Wirt, writing a year or two later to a friend, likened the borough
to a hive in which their was no drone. The outward appearance of things
was bad enough. The houses on the wharves and in the business streets
were all of wood, and have since been swept away by successive fires.
There was not a paved street within the bills of mortality. Immense
pools of mud and water were seen everywhere; and it was a favorite
amusement of the boys to watch the attempt of a loaded dray to pass
through those beds of muck. There were three merchants at farthest,
whose wealth, on a most liberal estimate, might possibly average
$100,000, though they thought themselves worth a good deal more. There
was but one brick church, and that was the present St. Paul's, not, as
we now see it, with its tasteful interior, but a rude brickkiln with an
enormous cocked hat stuck upon it. The people heard preaching in the
upper rooms of warehouses, in the court-house, or in some rickety
concern knocked up for the nonce. The clergy fared badly. The rector of
a large brick church, then rising, with a wealthy congregation, received
for his services one hundred pounds, Virginia currency, which equal
three hundred and thirty-three dollars and thirty-three cents of our
money, and both pastor and people seemed to be satisfied with the
bargain.
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