Читать книгу First City - Gary B. Nash - Страница 8

INTRODUCTION: MAKING HISTORY MATTER

“Truth is shaped strictly by the needs of those who wish to receive it.”

—Russell Banks, Cloudsplitter (1996)

“Men of literary tastes … are always apt to overlook the working classes and to confine the records they make of their own time, in great degree, to the habits and fortunes of their own associates.… This has made it nearly impossible to discern the very real influence their character and condition has had on the fortune and fate of the nation.”

—Frederick Law Olmsted, A Journey in the Seaboard Slave States (1859)

As many Americans know, the two most important documents in the history of the United States, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of 1787, were drafted and signed at the State House in Philadelphia, now Independence Hall. The city was also the site of the first American paper mill, hospital, medical college, subscription library, street lighting, scientific and intellectual society, bank, and government mint. The city served on and off as the official capital of the country until 1800. Today, we remember less about the significance of Philadelphia to the history of the nation than the record shows. But even the memories lodged in the public mind cannot be taken for granted, and they are far from complete. Indeed, the Philadelphia story could have been written another way; in fact, it has been rewritten many times. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the unearthing of Philadelphia’s past is a thriving business. Today, the long look backward by historians is renovating the public recollection of the city’s past.

Remembering Philadelphia’s bygone days existed from the beginning, as soon as a mother told her children a story about olden times or a father reminded his offspring of his arrival in Penn’s woods. But for a long time the city’s history was passed only informally from one generation to another. No biography of Philadelphia’s founder appeared for almost a century after his death. No city history appeared until Philadelphia was on the verge of celebrating its 150th birthday. Not until Jefferson and Madison had retired from their presidencies did Philadelphians witness the advent of calculated, organized memory-making.

In 1816, just after the Treaty of Ghent ended the War of 1812, Pennsylvania’s legislators eyed the venerable State House building in Philadelphia, where the Declaration of Independence and U.S. Constitution had been signed. Razing the building and selling the land for commercial development in the fast-growing, forward-looking city seemed like a practical idea, for the state government had moved to Harrisburg seventeen years before and legislators knew that tax-shy citizens would appreciate how the sale of the property could underwrite the costs of a new capitol building on the banks of the Susquehanna. Sentimental attachment to the site of the nation’s birth did not figure much in the legislature’s planning because the public itself was indifferent to preserving what would later become a national icon. Even the Liberty Bell seemed nothing more than a rusty relic. As a later preservationist commented ruefully, the old bell was not thought worth mentioning in the plan to raze the State House, “but left to be sold as old lumber within the walls and rafters of Independence Hall.”¹

As early as 1802, Pennsylvania’s General Assembly had considered selling the State House, the Liberty Bell included, while dividing into building lots the parklike expanse familiarly called the State House Yard. The city of Philadelphia itself had secured state permission in 1812 for demolishing the piazzas and wing buildings that gave Independence Hall, still called the Pennsylvania State House, its distinctive character. The city promptly erected office space that “created a Chestnut Street facade in the character of a Philadelphia rowhouse development.”²

Obliterating old buildings was for many Americans a way of freeing themselves from the tyranny of forerunners—what Thoreau would call a “purifying destruction.”³ The home of Philadelphia’s most famous figure, Benjamin Franklin, was treated as anything but hallowed space. In 1802, twelve years after Printer Ben died, Franklin’s daughter and her husband converted the home where so many national and international figures had met during the Revolutionary era into a boardinghouse. Then they demolished the house entirely in 1812 to prepare the site for division into small urban building lots. Philadelphians’ memory of Franklin had waned so rapidly by this time that lagging sales of an earthenware figurine of America’s “universal man” convinced the manufacturer to pep up the trade by relabeling Franklin’s image “George Washington.”⁴

