Brief summer rambles near Philadelphia. Described in a series of letters written for the Public ledger during the summer of 1881

Front matter

lTbrary of coimgress7I

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

Contents

PAGB

I. Fairmount Park . . 7

II. Laurel Hill 12

I. Fairmount Paek

A TOUR NEAR HOME.

The summer beat is upon us, and where shall we go to keep cool ? Only a little while back people who could afford it were fleeing to Florida or Cuba in search of warm weather ; and now that they have got it at home they meditate another migration to find a lower temperature. Some hie to Europe, others to the Pacific coast, others to the lakes and mountains ; but the great majority cannot take such long journeys, and in fact have to confine their relaxation to short visits near home, occupying but a day or two, and costing comparatively little money. To these, though they may not always believe it, the short excursion generally gives more genuine enjoyment than the more pretentious and lengthened tour. A protracted period of sight-seeing often palls upon the tourist, but the brief jaunt freshens and exhilarates him. It is not necessary to go long journeys to find grand scenery and seek relaxation, for both can be cheaply got at our own doors.

How many who praise Hyde Park and the Bois de Boulogne have ever thoroughly explored Fairmount Park, or know that it has many more glories than either? Take a day to look at it, and see if this tour near home in the most extensive pleasure-ground in our country will not give the keenest enjoyment, even though it may only cost a few pennies for car and steamboat rides, and a trifle for refreshment. To thoroughly enjoy the Park tour only needs the conviction that something can be found there worth looking at. Let us start from one of the Fairmount entrances, and go along past

7^ the Art Gallery, where crowds are usually waiting their turns to see the Pompeiian views, up along the road to where it forks at the Lincoln Monument. On the left hand are the greensward and the river, and on the right the sloping hills, down which troops of children are nearly always rolling. Fountains plash on either side, while in front rises Lemon Hill, its base bordered with flower-beds. We enter the road along the river, with its stately rows of linden-trees and crowds of promenaders, its pretty boat-houses on the river-bank, and its hills and summer-house on the right-hand side. The water is rippled by the cool breeze, so different from the parched air just left behind us, and, as we round the rocky point at the river bend, a view is opened of the stately bridges in front of the Zoological Garden across the stream. Passing through the tunnel and under the bridges, the sunshine on the bright roof of the Horticultural Building dazzles the eye as it traces out the majestic sweep of the western river bank at Sweetbrier and above. We leave the sparkling water, and, as the trains rush by on the two great railways of Philadelphia, one in front and the other almost over our heads, mount the hill and enter a pretty bit of woodland, with rhododendrons bordering the road. Soon we reach the reservoir and the region known as " Pipetown." Here, if so inclined, the art of " How not to do it" in pipe-laying may be studied, for these great pipes have lain here many-a-year, rusting away and serving as an occasional lodging-house for tramps. The unfinished reservoir rises beyond like a great fortress, to remind us how city debts can be piled up. But there is no use moralizing, and instead we will go along over the beautiful green west of the reservoir, and out to the river again at Mount Pleasant, to see the old house where Benedict Arnold once lived, and while getting a drink of milk join the curious crowd who are studying the mysteries of the " Dairy." Most of these people know that cows produce milk, but they are in doubt as to how it is got out of the animal, some having an idea that a tail may be given a cow, not only to switch flies, but also to serve as a pumphandle.

THE SCENE AT EDGELT.

We are only two miles from Fairmount, but it is a paradise apparently far away from any city, and as we go farther

FAIRMOUNT PARK. 9

on past Rockland and Ormiston the rural beauties increase. Crossing the pretty ravine and mounting the hill to Kdgely, little lunch- and picnic-parties are passed, camped out under the trees in cosey nooks, while the children run over the green grass and enjoy themselves. A short walk brings us to the brink of the river on top of the bluff at Edgely, and at an elevation of perhaps a hundred feet gives one of the most glorious views to be found near Philadelphia, — a gentle scene, that will please as well as the bolder scenery of more loudly-praised localities. The Schuylkill, as we look up-stream, curves around towards the left, with green hill-sides on either hand. Little boats dot the water, and an occasional steamer passes far beneath us laden with pleasureseekers. Far off in the distance is the Falls village, with its railroad bridge, the arches making complete circles as they are reflected in the water, while above, the white steam puffs from what looks like a little toy locomotive, it is so far away. In the foreground the Park drive climbs Strawberry Hill, and beyond are the white tombs of Laurel Hill, embosomed in foliage. Serenely quiet, excepting where the silence is broken by the roar of a passing train, here is a lovely spot to rest and feed upon the glorious view. Across, on the opposite bank, the carriages, looking like insects, can be seen slowly creeping up the slope towards Chamounix. For perfect rural beauty, with wood and water scenery, this cannot be excelled in its own character of subdued landscape anywhere ; yet here it is, with its fame unsung, at our own doors.

