absence of sounder arguments, created a wide impression, and brought its author into enviable notice. It was, nevertheless, a crude and shallow piece of reasoning, and Franklin in later years clearly recognized its folly. Older and wiser eyes saw, even amid the present prosperity, ominous shadows of trouble to come; and only three years after the publication of Franklin's glittering generalities, James Logan confessed that his heart was heavy with apprehension. "I dare not say one word against the paper money," he wrote sadly in 1729. "The popular phrensy will never stop till our credit be as bad as in New England, where an ounce of silver is worth twenty shillings of paper. They already talk of making more, and no man dares to stem the fury of the rage. The notion is that while any man will borrow on good security of land, more money should be made for him, without thinking of what value it will be when made. They affirm that, while the security is good, the money cannot fall. The King's own hand should forbid this folly."
For a while, however, and a long while too, all went merrily as wedding bells. The province grew stronger and more populous, the city increased yearly in size and wealth. Luxury and gayety began to manifest ​themselves, and we hear the echo of many an unheeded protest against the insidious encroachments of the world; against the use of snuff-boxes, for example, and of fans, which were carried even to the meeting-house, where they diverted women's minds from "inward and spiritual exercise." As early as 1726 devout female Friends were publicly cautioned against "the immodest fashion of hooped Petticoats," and even against "imitations of them by stiffened or full Skirts, which we take" (very rightly) "to be but a Branch springing from the same corrupt root of Pride." They were also forbidden to wear striped shoes, to lay pleats in their caps, "to cut or draw down their hair on their Foreheads and Temples," or to put aside that badge of demure and domestic womanhood—the apron. Much scandal was given, moreover, by the readiness with which the merry wives of Philadelphia joined in their husbands' comfortable potations. The eighteenth century was the great drinking era, and our colony followed in no halting measure the jovial fashions of the day. In 1733 the Pennsylvania Gazette laments that Philadelphia women, "otherwise discreet," instead of contenting themselves with one good draught of beer in the morning, take "two or three drams, by which their appetite for wholesome food is destroyed."
Much might be written about the taverns which, from the very beginning, played an important part in this dull, cheerful, prosperous, unplagued colonial life. ​Their faded sign-boards swung in every street, and curious old verses, copied by loving antiquarians, still remain to show us what our wise forefathers liked to read. One little pot-house had painted on its board, a tree, a bird, a ship, and a mug of beer, while beneath were these encouraging lines:—
When the increasing hostility to Great Britain disturbed more and more the peacefulness of province and of town, the sign-boards caught the restless tone of discontent, and became belligerent rather than festive and hospitable. A diminutive, one-storied tavern with high pitched roof, near the old Swedes' church, displayed a hen, a brood of young chickens, and an eagle hovering over them with a crown in its beak. Below, in large letters, was this patriotic sentiment: "May the wings of Liberty cover the chickens of Freedom, and pluck the crown from the enemy's head!"—a valiant display of metaphors irresistibly suggestive of Elijah Pogram, the immortal, and his eloquent words anent the impetuous Mr. Chollop: "He is a child of Natur' and a child of Freedom; and his boastful answer to the Despot and the Tyrant is that his bright home is in the Settin' Sun."
When the colonists began to have sufficient leis​ure for ennui, the question arose in Philadelphia, as in every other community, "What shall we do to be amused?" and the answer was difficult to find. Amusements were held in no great esteem by decorous citizens, and for a while it seemed as if the primitive pastimes of cock-fighting and bull-baiting were the only admissible diversions. Cock-fighting, indeed, was
so universally popular, that even in later days when Mr. Whitefield's eloquent preaching had persuaded good Philadelphians to deny themselves the sinful joys of dancing and of music, the personal friends and warm supporters of the uncompromising divine were still as careful as ever in the rearing of their young game-cocks. As for bull-baiting, it held its own until 1820, when Mayor Wharton put an abrupt and final ​end to the sport by confiscating the last bull ever seen in a Philadelphia ring.