Unexpectedly, the close call with plans to obliterate Independence Hall kindled reverence for places associated with the American Revolution. William Duane, publisher of the newspaper founded by Benjamin Franklin Bache, Franklin’s grandson, campaigned in 1816 that “in Pennsylvania, under the Gothic mist of ignorance and vice, by which it is now governed—everything is to be pulled down.” The building where the Declaration of Independence “was deliberated and determined,” he thundered, should be venerated “as a monument of that splendid event; but this is not the spirit of the rulers of Pennsylvania now—the state house must be sold— for every thing now in political affairs is barter and sale!”⁵ Duane’s outcry led the state to sell the building to the city of Philadelphia for $70,000 before it fell under the gavel. However, even as the negotiation proceeded, the city removed much of the original pine paneling of the Assembly Room where the Founding Fathers signed the Declaration of Independence. Eager to modernize the building for office use, the city sold pieces of the paneling as souvenirs (Figure 1). Well in advance of the public, one candidate for county commissioner made this sale an election issue, vowing to stop the defacement.

FIGURE 1. John Trumbull, The Declaration of Independence, 4 July 1776, oil, 1818, Yale University Trumbull’s painting, which gained him fame, shows the pine paneling removed in 1816. He deplored “the spirit of innovation [that] laid unhallowed hands upon [Independence Hall] and violated its venerable walls by ‘modern improvement,’ as it is called.”

By June 1818, when Philadelphia finally took possession of Independence Hall from the state, its citizens awakened to the importance of saving historic buildings as treasured symbols of American history. In the same month, an old friend—indeed the Quaker city’s founder—introduced them to another use of the past. Readers of the Philadelphia Union found advice from William Penn, dead for almost a century, on one of the burning issues of the day. In a series of articles, Penn had returned, at least in spirit, to comment benevolently on the proposal to transport free African Americans back to Africa. The recently formed American Colonization Society had turned this proposal into a national debate, and here in the pages of the Union (actually, in heaven) was Penn discussing the matter with two lately deceased black leaders: Absalom Jones, minister of Philadelphia’s St. Thomas’s African Episcopal Church for nearly a quarter century, and Paul Cuffe, merchant and ship captain in New Bedford, Massachusetts, and one of the nation’s few black Quakers.

In their “dialogues on the African colony,” Penn, Jones, and Cuffe debated the matter warmly. The man putting words into their mouths was Robert Finley, president of Princeton Theological Seminary and publicist of the American Colonization Society. Finley’s design was to sway black opinion in Philadelphia. He knew, as did everyone in the city, that African Americans had thronged Richard Allen’s Mother Bethel Church on Sixth Street near Pine just a year before to discuss repatriation to Africa. Before a packed house, several black leaders had supported voluntary immigration to Africa. They agreed with the reasoning of white patrons of the free black community that congealed white racism would never allow free blacks to succeed in the United States, that repatriated black Christians would have a chance to convert millions of heathen Africans to the true religion, and that several million repatriated blacks might create a new outlet for American goods. But ordinary black Philadelphians, knowing that the American Colonization Society had enlisted prominent southern slaveholders and politicians who called free blacks “a dangerous and useless part of the community,” nearly brought down the walls of Mother Bethel with shouts of “No!” when the question was put about who favored repatriation.

FIGURE 2. Raphaelle Peale, Portrait of Absalom Jones, oil, 1810, Delaware Art Museum. Raphaelle Peale, the son of Charles Willson Peale, painted sixty-four-year-old Absalom Jones in 1810. Jones’s master brought him to Philadelphia as a slave at age sixteen, and the dutiful servant was able to purchase his wife’s freedom shortly after marrying her in 1770. But his master would not permit Jones’s own self-purchase until 1784. Eight years later he founded Philadelphia’s first independent black church.