Reluctantly leaving this beautiful place let us go down Strawberry Hill to the road along the river-bank, where the fast trotters dart swiftly by us and the policemen have their hands full to prevent horse-racing. It is sultry usually along this low-lying road, for the hills keep off the breeze, and the perspiring visitor mournfully recalls last winter's ice gorge, when the great ice-cakes brought down by the freshet covered over most of this road and broke to pieces much of its pretty rustic fence. Above the precipitous rocks and hollowed out within them are the tombs of Laurel Hill, while young people romantically inclined seek jutting crags to sit upon, as a pretty young lady did whose blood-red umbrella almost dazzled me in the sunlight, as she sat far above, at the foot of a tree. We go along by the " willows" over a beautiful section of roadway, and under the arch of the railway bridge, past the regions of " catfish and waflSes," and the rocks in the river that once made the " Falls," but are now chiefly available as seats for the youths with fish-lines who wait patiently for "bites" they seldom get. Turning into the open wooden bridge we cross the river and study the deliberate character of canal navigation, as viewed on the opposite shore, where the patient mules coax the boat-loads of coal down-stream to a market. In front a little brook comes down the hill and rushes over a cascade of rocks into the river. We mount the hill, passing through the woods and alongside the curved dam that is thrown across the brook, making a higher waterfall, and on top of the hill discover another glorious view.

CHAMOUNIX AND GEORGE's HILL.

Standing on this eminence the Reading Railroad, with its passing trains, is almost beneath our feet, and its coal-dustmarked roadway can be traced out in black lines far ofi" in both directions. Beyond is the river, with its bridges, and opposite is the thriving village of the Falls, — a city in miniature, looking like a lot of little models of houses, set up in rows on the hill-side, so that if one toppled over it would knock down the whole town like so many rows of bricks. To the right is Laurel Hill, a forest of snow-white monuments extending down the river until shut out by the edge of the picture. To the left, the Schuylkill stretches far away northward, past the densely-wooded ravine of the Wissahickon and its high bridge, while the tall chimneys of the Manayunk mills are shut in by a background of hazy hills in the distance. Fields, woods, and an occasional ornate villa make up the border to this pretty scene. This is Chamounix, — modest, it is true, when compared with its Swiss namesake, and much warmer in summer weather, for there is no snow on the peaks around, but its old house is in a picturesque spot. We are told that one of its owners, when forced to leave this beautiful place, died of a broken heart.

Turning towards the city we pass along the hill-tops, Girard College being seen far away across the river, and also the brown sides of the reservoir, with Lemon Hill Observatory

FAIRMOVNT PARK. 11

apparently mounting guard as it stands out against the sky. Going over the farm-land, as yet unimproved, and past the little water-tanks, where the road-sprinklers get their supplies, a steady panorama of pretty views is unfolded on the Schuylkill. We skirt along the dilapidated fences bearing the signs that say " Horses taken to pasture," and coming out by Christ Church Hospital go to George's Hill. Here is a garden-spot, the shrubbery and flower-beds forming a proper frame for the beautiful view from the top of the Concourse. This hill gives the most extended scene in the Park, marred only by the absence of water scenery. Looking over the stately Total Abstinence Fountain in the foreground, and beyond the Centennial Buildings, there is spread out the great city, with its subdued hum of industry, its myriad smokes from factory chimneys, and its distant border made by the hazy land of Jersey. On the green fields and mazy footwalks people are scattered like so many ants, creeping slowly about, singly or in twos and threes, while the swift- rushing locomotive and slow-moving horse-car, off to the right, indicate the different kinds of land navigation. Within the past ten years, the houses of the town have been steadily encroaching upon this grand view, and before long they will completely encircle George's Hill.

BELMONT AND SWEETBRIER.

