The Book of
Philadelphia
By Robert
Shackleton
©1918
The Penn
Publishing Company
Philadelphia
Chapter XIV
A CITY OF
THE CLASSIC
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218
HEREVER one turns, in Philadelphia, down any street, in any
quarter of the city, one may expect to come upon buildings, new or old;
designed on classic lines, with Grecian pillars and porticoes. The people
should be connoisseurs of the classic, for the city is sprinkled with the
classic, and its architects know and love the classic. This is largely owing to
the influence of that Nicholas Biddle with whom, as head of the United States
Bank, President Andrew Jackson carried on a contest. Biddle's love for the
classic in architecture was intense, and being a man of wealth and influence
his influence in this particular was strong.
Nor did he
exert classical influence on public buildings or churchly buildings alone. He
carried out his ideas superbly with his own property. On
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his great
estate of Andalusia on the Delaware River, the way to Bristol (to be
Philadelphian, one should mention that the estate belonged to his wife and thus
came under his control), on this estate he built a mansion, with splendid
classic-pillared front, a mansion notable not only for its pillared beauty, but
for the beauty of its setting, with the great river sweeping by in front, with
towering trees, with grass and greenery and seclusion, in all a triumph of
beauty.
It used to be
that the name "Biddle" stood in the public mind for
"family" in Philadelphia, in a semi-jesting way; and it is still told
that at the reception given to the Prince of Wales; some sixty years ago, so
many people were pointed out by the mentor who stood beside him, as
"Biddles," that he asked, after a while, "Pray, tell me, what is
a biddle?" But the family can point to sober prominence in business
affairs, and to honorable prominence in the various wars of our country, as
well as to the architectural influence of the notable Nicholas.
Among the
finest of the classic buildings of the city is that of the old Girard National
Bank, on South Third Street; a superbly proportioned structure, with central
projecting pillared portico standing at the height of a few steps above the
sidewalk; this building being the oldest in the city that has classic pillars
and portico, it having been built over a century ago. And, to show that age is
not necessary to beauty, there is the unusually beautiful building of the
Girard Trust Company, put up but a
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220
few years ago
at Broad and Chestnut streets from the designs of Stanford White: a building
nobly following the Pantheon in inspiration.
The stately
dignity of the big Custom House on Chestnut Street, the graceful attractiveness
of the broad-fronted Presbyterian church on Washington Square; such are among
the old; and among the many new are some beautiful new classic buildings of
charitable foundations far out on Broad Street.
The influence
of Biddle for the classic was backed and increased by that of Benjamin Latrobe,
who designed several of the most beautiful early classic structures of this
city, among them that architectural gem, judging from pictures, the building of
the Academy of Fine Arts which was destroyed by fire and in place of which the
Academy, rather than reproduce, put up its present queer structure on Broad
Street.
A few years
ago I chanced upon a quaint little place called Fulneck, not far from Leeds in
England, a village of the Moravians, which still bore the aspect as of Moravia,
there in the heart of, England; a place of immaculate neatness and cleanliness
and gentle courtesy, a place of quaintness of roof lines, and gables. It is
situated up a highway, but it retains an ancient right to close the highway,
but it at times exercises the right so that it shall not fall into desuetude;
and, apparently as a consequence of this, the distance between the village and
Leeds is threaded with shoulder-wide footpaths, running deviously for the most
part, between stone walls
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221
standing at
more than a man's height; in all, a queer corner, oddly approached; but I did
not know, while there, that this was the birthplace of the great Latrobe, his
father being a Moravian clergyman.
The closing of
the highway must have prepared Latrobe to notice, without the surprise which it
used to cause to other newcomers, the Philadelphia system of roping off the
streets, beside the churches, during, of hours of worship, thus effectively
enforcing quiet, a system in vogue here until some years after the architect's
death.
Largest and
most ambitious of the classic fronts is that of the Ridgeway library, at Broad
and Christian streets. It has a Doric-pillared frontage of well two hundred
feet, it is a structure of granite and it is devoted principally to the
gathering of books and manuscripts relating to American history; fiction being
altogether taboo.
The son of the
famous Doctor Benjamin Rush, of Revolutionary times—of whom the intelligent
Philadelphian of to-day will speak, as naturally as if it were of yesterday,
commenting that he probably lost the friendship of Washington through some
connection with the Conway Cabal; for a hundred years are but a day to the
typical Philadelphian—the son of that distinguished doctor, himself a doctor
not particularly distinguished, married a Ridgeway. She was wealthy; he was far
from wealthy. She loved gayety, he quietude. She loved the glitter of society
and the presence of throngs of friends; he loved books and seclusion.