In their celestial discussion, Absalom Jones firmly rejected repatriation as a deportation scheme designed to squelch efforts to abolish slavery (Figure 2). Paul Cuffe dissented. Reminding Penn and Jones that he had taken a boatload of free blacks to Sierra Leone only a few years before he died, Cuffe explained that the plan was “one of the most beneficent that human genius could have devised.” Jones remained unconvinced. Penn, father of religious and ethnic toleration, promised to consult George Washington, also in heaven since his death nineteen years before. Reporting back, Penn vouchsafed that the Pater Patriae warmly endorsed colonization of free blacks for their own good. Cuffe chimed in that the racial prejudice of white Americans was intractable, leaving Africa as the only viable choice. Jones still doubted that whites wished to do a great good for a people they hated. But Penn and Cuffe persisted. Finally, swallowing his doubts that whatever pleased slavemasters could benefit free blacks, Jones acceded: “My objections have been refuted; my scruples vanquished. And all my doubts satisfied. Heaven speed the undertaking!”⁶

What Philadelphia’s black community made of Reverend Finley’s enlistment of Philadelphia’s long-deceased founder to convince them to pack their bags, leave the city, and head home to Africa cannot be recovered from extant documents. But in both deed and word, black Philadelphians certainly regarded Finley’s imaginary dialogues as the work of a pillager of the past who put deceased heroes, black and white, on the side of the American Colonization Society. After the Union ran Finley’s “Dialogues on African Colonization,” they remonstrated in 1818 and 1819 against the Colonization Society. They spoke more compellingly with their feet when the society sent the first two ships to establish the colony of Liberia in 1819 and 1820. Of about 10,000 free blacks in Philadelphia, only twenty-two embarked. New recruitment campaigns in 1823 and 1824 for Liberia-bound ships failed miserably, netting only another handful of black Philadelphians.

In 1824, only six years after the crumbling State House began its metamorphosis to the Independence Hall shrine and black Philadelphians rejected Finley’s manipulation of William Penn’s and Absalom Jones’s views on colonization, the city entered a new era of historical consciousness in which restoring collective memory of the past came to be seen as an urgent matter. The arrival on September 28, 1824 of the Marquis de Lafayette, hero of the American Revolution and surrogate son of the childless George Washington, became a galvanizing moment. Invited by Congress to return to the United States, the aging Lafayette toured every corner of the country, inspiring grand receptions, massive parades, civic celebrations, and monument raising for thirteen months. No city outdid Philadelphia. Ten thousand troops assembled to be reviewed by him; visiting crowds strained the capacity of local inns and taverns; the price of some commodities doubled; deputations from outlying areas vied for a chance to meet the hero, accompanied by his son George Washington Lafayette; children from scores of schools were brought before him for his blessing (Figure 3).⁷

FIGURE 3. General LaFayette’s arrival at Independence Hall Philad\a Sep\t 28th 1824, Winterthur Museum. The Germantown Print Works produced the most spectacular souvenirs of the Lafayette celebrations: printed linen handkerchiefs. The one shown here depicts architect William Strickland’s massive stageprop ceremonial arch, based on the Septimus Severus Arch in Rome. Workers erected it across the street from Independence Hall (missing its cupola, which had rotted badly and been torn down). A balloon begins its ascent as six white horses draw Lafayette through the arch in a decked-out barouche.

Fervor in Philadelphia far outlasted Lafayette’s seven-day visit. Two weeks after his departure for points south, the Saturday Evening Post reported that “We wrap our bodies in La Fayette coats during the day, and repose between La Fayette blankets at night.… We have La Fayette bread, La Fayette butter, La Fayette beef, and La Fayette vegetables … Even the ladies distinguish their proper from common kisses, under the title ‘La Fayette smooches.’”⁸ Entrepreneurs scrambled to put Lafayette’s image on whatever appeared to have commercial potential—snuffboxes, cravats, brandy flasks, white kid gloves, pitchers, glasses, and gewgaws. The flesh-and-blood Lafayette might never return, but Philadelphians could cherish his memory through souvenirs of the week-long celebration. Suddenly, they began to see that while history is about the past, it is for the future.