Now let us descend the hill past St. George's House, England's Centennial gift to Philadelphia, and proceed towards the river again, reaching it at Belmont. Here, in the olden time. Judge Peters entertained the most famous men of his day, and, as they sat on his porch at Belmont Mansion and looked down the beautiful Schuylkill at the distant city, they thought it the most superb of views. Gradually the city came towards his farm, first throwing Columbia bridge across the river at his feet, then capturing his home for a pleasure-ground, and afterwards building the two bridges at Girard Avenue, which look so pretty in the distance, as the sheet of placid water spreads towards them, and the Cathedral dome, the new City Hall, and the Masonic Hall tower all rise above. Away off, over the town, the observer who is on a sufficient elevation can occasionally detect the white sails of vessels moving on the Delaware. But we must hasten on towards the city, loitering a few minutes to see the Horticultural Building, with its tropical foliage and plants inside, and its pretty flower-gardens outside ; past the " Lovers' Eetreat" and "Lansdowne Ravine," with their shady footpaths, under the thick foliage, and the river view from the Lansdowne bridge. Still we hasten towards town, across the "Sweetbrier Yale," where the road winds down the hill on one side and up on the other, and where the children are supposed, from the sign, to have their playground, but where full-grown children are usually playing croquet. Over the bridge at Girard Avenue we go into the city with crowds of pedestrians, heavily-laden cars, and quickly-moving carriages, and in along the Park road past the ''Mineral Spring," whose water is mildly suggestive of rusty nails and disused tomato-cans, but still is better-tasted, if not so famous, as the waters of Saratoga or Baden. We pass the little goat-wagons and flying-horses and swings, around which admiring children cluster, and the large beer-breweries beyond the Park boundary that attract the older folk, and, reaching the startingpoint at Fairmount, the day's tour is over.

Do not suppose that this exhausts the attractions of the Park. Weeks can be profitably occupied in its exploration on foot or horseback or in carriage. It constantly develops new beauties to him who searches them out, while for him who cannot spare the time or money for more extended recreation it presents an unfailing field for summer rambles near home.

IL

LAUEEL HILL.

TO FAIR310TJNT AND BEYOND.

There is a mournful yet pleasant attraction in a burial-ground for a large part of human kind. They seek its solace and solitude to meditate, to deck the graves of loved ones with flowers, and to commune with spirits that have gone before. Every large city has its favorite burial-place, but none

LAUREL HILL, 13

a more famous one than Laurel Hill. Let us take to-day's ramble there. Thirty years ago a popular guide-book told the public how to get to Laurel Hill in these words : " The Third and Coates Street line of omnibuses leaves the Exchange every eight minutes for Fairmount, where it connects immediately on Coates Street with Bender and Wright's Schuylkill boats for Mount Pleasant, Laurel Hill Cemetery, and Manayunk." Those omnibuses and those boats are no more. The horse-cars have superseded the one, and the Fairmount Steamboat Company's fine line of Schuylkill steamers the other. Then the Wire Bridge and the Fairmount Water-Works were the two wonders of Phihidelphia, but both have been eclipsed by later bridges and improved pumping machinery. Then there was no Fairmount Park, and the Schuylkill flowed between banks that were the country homes of opulent citizens. At Lemon Hill was Pratt's Garden, and the Zoological Garden was "Sohtude," once the country home of John Penn. The inclined plane, where the steam-cars from the west end of Columbia bridge were hauled up the hill by machinery to the Columbia Bailroad, was then in full operation. On the western shore, above Columbia bridge, and opposite Peters' Island, and now dwarfed by the Park offices near by, is the little stone cottage, with the overhanging roof, where tradition says the poet Tom Moore lived when in Philadelphia. Tom Moore was here for ten days in the summer of 1804, and his ballad —

" I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, 'If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here' " —

is said to have been written at and about this cottage. His letters show that while he generally disliked most of our country as seen on his journey, he found an oasis of kindness in Philadelphia, and was delighted with Quaker City hospitality. He composed an ode to the Schuylkill, its natural beauties having greatly impressed him, from which I quote the following :

"Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved,

And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very far, were the friends that he loved, And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh ! 2

" The stranger is gone, — but he will not forget,

When at home he shall talk of the toil he has known, To tell with a sigh what endearments he met, As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuylkill alone \"

THE CITY OF THE DEAD.