Occasionally, across the arid waste of dulness, came jugglers and tight-rope dancers, lending to the virtuous little town a transient air of excess. In the winter of 1724, a band of these roving acrobats was kindly received by all but the Quaker colonists, and especial favour was shown to a child of seven, "who danced and capered upon the strait roap, to the wonder of all spectators." A few years later, an eight-legged cat was exhibited to the delighted public; also a moose, (spelled in the old notice, mouse, which is misleading) and "a beautiful creature, but surprising fierce, called a leopard." By the end of the century, our forefathers were still so easily entertained that they manifested wild enthusiasm for the skeleton of a mammoth, which had been found in a marl pit in New York, and which was brought to Philadelphia by the enterprising Mr. Peale, who generously restored all the missing bones; and it was not until a comparatively recent date that the first waxworks made their appearance, and were greeted with universal enthusiasm.
None of the gracious tolerance manifested for the cock-pit and other virile amusements was shown to the poor actors, who from time to time ventured to try their fortunes in the Quaker City. When, in 1749, a little troop of shabby players presented themselves forlornly in an improvised theatre, and gave to Phila​delphia the unsolicited honour of seeing the first Shakespearian representation in the United States, they were promptly suppressed by active magistrates, as "encouraging idleness, and drawing great sums of money [?] from weak and inconsiderate persons." The stage, however, in every land and in every century, has been wily enough to present herself at first as a religious and moral teacher, and to gain her first hearing on the score of the good she hopes to do. She is like that adroit demon of Benozzo Gozzoli in the Campo Santo at Pisa, who enters the hermitage disguised as a pilgrim, and, notwithstanding the palpable evidence of horn and hoof, is welcomed joyously by the devout and unsuspicious hermit. In 1754, Hallam's Company from London established themselves modestly in a shop on South Street, obtained with difficulty a license to act for a few months, provided they offered "nothing indecent or immoral," and proceeded at once to stem the stream of popular disapprobation by distributing on the streets a slender pamphlet, setting forth the harmless nature of their occupation. The imposing title of this pamphlet ran as follows:—
   "Extracts of Several Treatises, Wrote by the Prince of Conti; With the Sentiments of the Fathers, And some of the Decrees of the Councils, Concerning Stage Plays. Recommended to the Perusal, and Serious Consideration of the Professors of Christianity, in the City of Philadelphia."
After an absence of five years, the indomitable Hallams returned to the city which had welcomed them so coldly, established themselves prudently outside the ​town limits, and printed their play-bills in a wary fashion; promising as a rule "A Concert of Music,"—which sounded harmless—"to be followed by a moral Dialogue on the Vice of Gaming,"—or any other vice suitable for the occasion. The word "play" was always religiously omitted from these early notices. We see "Hamlet" and "Jane Shore" described as "moral and instructive Tales"; and sometimes the whole entertainment, "The Fair Penitent," perhaps, and "Miss in her Teens," is mendaciously advertised as a lecture.
Of little avail, however, was all this strategy and subterfuge. Quakers, Presbyterians, Baptists, and Lutherans united their forces to rout from their virtuous town these brazen representatives of evil. The urgent petition they addressed to the Assembly set forth in no measured terms the mischief wrought in a peaceful community by "idle persons and strollers, who have come into this province from foreign parts, in the character of players, erected stages and theatres, and thereon acted divers plays, by which the weak, poor, and necessitous have been prevailed on to neglect their industry and labour, and to give extravagant prices for their tickets; and great numbers of disorderly persons have been drawn together in the night, to the distress of many poor families, manifest injury to this young colony, and grievous scandal of religion, and the laws of the government."
​A heavy arraignment against a dozen poor mummers, who could plead nothing in their own behalf, save that they were striving to give pleasure and amuse, and whose flimsy pretence of moral instruction was swept away like a cobweb by these vigorous home truths. Philadelphia had all the moral instruction of which she stood in need, without any assistance from the stage; and so her citizens probably felt, for, after a struggle of some months, hostile virtue triumphed signally,—the little playhouse was closed, the plays forbidden, and the dejected actors set forth once more in search of colonies less stanchly wedded to electricity and rectitude.