The anticipation of Lafayette’s visit brought renewed attention to Independence Hall as an icon associated with the American Revolution. “Through word and image,” historian Charlene Mires explains, “Lafayette’s visit redefined the State House as a significant bridge between past and present.”⁹ Choosing the east room of the State House as the proper place to receive Lafayette, Philadelphia officials commissioned the redecoration of the now shabby chamber. This produced a room more handsomely furnished than it had been when the delegates to the Second Continental Congress signed the Declaration of Independence. But enhancing the memory of the “glorious cause” seemed fitting at a time when Philadelphia’s leaders were worrying about a noble era slipping away in the memory of a new generation.¹⁰

Lafayette brilliantly refocused attention on the virtue and heroism of the revolutionary generation in a way that kindled Philadelphians’ reverence for historic sites that could be transformed into sacred spaces. After the mayor of Philadelphia welcomed Lafayette to “this hallowed Hall” (the east room of the State House), Lafayette drove home the point: “Here within these sacred walls … was boldly declared the independence of these United States. Here, sir, was planned the formation of our virtuous, brave, revolutionary army and the providential inspiration received that gave the command of it to our beloved, matchless Washington.”¹¹ From this point on, the usage “State House” changed to “Independence Hall.” One of the last living links to the Revolution, Lafayette was instrumental in hurrying the old State House along its way to becoming a national shrine.

The power of buildings and civic observances to connect the present with the past, becoming manifest during Lafayette’s visit, resurfaced two years later, in 1826, as city leaders prepared for the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. Especially moved to action was a group of patrician Philadelphians who banded together for a dinner in the house that William Penn had occupied during his last sojourn in Philadelphia, from 1699 to 1701. By the 1820s, Penn’s house had been converted into Doyle’s Hotel, but this did not diminish the enthusiasm of an august group, many of them the great-great-grandchildren of Penn’s compatriots, from setting a new agenda for using the past for present purposes. “A new current of feeling seems to have set in,” one of the dinner participants wrote, and emotions were stoked by the dinner address of the aged Peter Du Ponceau, who had come to America with Lafayette to fight for liberty’s cause. At the time president of the American Philosophical Society, Du Ponceau gave an address “full of the fire of the patriot and the taste of the scholar.” He reminded his friends that “there is a love of country which has a hallowed cast, from commingling thankfulness for blessings with the memory of the mighty dead.… We are among those who believe there is inspiration in these things, and our creed is that a man who can tread over the ashes of the dead with indifference, and contemplate the deeds of other times without emotion, cannot be a patriot or hero.”¹²

From this dinner, beginning with festiveness and ending with a sense of mission, came the founding of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. Although it was not the first Philadelphia institution to collect manuscripts, books, and artifacts that could preserve memory of the past or use it to refurbish the present, the Historical Society would slowly emerge as the largest, most important, and most influential. Already the Library Company of Philadelphia, the American Philosophical Society, and the Athenaeum of Philadelphia were in the business of preserving the past, but now the Historical Society began to assume a central place among institutions devoted to warding off historical amnesia.

The four events between 1816 and 1826—saving Independence Hall, arguing over the Colonization Society’s plans to repatriate African Americans, celebrating Lafayette’s visit, and founding the Historical Society of Pennsylvania—focused the attention of many Philadelphians on history’s value and history’s power. After this formative decade, the process of constructing a web of memory never ceased. Engaging the passion of an increasing number of leaders and becoming the mission of a growing number of institutions, remembering Philadelphia would become in time a thriving enterprise. But, as we will see, this was far from an easy task, made all the more complicated by the fact that Philadelphians, in their growing diversity, came to understand that memory-making was neither a value-free and politically sanitized matter nor a mental activity promising everyone the same rewards. As soon as people began to see that the shaping of Philadelphia’s past was a partisan activity, involving a certain silencing of the city’s history, the process of remembering Philadelphia became a contested matter—and has remained so ever since.