The steamer stops just above, on the eastern bank, at Laurel Hill. Let us enter and walk about among its tombs and statues and monuments, the white marble, as the sun shines upon it, contrasting beautifully with the green grass and foliage. As in sympathy with the place we recall the history of the past, the memory goes back to the foundation of this cemetery forty-five years ago, and the ten years of struggling against ill fortune that were necessary to establish it. Before 1836, excepting in Ronaldson's Cemetery, the burials of our people were mainly in church-yards. Laurel Hill was the name of the estate at Edgely, on the Schuylkill, in the Park, a mile below, and this cemetery site was the country-seat of a prominent merchant in the olden time, Joseph Sims. His home was bought; the name of the estate at Edgely was given it; and this, in 1836, was the foundation of Laurel Hill Cemetery, now extended till it covers nearly a hundred acres. As we proceed through the cemetery there are seen the most beautiful views along the Schuylkill ; the winding walks and terraced slopes and ravines giving constantly-changing landscapes. Few burialplaces in the world can compare with this ; and Greenwood, at Brooklyn, is its only superior. The Necropolis, at Glasgow, built upon the hill-side, resembles Laurel Hill somewhat, but lacks the beauty of our clear atmosphere and the Schuylkill water views. Pere La Chaise, at Paris, the most famous of cemeteries, cannot compare with Laurel Hill in beauty, while the French system of interment is so difi'erent from ours, that its vaults, and little houses, and tinsel ornaments are totally unlike our mounded graves, white stones, and floral tributes. After moving about among the tombs, and getting glimpses of views over the river through the trees, we cross the pretty little bridge spanning the lane dividing the cemetery, and pass the mausoleums built into the hill-sides or upon the rocks. Some of these and some of the lot enclosures have been made at immense cost, rivalling in ex-

LAUREL HILL. 15

pensiveness, if not in ornamentation, the tombs of the Doges of Venice, that fill up so many of the churches in the Italian city.

THE GRAVES AT LAUREL HILL.

Here is the Disston Mausoleum, built on a jutting eminence, so that it can be seen miles away, and the placid river flows in front and far below, the green fields sloping up on the opposite bank in picturesque beauty. In front of this monument is one of those grand views along the Schuylkill, such as few public parks in other cities can present. The river curves around like a bow. To the southward and far off over the Columbia bridge are the Centennial Buildings, closing the scene in the hazy distance. To the northward are the pretty arches of the Falls bridge and the village beyond. Many feet below us the carriages glide along the Park road on the edge of the water, and on the opposite bank a noisy railway train marks its flight by a long streak of black smoke. Far above the train, stands in solitude among the trees the lonely house on top of Chamounix hill. Continuing the walk a little farther up, the ponderous granite-work of lot enclosure is going on, occupying the labor of a detachment of stone-masons with derrick and catamaran, a task equal to building a house. The terraced walks here curve around like the rising banks of seats in a Roman amphitheatre, the intermediate spaces filled with graves. Here, alongside of John Sergeant, is the modest tomb of General Meade. Away down by the river-bank, and in a plain unmarked sepulchre cut out of the solid rock, lies the Arctic explorer. Dr. Kane. A single shaft, on a little eminence near by, marks the grave of Charles Thomson, the Secretary of the Continental Congress. Just above this, a piece of rough rock bearing an urn and a stringless lyre tells on a little shield that there lies beneath all that remains of Joseph C. Neal, the " Charcoal Sketcher," one of the brightest journalists of a former generation. Walking farther northward the view along the river, above the Falls, opens, and here, in bronze, sits Cresson, the artist, who, though the inscription says he was " a lover of art," could not have gotten a better resting-place in which to study the beauties of nature.

The cemetery is full of the graves of fiimous men of a former generation. Near the entrance a plain shaft marks the resting-place of Thomas Grodfrey, the inventor of the mariner's quadrant. Not far away is the tribute to Commodore Hull, whose Roman altar tomb is surmounted by the eagle which defends the American flag, with every expression of beak and talons. Hull commanded the " Constitution" and startled the world by her capture of the British frigate " Guerriere," in 1812. Adjacent a flat slab covers Chief Justice Thomas McKean. O^eneral Hugh Mercer is buried on the open space fronting the chapel, his remains having been removed here from Christ Church-yard, with unusual pomp, in 181:0, while the St. Andrew's Society erected the monument over the hero who fell at Princeton. Julius Friedlander, the founder of the Institution for the Blind, is interred beneath a plain monument. The graves of Frederick Graefi", the designer of the Fairmount Water-Works ; of Major Twiggs, who fell in the Mexican War; of Thomas Buchanan Read, the poet-artist ; and of William Bradford, are also in Laurel Hill, while near the latter the genial Louis A. Godey is entombed in a stately mausoleum. But of the thousands of well-known Philadelphians whose last homes are about us, there is not room in this hasty sketch to write. Loving hands deck their graves and keep their memories green. As we proceed there is ample chance to study the changes that a half-century has made in our system of grave decoration, and how the plain slab and tombstone have gradually developed into the magnificent mausoleums and monuments of to-day. The walk finally brings us to the northern limit of the cemetery, overlooking the Falls village, and one cannot help thinking of how many are lying in this beautiful place who, even while living, came here to select a favorite spot wherein to rest when dead.

