The Book of
Philadelphia
By Robert
Shackleton
©1918
The Penn Publishing
Company
Philadelphia
Chapter II
THE HIDDEN CHURCHES
Page 14
NLIKE other old cities, Philadelphia hides her old churches. Boston sets her old churches out to be seen
of all, in the heart of here busiest section, where business folk and citizens
of every kind, and all visitors to the city, see them perforce. New York set her fine old Trinity and the
still more ancient St. Paul’s so prominently in the forefront that all must needs see. Thus
to the throngs of Broadway, of Tremont Street, of Washington Street, are
displayed the fine preciousness of the fine old churches of the fine old
time. But in this, as in other matters,
Philadelphia is the city that is different!
Those who go down old-time Chestnut
Street or Market Street or Walnut Street look in vain for any indication of
long-past churchliness. And these are
the three old streets along which goes the traffic of the present day. And this in a city which so prides herself on
her churches and her churchliness!
Page 15
And even when one learns where the
old-time churches are to be found, it is a matter of difficulty for most
Philadelphians and for all visitors to find them. They are in out of the way corners, with no
far-seen upstanding spires that dominate or guide. Christ Church has a low spire that is hidden,
and St. Peter’s has a tall spire that is hidden, and Old Swedes has no spire at
all and is even more hidden. And when it
comes to St. Joseph’s—but that is still another story!
It is not that there has been any
effort to hide the churches. There has
never been persecution. The hiding has
been unintentional. From the earliest
days, Philadelphia has made welcome every kind of belief. and
almost every kind of disbelief. Quakers,
Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Roman Catholics, Free Thinkers like Girard or
Franklin but not quite the Free Thinker of the heedless outspokenness of Tom
Paine, have been made free of the city.
Far down town as it is, hidden in a
part of the city where there is no longer either business or living; have
seized upon old houses for there tenements; in a part of the city that is now
as distinct from social life as it is from business, although geographically on
the very borders of both, is old St. Peter’s, and I mention this church first,
because Philadelphia is a city that is still governed, in essentials, by
society, and St. Peter’s is the society church.
To be received as one of themselves by the members of St. Peter’s is all
that is necessary to show that one’s
Page 16
standing is established; those who permittedly pass St. Peter’s portal here, feel no qualms as
to being permitted entrance through St. Peter’s hereafter.
There is not obvious reason why this
should be a more aristocratic church than the still older Christ Church or the
church on Rittenhouse Square which represents, more
than any other of the modern churches, social leadership; but “facts is facts
and not to be drove,” as I think it was Sairy Gamp who observed.
The church is especially notable because it stands in its own graveyard;
and this is seriously or half seriously given as one cause of its
exclusiveness. For it is not the habit
of Philadelphia churches to stand in their own graveyards. Taking the general aspect of the city, the
churches are graveyardless almost to the extent of
new cities of the West.
Here and there is a church with a
patch of graves about it, as, so unexpectedly, the Catholic church
on 13th Street between Market and Chestnut.
But, broadly considered, it is a city without visible graveyard
evidences, except in the formal cemeteries.
St. Peter’s churchyard and that of old Swedes, where
successfully away from the knowledge of all but those locally born. The Philadelphian must always have shared the
Louis XIV dislike of seeing the place where he was to be buried. The graveyards and cemeteries, old and new
are mostly in remote places. The
largest, Laurel Hill East, West, North and South, are so cleverly perched above
park paths
Page17
and drives that they hold to their
Schuylkill side without being in the city scene. Broad Street has no Trinity
churchyard to point a moral to the busy Philadelphia; no Granary graveyard
looks out on happy Chestnut Street. Old
Arch Street graveyard would be hidden were it not that
the wall is cut for Franklin’s grave to show.
Is this perhaps an influence of the Friends, whose graveyards are
peaceful spots and not for show? Even
Woodlands is on a quiet road leading to Darby and is not a daily reminder to
many passers by.
It does certainly add to the dignity
of a church to be surrounded by rows of gravestones, for the general effect on
the general eye and consciousness as well on the personal pride of people who
can walk into church past the gravestones of their ancestors.