I was inspired to write this book after my involvement with an exhibition—Visions and Revisions: Finding Philadelphia’s Past—that opened in November 1989 at the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. Working on the exhibit obliged me to confront many of the issues examined here, especially the ongoing process of rediscovering and redefining American history—in this case the history of Philadelphia and the surrounding region. Behind every element of the book, as with the exhibit, lies the belief that historical societies, like art museums, are not dispassionate and impartial venues but rather institutions that carry out, however subtly, ideological, cultural, and politically informed agendas. The exhibition traced the city’s fascinating history from before the arrival of William Penn’s first Quaker settlers to the early twentieth century. Its creators strove to convey a new appreciation of how people of widely diverse origins, of all classes and conditions, came to Philadelphia, lived there, and contributed to its making. We wanted viewers to understand what it was like to live in the city during different eras, in the midst of the swirl of change brought about by revolution, industrialization, mass immigration, religious awakenings, civil war, and more. Through artifacts and words, we attempted to show how Philadelphians, in all their variety, experienced and influenced the course of urban life during times of growth and times of depression, moments of celebration and moments of crisis, eras of confidence and eras of confusion. We aimed to convey something of what it was like in different eras to be child or adult, female or male, black or white, immigrant or native-born, of great or slender means, of different religious commitments. In short, the intention of the exhibit was to introduce readers to a Philadelphia they barely knew.¹³

First City: Philadelphia and the Forging of Historical Memory, while exploring chapters of Philadelphia history that have been reworked and enriched by talented historians of this generation, makes no claim to comprehensiveness. Rather, it treats the city synoptically in a series of era-based chapters, where particular elements of social and cultural history are provided within a framework of economic and political history. With no attempt to provide exhaustive detail, I take special pains in throwing light on the role that heretofore relatively anonymous groups in urban society—women, racial and religious minorities, and laboring people—have played in shaping the city’s history. In doing so, I join others in attempting to restore to memory lost chapters of the city’s history.

To fix our gaze downward is somewhat at odds with history’s gatekeepers of earlier generations. For the founders of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania and the city’s other cultural institutions, the great change-makers were men like William Penn, the founder; James Logan, the statesman and scientist; Benjamin Franklin, the diplomat, civic improver, publisher, scientist, and statesman; and a panoply of revolutionary heroes from Washington and Jefferson to Adams and Dickinson. Great men made history; ordinary people followed their lead. Hence remembering the past in heroic, almost providential, terms was an exercise in stabilizing society and legitimating order, authority, and status. Looking backward for inspiration to great leaders could provide balance in times of bewildering change, friction, and outright conflict.

This vision of history’s uses, dominant everywhere in the world for many centuries, has been called by J. H. Plumb “confirmatory history”—a “narration of events of particular people, nations or communities in order to justify authority, to create confidence and to secure stability.”¹⁴ Certainly this was the vision of the early nineteenth-century founders of historical societies in the United States. John Fanning Watson, Philadelphia’s first chronicler writing before the Civil War, lamented the passing of “our former golden age of moderation and virtue” and was sickened at the effects of “foreign influence,” which made it impossible for anyone living in an immigrant-filled city such as New York or Philadelphia to “claim [it] to be an American city.”¹⁵ Even in a society that regarded its democratic institutions and egalitarian ethos as nearly unique, written history in the United States, as elsewhere, was the personal property of those with political, social, religious, and economic authority. As the Haitian historian Michel-Rolph Trouillot puts it, “Lived inequalities yield unequal historical power.”¹⁶

But in the past few decades we have seen a flowering of an American history sensitive to gender, race, religion, and class, which is to say, a democratized history. In no small part, this has happened because the old guild of historians has yielded to a much more diverse set of practitioners. With new questions to carry to the sources and new stories to tell, people who previously had slender claims to be the custodians of the past have found their voices. This redistribution of the property in history has offended many people, including some academic historians, because they miss what they remember as a more coherent, worshipful, and annealing rendition of the past. Yet the explosion of historical knowledge has invigorated history and increased its popularity. People who find in accounts of the past figures like themselves—alike in color or class, religion or region, sex or social situation—naturally find history more satisfying than when it is simply organized around a triumphalist version of the past in which the occupants of the national pantheon, representing a very narrow slice of society, get most of the play. Narratives of glory will always have a market, but human empathy with less than oversized figures, as much in history as in literature, has created a market as well. Moreover, only an inclusive history can overcome the defeatist notion that the past was inevitably determined. This is particularly fitting in an open and generally optimistic society that prizes the autonomy of the individual. If the history we are making today is subject to human will, or what historians call human agency, then yesterday’s history must have been fluid and unpredictable rather than moving along some predetermined course. If history did not unfold inevitably in Philadelphia, then surely a great many people must have been significant actors in the unfolding. Such a consciousness of a complex and contingent past quickens people to the idea that they too can contribute to a different future. If presented inclusively, history has a powerful potential to impart a sense of individuality, of the possibilities of choice, of the human capacity for both good and evil.