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222
She built a
mighty mansion on Chestnut Street above Nineteenth. She gave dazzling social
entertainments. Six thousand wax candles would be blazing, and there would be
hundreds of guests. Her dinners were sumptuous affairs.
But as a
social leader she failed. She had not sufficient standing to begin with, and
she tried to amalgamate South of Market Street with North, and this was the
unforgivable sin.
Naturally,
there came, with the disappointment, bitterness and estrangement. It has even
been whispered that there came jealousy; and a tale is vaguely told of a secret
stair in that great mansion; but likely enough it is based on nothing more than
a desire to evoke some shadow of romance to go with the Arabian Nights tales of
extravagant living.
The wife died;
and the huge fortune became the husband's. He died; and left it for the
building of this library. It is officially a branch of the Franklin-founded
Philadelphia Library, but never was money so wasted. It is a temple of
learning, a treasure-house of the invaluable. But it is separated from the
center of the city by the South Street neighborhood. It is really but a short
distance away from where it ought to be. It is but ten minutes walk from the
heart of the city; it is but a short ride; it is less than five minutes by
motor. But to this city, a minute to get to the wrong locality is more than an
hour spent in getting to the right locality. No one goes to the Ridgeway. Even
to historical students it looms in the imagination with its bookish
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223
treasures, as
if it were in some distant land. Most of the people of the city have never even
seen the exterior of the building. It is a sort of myth.
I have never
seen more than three readers at one time in the huge building. I have seldom
chanced to find even so many as three. I was there this very afternoon, and not
a reader, besides myself, was anywhere within the mighty extent of space. As
five o'clock approached, the closing hour, a man came in, and, asking for some
book, began to glance over it at the delivery desk; and I left him there, the
sole reader or visitor.
The location
of the building was fixed by Rush on his deathbed; not content with putting his
wife's money to a use with which she would have felt no sympathy, he ordered a
building in a location that she would have intensely disliked. The courts were
appealed to, on the ground of preventing waste of a fortune; but the dead hand
bore too heavily.
The Chestnut
Street mansion was turned into a hotel apartment house, and so altered that no
outward indication of the original remains; but there are stately rooms,
corniced and high-ceilinged, which were rooms through which thronged the
endless lines of the guests of the unhappy Mrs. Rush.
The United
States Mint, on Chestnut Street near Broad, was among the finest of the city's
classic structures, and it had the admiration of every resident and of every
visitor. It was torn down, a few years ago, and the present Mint, a huge
structure, was built on Spring Garden Street; rather an im-
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pressive
building, put in a far from impressive location, but a disappointment when
compared with the beautiful structure that it supplanted.
Paul Revere of
Boston would have become a Philadelphian could he have obtained the position of
Director of the Mint, for which he applied. But he had no political friends at
our republican court and his application was disregarded. Combined artist and
artisan that he was, he would have given the Mint and its products high
distinction.
The Franklin
Institute, on Seventh Street, is a classic building of unusual lines; It is
nearing the century mark and its dark gray stone is growing grayer and darker
with age: Across its front are four square-sided pillars; but on a second
glance one notices that they are not really pillars, but pilasters so heavy and
projective as to be buttress-like. It is a front of dignity, and of absolute
plainness except for a row of classic wreaths across the square-lined frieze.
The Institute, devoted to technical scientific education, is almost a century
old, and proud though it is of its scientific library, it is even prouder in
the possession of Franklin's electrical machine.
A striking
feature of the city is the extent to which it has built enclosing walls. The
natural tendency of old-fashioned folk here has been, to put up walls of stone
or brick around meeting-houses, hospitals, burial-grounds, gardens, school
houses, private gardens, public or semi-public institutions. It has served to
express the Philadelphia desire for privacy and at the same time has added a
great deal of
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picturesqueness.
And Girard College carried the idea to such an extreme that its mighty extent
of mighty wall is remindful of some British park-enclosing wall of endless
length. And fortunately we have Girard's own idea, expressed in his own words,
as to the kind of wall that should be built around the grounds of his college
(which, by the way, was not to be a college in the usual meaning of the word,
for boys were to enter under ten and were to leave at not over eighteen). It
was to be “a solid wall, at least fourteen inches thick, capped with marble and
guarded with irons on the top so as to prevent persons from getting over;"
but he omitted to state whether the intent was mainly to keep the boys in or
other boys out.
Within the
walled enclosures are numerous college buildings which have from time to time
been erected, but noblest of all, and one of the noblest classic buildings of
this or any other city, is the main building, with splendid lines of Corinthian
pillars along the face and sides and back; there are thirty-four of these
columns, and each is fifty-six feet high. The building is two hundred feet in
length and one hundred and fifty in width, and a flight of ten steps surrounds
the entire structure.