Much more effective as St. Peter’s
Church is one account of its graveyard, that is not the only reason for its
exclusiveness. After all, Swede’s Church
is surrounded by its own graveyard. Old
Christ Church found at an early day that it must secure burying space away from
the immediate vicinity of the church, which was becoming hedged about by
buildings, and thereupon established its graveyard in the large space at the
corner of Arch and Fifth streets.
The possession of a graveyard gives
opportunity to add an interest to a church by the interest of graves; and most
interesting in the graveyard of St. Peter’s is that of Decatur. When Stephen
Page 18
Decatur offered the toast, “My
country! May she be always right! But, right or wrong, my county!” he did not
know that the words were to become one of the proud possessions of our
country. For they express the sentiment
of a right good fighting man; his not to reason why, his but to do and
die. And it is odd that, after winning
fame in the Tripoli fighting and in the War of 1812, and winning, in general
belief, like that other hero of the 1812 war, Oliver Hazard Perry, the title of
“Commodore,” although neither of those gallant men were rewarded by a thankful
government with so high a title, Decatur should have died, not in battle but in
a duel. Decatur attacked in words the
conduct of another navy officer, James Barron, and, although Barron probably
deserved to be attacked, he was the better shot, and so the career of the
famous toast-maker ended in 1820, when he was but forty-one years of age. His grave is marked by a tall grooved column and on it is the
declaration that his “exploits in arms reflected the daring fictions of romance
and chivalry.” Beside this column is the low flat stone marking the grave of
that other Stephen Decatur, likewise a right good fighting man of the navy, his
father.
And poor Parson Duché
is buried here. He had rapidly arisen to
high prominence as rector of Christ Church and St. Peter’s, and had uttered such a prayer, before
the Continental Congress, at the beginning of the Revolution, as set him high
in public love. But when there came the
days of
Page 19
Valley Forge and it seemed that only
a miracle could save America, he gave up the cause for lost, and wrote Washington,
advising him to make the best possible terms with Britain, while he was still
able to negotiate at the head of the army.
The people turned against him. He fled.
And when, the war over, he crept back, his former assistant held the
double pastorate and there was no place for Duché. His pervious popularity, his prominent
connections, his former friends—nothing availed him, and he lingered on till
near the close of the century, and died, unhappy and unforgiven.
St Peter’s Church is lengthwise on
Pine Street, facing out across a great area of graves, many of them with the
old table-top, toward Fourth Street, and backing close up to Third Street. It was built in 1761, and was an offshoot of
Christ Church, and for years they were under the same rectorship. Washington, when his home was in
Philadelphia, attended sometimes one, sometimes the other, and Pew 41 is here
pointed out as his.
It is a brick church, the brick
being almost black with age; the building is of narrowish
effect, with slim belfry tower, six stories in height, also of brick,
surmounted by a narrowish wooded steeple which runs
narrowly to the peak. Vines clamber
freely up the front of the belfry tower to its very top, and the great
graveyard is green with grass and sheltered by the greenery of trees.
Inside, one notices at once how
small it is. It is even smaller than
Christ Church, which itself is
Page 20
small compared with the old churches of
New York or Boston, but it is somewhat larger than the toy-like Old Swedes.
The pews are square box-pews, said
to be of cedar, and painted white; and the plainness of it all, the simplicity,
the simple dignity, give a pleasant impression.
It is notable through having its
organ and altar at the eastern end and its pulpit, a loft, narrow, sounding-boarded
pulpit of white-painted cedar at the opposite end, thus compelling the rector
to conduct one portion of the service from one end of the church and the other
portion from the other end, and consequently compelling the occupants of the
square pews to sit facing on one direction during part of the service and to
change to the other seat, to face the other way, for that other part of the
service.
And Philadelphians love to tell that
a young man who in time become one of the most
prominent business men, was so attentive to a young woman of the St. Peter’s
set, whom he afterwards married, that he even dared to go to her church to see
her. It was his first visit to the
church, and hoping to slip in quietly and unobserved, he tiptoed to the
door. He stepped hesitatingly in—only to
retreat in panic because every eye was fixed directly upon him, the
congregation all facing his way; whereupon he quietly skipped to the other end,
and this time entered boldly, when what was his consternation to find that, the
rector, preceded by the verger, having duly
Page 21
paced the church’s length, the
congregation had all turned and again all faced him!