Woven into this history of Philadelphia is a second theme: how certain Philadelphians in the past wanted to remember the city’s history and how contests over managing and manipulating historical memory arose. “In history,” writes Trouillot, “power begins at the source,” as the production of historical materials begins with historical actors of yore and proceeds with those who follow to assemble and preserve these materials.¹⁷ Accordingly, this is the story of how museums, libraries, and historical societies, beginning in the late eighteenth century, became instrumental in transmitting historical memory from one generation to another by collecting, preserving, and exhibiting what they regarded as the stuff of history. But how did these institutional trustees decide what counted as a historical object or a source worth preserving? Such decision-making, as we shall see, has usually been inconsistent, sometimes full of contradictions, and often incapable of controlling the flow of historical materials coming “over the transom.” What has remained constant is the belief that history matters. Continuously under negotiation, inside boardrooms and outside in the community at large, has been a set of questions: What constitutes history? How is historical memory cultivated, perpetuated, deflected, and overturned? What do we need to know about the past, and who is entitled to reconstruct it? How does the past help us make sense of the present? Who has the authority to answer these questions?

By exploring the values and dispositions of Philadelphia’s collecting and exhibiting institutions, I hope to explain what the leaders of Philadelphia’s cultural agencies had in mind as they went about the work of gathering materials that would preserve the past; how the city’s cultural institutions constructed their relations with audiences, appealing to some while discouraging others; how they positioned themselves as authoritative custodians of the past and decorated authors of master narratives; how their audiences absorbed or resisted the memories of the past that their cultural leaders wanted to inscribe on the public mind; and how those outside the select circle of history’s guardians contested official commemorations and constructed alternative remembrances of the past.

Readers will find that this book is much more about attempts to cultivate historical memory than about how well these endeavors succeeded. As we know from a sprawling literature on how individual memory operates—the work of psychologists, brain researchers, oral historians, and sociologists—remembering the past is an imperfect, incomplete, ever-shifting, and fragile matter. Short-term and long-term personal memory operates very differently in the mind of the ordinary individual, and individual historical memory is an equally fickle affair. Assaying public memory—collective understanding of the past—is even harder. Every generation or so, a survey shows that most Americans know almost nothing about the past. Even large proportions of high school students, having just studied American history, get confused about whether the American Revolution preceded or followed the Civil War. In 2000 Congress committed $50 million to cure an abysmal recollection of the nation’s past (according to a study that differs little from a similar assessment conducted in 1940) without an intelligent discussion of how history has been taught in the past, without a consideration about how the management of memory has been roundly contested, and without a moment’s thought about how the average citizen will use a memory of the past—which memory?—to bring about specific outcomes in the world’s largest democracy. Nor have researchers been able to reach firm conclusions about exactly how memory is implanted: By school textbooks? By movies, radio, and television? By tales told by elders around the dining room table? By Colonial Williamsburg, Sturbridge Village, Plimoth Plantation, Valley Forge, and hundreds of other historic sites? By historical novels and popular biographies? Or by Disneyland? My objective in this book is to explore how institutional elites, often challenged by Philadelphians far beneath them in social station, tried to cultivate historical memory. But the task of determining exactly what was remembered in a populous, diverse, and changing Philadelphia awaits another historian who has at hand a methodology not yet invented.

This is a Philadelphia story as it unfolds over more than two centuries. No city’s history is the same as any other’s, and certainly none is quite like Philadelphia’s. But William Penn’s “green country town” is a particularly appropriate place to study the contest over historical memory because the city was so closely associated with the nation’s founding, revolution, and nation building, all rich subjects for historical memory. In addition, memory-making in Philadelphia is unusually fascinating because it has been complicated by the city’s rich variety of ethnic, racial, and religious groups, often mutually antagonistic, often remembering the past differently. Fitting the pacifist and influential Quakers, the largest and most important free black population in post-revolutionary America, and the nineteenth-century waves of Irish Catholics and eastern European Jews into a unified and unifying history has been an exquisite challenge for myth-makers at the city’s elite institutions.