Girard
directed, in his will, that the building be of white marble, plain sided and
that severely simple, with white marble roof and without pillars. The
architect, when ready to proceed, reported to the building committee that the
walls would not stand the strain if the building should be put up as the will
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directed.
Fortunately, Nicholas Biddle, Nicholas of the Classic, was a member of the
committee and its ruling spirit, and he saw the opportunity for a superb
display of classicism. The building should go up precisely as the will
directed—but, to safe-guard it, there should be this line of mighty pillars on
every side!
Girard was
born in Bordeaux; from his youth he was a sailor; and it was a fortunate chance
that put the English ships outside of the Delaware capes and led him to settle
in Philadelphia. He Americanized Etienne to Stephen; he became a merchant;
"mariner and merchant," as he loved to describe himself, the words
sounding rhythmically pleasant to him. A shrewd, hard-headed, rigid man of
business he was, a man whom none thought of as a man of special feeling or of
love for the nicenesses of life. Yet, tireless worker though he was, stern, severe,
exacting, he was ready to give with a liberal hand for excellent service, and
in his home he had fine food and wines, and costly china, and fine furniture.
He loved to entertain French visitors, and he had a pair of shoes for each
separate day of the week, and his underclothing was of silk; yet he seemed only
a plain, hard, prosaic man of business! When the yellow fever devastated and
depopulated the city he went as nurse into the houses that reeked with the
pestilence, and went about with the burial parties who cried dismally their
dismal cry, "Bring out your dead!"
When he
directed the founding of Girard College,
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which was to
be for the education of poor orphan boys, he gave preference, first, to boys of
Philadelphia; secondly, to boys of Pennsylvania; next to those of New York,
because that was the point he reached on his first voyage to America; and
lastly, to boys of New Orleans, that being the city with which he first traded
as independent owner.
His will
directed absolutely that there be no religious instruction in the college, and
to make this sure he further directed that no minister of any denomination be
even admitted within the grounds. The boys were to be taught morality and
patriotism, and high ideals of life.
The will was contested,
and Daniel Webster was retained to break it; and the great orator was not above
presenting, as his main argument, the claim that the will could not stand
unless the distribution of property which was directed by it came under the
head of charity, and that, as charity was not charity unless it was Christian
charity, the will must be void. But the judges, listening tolerantly, merely
smiled at such an argument in a State that had always, stood for freedom of
thought, and Webster went back to Boston defeated.
In front of
Girard's store on Water Street, while he was still a youthful merchant, was a
popular pump; the only drinking water of the city was from street pumps in
those early days! And one day he noticed a pretty girl drawing a pitcher of water.
The next day and the next he again saw and admired her. Her name was Polly Lum:
a name all
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ready and ripe
for romance! The ardent young French-American promptly fell ardently in love
with Polly Lum and Polly Lum loved as ardently in return. And so they were
married.
But only
tragedy came. Poor Polly Lum's mind failed. Her child died almost as soon as it
was born. It was necessary to place her in the Pennsylvania Hospital, and there
she lingered for twenty-five years. And Girard’s grief was pitiful when the end
at length came, and he stood beside her dead body. Poor Etienne! Poor Polly
Lum!
And after that
the grim-seeming man went about in his yellow gig as before, but more alone,
more lonely, more aloof. He thought of what good he could do with his huge and
mounting fortune. He gave generously to the hospital that had sheltered his
wife. In the War of 1812 he loaned without stint to the nation. He gave freely
for public uses, and his will perpetuates broad public uses. To the end of his
life a man strict in all his business affairs, there was a fine nobility about
him, and always, in his letters of instruction to the captains of his ships,
was the clause which strictly forbade them to receive on board any passenger or
cargo other than his own, followed invariably by, “But if you meet with
American seaman in distress you are to take them on board and bring them home
free of expense.”
But because
his own life romance had been broken, because Polly Lum was dead and the child
of Polly Lum was dead, and he was a wifeless and childless
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old man, his
heart went out to poor and orphan children, and thus came his plan for the
college, with its noble foundation of five millions—a huge fortune for that
time—which has now increased to over thirty-five millions. That splendid
building stands for stern and noble romance.
When, an old
man of over eighty, Girard found himself facing death, he would not yield.
Feeble, scarcely able to see, he went about his business affairs. He was knocked
down and run over, but somehow managed to get home. But he would not stay in
bed. “I will get up!” And he walked across the room, but only to grope his way
feebly back again, refusing help. Then he put his shaking hand to his head, and
his quivering lips whispered something about “violent disorder”: and with that
he died.
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Transcriber’s Note
For a short biography
of Girard (1750-1831) See: Appleton's Cyclopedia of
American Biography
[Girard
College]