To St. Peter’s are ascribed two
stories which have spread from Philadelphia and have been applied to exclusive
churches here or there throughout the country.
But it is a pity to take such tales from their original habitat.
One is of the society leader who,
having it pointed out to her by the rector, that she
really ought to call upon and thus recognized a newcomer, still demurred. “But you will have to meet her in Heaven!” he
exclaimed. To which came the swift
retort, “Heaven will be quite soon enough!” And the other tale is of the woman who,
dying, was leaving a life throughout every day of
which every social duty had been punctiliously performed. “Don’t ask my friends to my funeral,” she
whispered, to her grief-stricken husband, “because I could not return their
calls!” And such stories are
illustrative.
Between Market and Arch streets, in
the heart of a region of three-storied business is buildings of reddish or
grayish or brownish brick and where, in a permeative
odor of coffee and spice, there is still a good deal of business carried on, is
old Christ Church, facing toward Second Street its niched
and entablature front.
It is a church which shows
exquisitely what triumphs may be attained in rich work; and the sober red,
dulled and darkened by the years, is dotted with black headers. There are many
Page 22
windows all curve-topped. The roof is heavily balustered
with white-painted pine, dulled by age to gray, with urns holding torches of
carved flame. And fine architectural
effects have been obtained around the windows and the doors and in the heavy
projective line dividing the two rows of windows. A brick belfry,
topped by a spire of white, rises then continues its charming rise at first
four-sided, then eight-sided, then in a spire narrowing to a point and to a
weathervane.
But if you fancy that perhaps there
is somewhat an overdone detail, it is possibly not altogether fancy. Not many years ago there was a fire; and the insurance company,
under its policy, chose to reconstruct many parts and did it admirably,
following original designs. But there
were some changes; the urns on the roof, for example, being of concrete-filled metal instead
of the perilous-for-fire white pine of the original structure.
In the brick pavement close about
the church one notices a few gravestones; and in particular, here is the grave
of James Wilson, a Signer of the Declaration, a signer of the Constitution, the
first chief justice of the State, a man of great consideration in his day.
And there are a number of flat
tombstones in the aisles of the church, indoors, reminding one of the French
marquis who at great expense bought the right to be buried upright within one
of the pillars
ARISTOCRIATIC ST. PETER’S
Page 23
of the cathedral of his town, so that,
as he expressed it, people would not be walking over his stomach for centuries.
Since the time of the Revolution the
pews have been torn out and replaced; they are now low, instead of high;
therefore there is not such interest as there might have been in knowing that
President Washington sat in Pew 58 and Betsey Ross in 12, that Franklin’s pew
was 70 and that of the author of “Hail Columbia!” was 65; and yet you may at
least see in what part of the church these celebrities sat; where George and
Martha sat and after them John and Abigail Adams.
Dr. John Kearsley,
a vestryman, was the architect, and Philadelphians like to point out, that this
church and Independence Hall, the two most distinguished old-time buildings of
the city, are to be credited to law and medicine, John Kearsley
designing one and a lawyer, Judge Hamilton, also of the same vestry, the other:
assuredly a most curious fact.
The general aspect of the interior
is simple and admirable; a smallish interior, too; with panel-fronted
galleries, with three white fluted pillars on either side, with bow-front
organ-loft with square-edged pillars at the corners in front, with brass
chandelier pendent in the center—a chandelier for candles, which has hung here
since 1749,—a wine-glass pulpit, set so far forward as to give a sense of
intimacy between preacher and people a Palladian window behind the alter
(Philadelphia
Page 24
loved Palladian windows!); and there
is much of new stained glass that in time will take on the precious softening
which comes with age.
The chime of eight bells—“Distant
and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of
Christ Church”—dates from the middle of the 1700’s. These bells echoed the sound when the Liberty
Bell rang forth its peal, and when the Liberty Bell was carried from the city
to avoid falling into the hands of the British, these bells also were taken,
and all remained in Allentown until after the British went away.
The custom has now come in of
ringing these church bells at noontime; ringing national anthems; a patriotic
sounding forth!—and, with our entry into the great war, a beautifully expressed
invitation was set, at the door, to enter and pray for our country, our
soldiers, our allies, our churches, the wounded and the dying and those who
mourn, and for “a just and lasting peace.”