While Philadelphia has its own narrative and its own fascinating cast of storytellers, remembering history is not unique to Philadelphia. It is shared by every community that produces, consumes, and markets history.¹⁸ Therefore, this book presumes to provide a model for examining the process of memory-making: how particular people with vested power reconstructed the past through collecting, narrating, and interpreting; how that history was presented to the public; and how individuals and groups outside the circle of cultural arbiters tried to gain a claim on the past by resisting “official” truth and telling different stories. As in most other cities, deep inequalities in how Philadelphia society functioned were paralleled by inequalities in the official historical narratives. But in the Quaker city, as in other communities, the mantle of legitimacy could not prevent subordinate storytellers from trying to break through layers of silence. Not all the world is Philadelphia, but in every site of human habitation the process of constructing memory has proceeded in ways this study hopes to make clear.¹⁹

In the pages that follow, the reader will find an abundance of images. I have chosen them with three purposes in mind. Some of the images are chosen because they evoke a sense of the character and rhythm of urban life in different eras in ways that often elude textual materials. Others convey how Philadelphia imprinted itself on the minds of artists, lithographers, and photographers, who turned their impressions into collectible views of the city, whimsical or sardonic scenes meant to entertain, or frankly propagandistic vehicles commissioned by those exercising one kind of power or another. Finally, still other images depict a variety of sources, drawn from material culture as well as paper-based archives, that have helped historians in recent years to uncover chapters of Philadelphia’s hidden past. Taken together, the range of images is also meant to carry forward the message of what it means to collect the documentary, artifactual, and artistic records of the past. I have paid more than casual attention to the captions accompanying the images, because it is here that I tell much of the story about how and when a particular piece of the past found its way to a collecting institution. Part of that account is about the vagaries as well as the priorities that explain just what the scholar or curious citizen, in search of a piece of the past, can find today when entering the doors of the Library Company, the Athenaeum, the Historical Society, the Atwater Kent Museum of Philadelphia History, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and a host of other institutions. Every institution has collecting priorities and policies, which have changed over time, but assembling historical materials has depended at least as much on what appears on one’s doorstep as on what one chooses to collect.

Just as people have seen their history through different lenses—depending on who they are, their reasons for consulting historical accounts, and what experiences, ideas, and values they bring to the act of looking backward—every article of material culture and every scrap of written language is susceptible to variant interpretations. The meaning of the Declaration of Independence and the intention of its authors are argued as strenuously today as two hundred years ago. Chairs, dolls, samplers, trade cards, paintings, lithographs—even photographs—all speak to us in a variety of ways, and their meaning and value to the collector or curator change with time, sometimes dramatically. Some of the artifacts portrayed in the following pages, such as the image of Washington on a pitcher or a Civil War battle scene, were created at particular historic moments to influence the way people thought about the past. Others—a tall-case clock or a decorated fireman’s parade helmet—were not created for pedagogic or political use but have enabled historians and curators in our own times to recapture parts of the past otherwise undisclosed in textual materials. With this in mind, the meaty caption accompanying each illustration is meant to lean on the ingenuity of Philadelphia’s quintessential eighteenth-century citizen, Benjamin Franklin. Printer Ben invented bifocal glasses for people who needed their vision adjusted so they could see the world clearly in both short and long perspectives. In this book, I am engaged in something similar—asking readers to gaze bifocally sometimes trifocally in order to see the past as it was experienced differently by Philadelphians of various stations in life; to see how our understanding of bygone eras depends partly on what historical materials were collected, preserved, and exhibited; to look at artifacts, documents, and paintings from different angles of vision. The text of what follows ought to make some sense without the illustrations, and the illustrations, without text, should give new perspectives on the past. But word and image, like pie and ice cream, are meant to be savored together.