At the first session of the Continental Congress in Philadelphia, in 1774, although it was composed of the foremost men in the country, very little was done, except to recommend to the different provinces the non-importation of British goods, with a view of forcing England into conciliatory measures; at which British statesmen laughed.  The only result of this self-denying ordinance was to compel people to wear homespun and forego tea and coffee and other luxuries, while little was gained, except to excite the apprehension of English merchants.  Yet this was no small affair in America, for we infer from the letters of John Adams to his wife that the habits of the wealthy citizens of Philadelphia were even then luxurious, much more so than in Boston.  We read of a dinner given to Adams and other delegates by a young Quaker lawyer, at which were served ducks, hams, chickens, beef, pig, tarts, cream, custards, jellies, trifles, floating islands, beer, porter, punch, wine, and a long list of other things.  All such indulgences, and many others, the earnest men and women of that day undertook cheerfully to deny themselves.

Adams returned these civilities by dining a party on salt fish,—­perhaps as a rebuke to the costly entertainments with which he was surfeited, and which seemed to him unseasonable in “times that tried men’s souls.”  But when have Philadelphia Quakers disdained what is called good living?

Adams, at first delighted with the superior men he met, before long was impatient with the deliberations of the Congress, and severely criticised the delegates.  “Every man,” wrote he, “upon every occasion must show his oratory, his criticism, and his political abilities.  The consequence of this is that business is drawn and spun out to an immeasurable length.  I believe, if it was moved and seconded that we should come to a resolution that three and two make five, we should be entertained with logic and rhetoric, law, history, politics, and mathematics; and then—­we should pass the resolution unanimously in the affirmative.  These great wits, these subtle critics, these refined geniuses, these learned lawyers, these wise statesmen, are so fond of showing their parts and powers as to make their consultations very tedious.  Young Ned Rutledge is a perfect bob-o-lincoln,—­a swallow, a sparrow, a peacock; excessively vain, excessively weak, and excessively variable and unsteady, jejune, inane, and puerile.”  Sharp words these!  This session of Congress resulted in little else than the interchange of opinions between Northern and Southern statesmen.  It was a mere advisory body, useful, however, in preparing the way for a union of the Colonies in the coming contest.  It evidently did not “mean business,” and “business” was what Adams wanted, rather than a vain display of abilities without any practical purpose.