Ancient records of the church are
still preserved; with such fascinating items as one which directed a ringing of
the bells on the occasion of the passing of Washington through the city. And there are items of expense, of over two
centuries ago, still to be picked out of the ancient books, such as “A poor
man’s grave, 6 s.”; “Mending the minister’s fences, 8 s.”; “A lock for the
church door, 12 s.”; “A cord of wood, 10 s.”; To bury a poor man, one notices,
cost only half as much as to put a lock on the church.
Page 25
Among its ancient treasures Christ
Church preciously preserves its old silver, flagons and patens, chalices and
plates, thin and delicate and light, in accord with the tradition of old-time
artisanship several of them given by Queen Anne, who so interested herself in
sending silver to the early churches of these early English colonies, and thus
materially tending to give fine remembrance to her name and fame here in
America.
Set within a slender stone paved
patch on either side, shut in by iron fencing, with shrubs and smallish trees
standing close, within the open spaces, there is a pleasantly leafy aspect, in
leaf-time with pleasant tilleul-like surroundings.
Washington used to come out, after
service, between the brick pillars, topped by stone balls, underneath the
beautiful arching wrought-iron which surmounts the iron gates; the only
wrought-iron gate and arch that I remember, in America, of anything like equal
beauty, except the gate and arch of ancient Westover, on the James. Washington’s coach was generally drawn by two
horses, fine Virginia bays with long “switch” tails; but not infrequently there
were four horses, and on rare occasions there were six, with postillions and outriders.
His coach at Christ Church entrance gate always drew an expectant
group. And it is not to be forgotten
that he frequently wore, to church, a rich blue Spanish cloak, faced with red
silk velvet.
At this gateway I noticed, the other
day, a large-lettered invitation which to the literal minded would
Page 26
seem to be a request to proselytized
among the Quakers, for with a delightfully unconscious humor it reads, “Come in
and Bring a Friend.”
Here, beside the church, lies the
body of that unquiet spirit, General Charles Lee, who, passionate and violent
as he was, was for once in his impetuous life awed by a passion greater than
his own, that of Washington when he met him retreating at Monmouth. Lee died suddenly in Philadelphia just before
the war came to its end. He had strongly
expressed the wish that his bones should not be placed in any church or
churchyard, or within a mile of any in Presbyterian or Anabaptist meeting
house. The Episcopalians were willing to
assume charge of his body, and in disregard of his wish, it was buried at the
outside edge of the churchyard. It is
still told in Scotland, as a pleasant winter evening’s tale, that when a
husband buried his wife in a graveyard where, so she had solemnly told him, she
would not be able to rest, he none the less placed here there, explaining to
the neighbors that is she could not rest he would take her away. Such reasoning seems to have influenced those
who buried Lee in a churchyard against his will, and for three quarters of a
century he quietly rested there. Then
the alley beside the church was widened, the coffin of Lee was found and was
buried near the south wall of the church.
It was two hundred years ago that
Christ Church bought its large plot of ground for burials at the corner of Arch
and Fifth streets. The area is
Page 27
thick-crowded with gravestones and
monuments. Numerous trees and much of
grass give restfulness. The graveyard is
enclosed within an old brick wall, eight feet in height; and at the northwest
corner of the graveyard, close to the junction of the two streets, the wall has
been taken down for a little space, and iron pickets set there, and looking in
there may be seen the grave of Benjamin Franklin, market by a flat stone. In his will he gave explicit directions as to
this. He was to be buried beside his
wife, under a marble stone, six feet by four, plain except for a small molding
around the upper edge, and with the inscription, “Benjamin and Deborah
Franklin, 178-“; all of which was followed, except that unexpected longevity
necessitated the change to “1790.”
This graveyard is notable, too, for
the famous men of the navy who are buried here.
Here lies that Commodore Truxtun, who so
gallantly captured the swiftest and the biggest ship of the French in the
course of our misunderstanding of 1799 and 1800; here lies Bainbridge, whose
services were mostly in connection with the Mediterranean pirates and who lost
his ship to them; here lies the distinguished Commodore Dale, who was as a
young man served under Paul Jones on the Bon
Homme Richard, and was the first of the gallant
Americans to get aboard the Serapis!