But not for long. There is a power of resistance in the world, the flesh, and the devil, which the upholders of morality do not always take sufficiently into account. For seven years the Quaker City waxed fat in uncontaminated goodness, and then the fight with Apollyon was again renewed, and renewed under ominous disadvantages. Apollyon had built himself a home, a real playhouse this time, albeit a poor, shabby little structure, miserably inadequate to the cause of vice. In this playhouse, long known as the Old Southwark Theatre, actors strutted through their nightly parts, while the storm of righteousness rolled unheeded around them; and to this playhouse was accorded the honour of producing the first ​American play ever publicly acted in the colonies. A strictly moral drama it was, entitled "The Prince of Parthia," written in deplorable blank verse, and of a dulness so uniform and sustained that even a lecture on electricity must have seemed sprightly by its side. Its author, Thomas Godfrey, was an aspiring young watchmaker of Philadelphia, a protégé of Franklin; and he acquired an enviable reputation as a poet in those halcyon days when literary criticism had not yet crossed the Atlantic, and when a book was necessarily a good book, a poem was necessarily a good poem, and a play was necessarily a good play, unless they offended public taste and decency.
Vehement were the remonstrances urged by the elect against the Southwark Theatre, and the sinful diversions it afforded. Play-acting, it was affirmed, was "akin to image-worship," though the connection between the two was not very clearly defined; and the Assembly was entreated to put an end to this open scandal and iniquity. The Assembly, however, had grown less hostile to the stage, and Governor Penn stoutly refused to interfere with the actors. They were tolerated from year to year, though never assured of protection, and never released from assault. In the Pennsylvania Gazette, Dec. 19, 1768, we find a long communication from a sanctimonious gentleman, who laments the hold which the theatre has gained upon the public mind. Young people, it ​seems, were even guilty of going to the play on nights when they might have gone to church. He himself, so great was the general laxity, had been presented with a box ticket the day before; but "having no taste for theatrical performances," he had attended religious service instead, and had handed over the ticket to a black servant, whose soul, he plainly considered, could not be easily injured. The negro apparently thought otherwise. "The virtuous slave immediately sold the ticket for half price, and purchased a prayer book with the money. An example of virtue and religion in a slave, worthy the imitation of the greatest ruler upon earth."
It was not until after the Revolution that Philadelphia—no longer, alas! the Quaker City—ceased to look askance upon the stage. During those brief months in which the English army occupied the town, theatrical representations of every kind became a recognized source of amusement in a community which suddenly, amid dangers, battles, and bankruptcy, found out how delightful it was to be amused. The officers of General Howe's staff acted a number of plays in the Southwark Theatre, giving the proceeds always to the soldiers' widows and orphans. Major André and Captain De Lancey achieved especial distinction, not only as comedians, but as scene-painters, costumers, and property men. The famous drop curtain painted by Major André, and ​representing a waterfall in a forest glade, was held to be a triumph of art. It is described over and over again in contemporary letters as exceedingly
beautiful, and was used with much pride for years, until lost in the burning of the theatre.
Nor were the American officers averse, as a rule, to the seductions of the stage. Washington honestly loved a good comedy or a rattling farce, and was ​seen more than once in the east proscenium box of the Southwark Theatre, to the disedification of many good citizens. There must have been a sharp struggle now and then with deep-rooted prejudice on the one hand, and the respect it was impossible to withhold from the President, on the other. This conflict of feeling is amusingly apparent in a letter written by Senator Maclay, who, being honoured by a seat in Washington's box, is divided between gratification at the privilege and a strong distaste for the entertainment. "The play," he writes, "was the 'School for Scandal.' I never liked it. Indeed, I think it an indecent representation before ladies of character and virtue. The farce that followed was 'The Old Soldier.' The house was greatly crowded, and I thought the players acted well; but I wish we had seen the 'Conscious Lovers,' or some play that inculcated more prudential manners."
It must be admitted that Philadelphia had wandered far from her early decorum, and the estimable "Prince of Parthia," when she sat, smiling and unconcerned, to see the "School for Scandal." The day was fast approaching when the stage, freed from the yoke of the pious oppressor, was to flaunt, a licensed libertine, unmindful of old promises, moral instruction, the decrees of the Councils, and the admirable opinions of the Prince of Conti. For many months the Dramatic Association had striven unceas​ingly for the repeal of the Act of Prohibition, which hung like the sword of Damocles over each actor's head, blighting his peace of mind, and keeping him up to an uncomfortably rigid standard of ethics. At last, on the second of March, 1789, the efforts of the Association triumphed over all opposition. The obnoxious act was repealed, and the Southwark Theatre was opened "by authority" for the first time since it was built. Polite deceptions were henceforth at an end; moral dialogues and fictitious lectures ceased to figure on the bills; a play was a play, and a spade was a spade, for all the emancipated years to come.