Charles Willson Peale, the artist, known as the elder Peale, was curator of the Philosophical Society for many years, and one of its most active members. He did good work in many lines, being a man of scientific tastes and large public spirit. The society owes him a debt of gratitude for handing down to this generation portraits of its most illustrious officers and members. Mr. Peale rented a number of rooms in the old house on Fifth Street, having his museum in the building, and bringing up there his family of artist children, Raphael, Rembrandt, Titian, Van-dyck, and Rubens,--names still known in American art, that of Rembrandt being the most distinguished. In 1796 Mr. Peale presented to the assembled philosophers a son four months and four days old, born in the building, requesting them to name him. The society, upon this, unanimously agreed that the child should be called Franklin, after their chief founder and first president. “Franklin Peale,” says his biographer, “did not disgrace his sponsors. He grew up thoughtful and philosophical.” His genius was in the mechanical line. He was one of the founders of the Franklin Institute, and for many years discharged with great ability the office of chief coiner at the United States Mint. One of Mr. Peale’s friends, who became an active and valued member of the society, was the learned Abbé de Serra, Portuguese Minister to the United States. This reverend gentleman scandalized Mrs. Peale, whose neatness was phenomenal, by appearing at her door so dusty and shabby (he was not a handsome man at his best) that the dainty Quakeress waved him away from her spotless threshold, saying, “No, my good man, I have no time to attend to you now;” little thinking that the “good man” was the expected guest in whose honor she had donned her best satin gown, and prepared a savory repast, whose crowning triumph was a dish of asparagus from Mr. Peale’s garden, then a greater rarity than now. The Abbé had been on a geological tramp with Mr. Peale, and when that gentleman rallied his wife on treating his friend and guest like a beggar, the excellent lady justified herself by saying that, after all, he could not be much of a gentleman, as he “helped himself to the asparagus with his fingers;” eating it, of course, after the French fashion.