The merchant princes clung to the ways and fashions
of colonial days, or of 1790 at the latest, unwilling to
admit even by the cut of a waistcoat that Robespierre
could change their world. At eight or eight-thirty the
well-to-do Boston merchant appeared among his fam-
ily in China silk dressing-gown and cap, as Copley had
painted his father. Short family prayers, and a hearty
breakfast by a blazing hickory fire. Then the mysteries
of the toilet, performed by body servant or, preferably,
by a neighborhood Figaro, a San Domingo refugee who
discreetly gossips while he performs the rite of shav-
ing. Hair is dressed, tied in a queue, and powdered;
unless there is a white wig to be nicely adjusted. A
fresh white cravat with long lapels, is folded and skill-
fully tied. Then for the nether limbs. Linen drawers
are tied down, silk stockings pulled up smooth, and gar-
tered against all chance of ungentlemanly wrinkling;
buff nankeen breeches arranged neatly over them and
silver buckle drawn tight. Low-hung waistcoat and
broad-skirted coat of light-colored broadcloth come
next. After a few parting suggestions to his lady,
Master takes a stout gold-headed Malacca-joint cane,
three-cornered hat, scarlet cloak if chilly, and sallies
forth on foot, followed by Cicero, the colored butler,
with huge market-basket. For it is the simple custom
of the day, on one's way to business, to choose the
materials for one's dinner, in the neighborhood of
Faneuil Hall.

130



MERCHANTS AND MANSIONS

Suppose one of those sharp, bright winter days, fol-
lowing a fresh snowfall that has etched the outlines of
new brick shops and black old gabled houses with high
lights. Huge " pungs " (ox- or horse-drawn sledges) , the
connecting links between ocean commerce and New
England farms, are drawn up in Dock Square three
deep and piled high with butter, cheeses, fresh and
salt meat, game, winter vegetables, wooden ware, and
barrels of cider and perry, from some of which small
boys are sucking through a straw until the owner
shouts "Hey, you've had your penny-worth!"
Through this cheerful activity strolls our merchant,
and having chosen his joint and poultry and game
and fixings, sends his servant home, and continues
to his counting-room on India Wharf, or near by.

If it is winter, there is not much to do; for the larger
vessels are away; but there are always accounts to be
made up, tea and silks to be withdrawn from bond, and
plans for next season discussed with master builders.
At eleven, Henry the chief clerk mixes a stiff jorum of
Jamaica rum, to get himself and master through the
morning. At half-after twelve or one, the business
day ends, save for the genial institution of 'Change.
This is a meeting of all the merchants, on the sidewalk
of State Street if weather permits, otherwise in tavern
or insurance office, to talk shop, ships, and politics
for a half-hour or so.

By two o'clock the merchant is at home again, and
at two-thirty comes dinner. Perhaps it is a formal
feast, in the oval dining-room, with some fellow-mer-
chants, a state senator or two, a judge, and their re-
spective ladies; begun by a hot punch handed to the
gentlemen in a China loving-cup; continued through
several substantial courses, washed down with sherry,
madeira, and (rarely) champagne ; prolonged into can-



MARITIME HISTORY OF MASSACHUSETTS

dlelight after the ladies retire and the cloth is removed,
by port, brandy, political gossip, and damning the
Jacobins. If an ordinary family dinner, it is followed
by a sleigh-ride, or, in long summer days, a family
drive in coach or high English phaeton, behind fat
bays, to take tea and fruit at some country seat
with Harry Otis at Oakley, or Kitty Gore at Waltham,
or John Lowell at Roxbury, or Ben Bussey at Jamaica
Plain. A ball or evening supper party, perhaps; other-
wise a cold supper and glass of madeira at home, ' and
so to bed.'