The present Christ Church building
was completed about 1750; but the land had been purchased, and the congregation
founded, and the earliest
Page 28
church begun under its present name, as
far back as 1695, thus making it, in foundation, almost as old as the first
organization of the Quakers themselves.
But it is not so old as the church of the
Swedes nor is it so well hidden as the Swedes.
Indeed, even after you have been directed to the Swedes, and have
reached the general neighborhood where you know it must be, you look in vain
for it, you probably pass beyond it, and helplessly ask again. It is only skilled street pilots who can find
the hidden old church at all!
The Old Swedes Church goes back to
inception to the time of the Thirty Years’ War. How long ago that seems! And the Swedes themselves always loved to
point out that the inception came from the great hero of that war, Gustavus Adolphus. And the king not only busied himself with
plans for Delaware River colonization while the great Thirty Years’ struggle
was in progress, but only a few days before his death, at the great battle of Lützen, he warmly urged the scheme anew.
The Swedes were in Philadelphia
before the coming of William Penn; even before the granting of a charter of
Penn. And this old church, Gloria Dei,
was built in 1700, on the site of a block-house in which services had for years
been held. In the 1630’s some Swedes
actually came to the Delaware River region to settle, and in the fifties and
sixties they carried on contests and disputes with the Dutch and with the
English. There exists a pleasant homely
tradition of their having trained beaver who
Page 29
fished for them and laid the fish on their
cottage doorsteps, and another tradition of a wonderful pear tree which bore
little sweet pears many years after the Swede who planted it was gone and which
was the family tree of all the delicious Seckel pears
of to-day.
When Penn arrived in Philadelphia,
he found three brothers Swanson settled not far from his landing place, and
rather than insist on his rights under his English charter he bought their
claims, and their name is still kept in memory by Swanson street,
on which street, near Christian, stands this ancient church.
It is by the waterside, and is
approached, from the center of the city, through a region of square after
square of misery, of squalor, of wrecked and dilapidated little houses, of
streets and little alleys and courts of decay and decadence, of dirt and
dearth. It is a heartbreaking district;
one of the numerous districts quite unknown to prosperous Philadelphians
themselves, and lived in by a poverty-stricken class of foreigners who have
turned the homes of sea captains and clean-living mechanics into the poorest of
tenements. Towards the river are railway
tracks and wharves.
The church sits in the midst of a
little graveyard, with a little grass and a few trees, and among the stones is
one to the memory of Wilson, the beloved ornithologist of a century or so ago,
who begged that his body be laid here, so that he should forever lie in a silent,
shadowed place, where birds should
Page 30
always sing above his grave; and in spite
of the spreading hither of the city’s close-built homes, the church is in a
little oasis in a sad desert of barren living; and trees and birds are still
there!
But it is all as if were a toy
church, it is so little a building, so odd a building, so quaint and
fascinating and unexpected and curiosity-provoking a building. And the two cherubim with collar-like wings,
examples of the early Swedish wood-carving which look out at you, big-eyed, are
themselves like toys, in the toylike environment.
The church is of brick that is
almost black with age and shimmery with headers, and
the heavy cornice and the windows and the belfry are of a grayish white. The building has decided Norse suggestions,
with its peaked gable over the entrance, surmounted by a tiny square wooden
belfry, topped by a tiny narrow spire.
The little interior has a barrel ceiling, with the lines of the beams showing
through the plaster.
Within barely half a mile from Old
Swedes I came upon a busy sidewalk market, extending for square after square
with unimaginable variety of goods and produce, wearable and eatable, in close
juxtaposition; with sour pickles next to cloth, pickled fish close to shoes,
barrels of fish adjoining rolls of cotton, barrels and boxes of apples next to
gaudy shirts, all piled on shelves or counters close against the front walls of
the houses or little stores. It was a
busy scene, for potential customers thronged by hundreds, even though for much
of the distance the walking space
Page 31
was so narrowed by
the displays and by the buyers, that on what was left of the sidewalks it was
often impossible to walk or to wade.
[Christ Church]