OLD MORTALITY.

Turning to go out, we pause near the entrance, and find facing the gate Thom's " Old Mortality" group, under an ornamental temple. Here is the quaint old Scotchman reclining on a gravestone and chipping out the half-eifiiced letters of the inscription, while the little pony patiently waits alongside him, for his master and Sir Walter Scott, who sits on

THE WISSAHICKON. I7

another tomb, to finish their discourse. Sir Walter and the pony are carved from American stone quarried near Newark, while the old pilgrim on the grave came from Scotland. The group is an appropriate decoration, and were it in Edinburgh how the Scots would treasure it ! Not long ago the voritable " Old Mortality" of Laurel Hill was gathered unto his fathers. The venerable John Conway, who had been employed there almost since the opening of the cemetery, and who had become an octogenarian in its service, passing his declining years in wandering about, scythe in hand, like Father Time, fixing up and improving the graves in this beautiful home of the dead, finally succumbed last May like all of us must. He is to-day laid among the thousands at whose funerals he had for nearly a half-century assisted.

III. The Wissahickon

A PLEASANT MORNING RIDE.

Let us start on a bright morning and drive out Broad Street behind a pair of nimble white horses. North Broad Street looks like a reduced edition of the Paris Champs Elysees Avenue with its ornamental gardens and fine residences, and the borders of bright green trees. The house-servants, in true Philadelphia style, are splashing the water over the pavements and watching furtively for the policeman who may have a regard for the city ordinance that ought to stop the deluge at seven a.m., but sometimes don't. We go past Monument Cemetery and turn westward on Park Avenue, which gives a good view, though at some distance, of the Washington and Lafayette Monument. This street runs through a region that not long ago was almost entirely the domain of nomadic tribes of goats and geese, but is now to a great extent built up with rows of comfortable houses. It is, however, very rough riding at present on Park Avenue. The relics of the wooden pavement are full of holes, here and there 6 2* patched with stones, giving plenty of exercise which may be good for digestion, but is uncomfortable. Droves of lazy pigs are coming into town taking up the entire street and sidewalks, as these useful animals usually do, and cows ru- . minate among the ash-heaps on the vacant lots, endeavoring to find an excuse from the occasional patches of grass to give " pure country milk." We soon reach the regions of the dead, through which the effort is making to have Park Avenue opened, and, it is to be hoped, decently paved. We pass the Odd-Fellows' and Mechanics' Cemeteries, and, turning into Ridge Avenue, the Glenwood. This leads to a semirural region, where buildings are scattered about, with plenty of intervening space for more, and where the stone-cutters and florists — attracted by the cemeteries — are numerous. Leaving the East Park, with its pretty hedges of japoniea, we pass Laurel Hill and Mount Vernon Cemeteries, and go through the busy Falls village, devoted to carpet-weaving.

A MINIATURE ALPINE GORGE.

We are taking this ride to seek the Wissahickon, which has been not inaptly termed a section cut from Switzerland. This ravine lies between Leverington and Koxborough on the one hand, and Germantown, Mount Airy, and Chestnut Hill on the other. If this gorge were near Boston every New England poet would go wild over it, and, were it really located in Switzerland, Philadelphia pilgrims who never venture near it now would feel in duty bound to take it in as part of the "grand tour." Leaving the Falls village, we turn in from the edge of the Schujdkill, alongside the attractive picnic-ground at Riverside Park, and go under the uncouth railroad high bridge, elevated one hundred feet above us, with the extra sets of wooden trestles and stone buttresses, a construction of sometimes doubted strength, but always certain ugliness, which it is gratifying to know is soon to be replaced by a substantial new stone bridge. Rounding a sharp rocky corner, we are at once amid the beauties of the Wissahickon ravine. Roads wind along on either side of the still waters, between high wooded hills, clad as nature made them. The first bend of the stream discloses a pretty view, with row-boats on the water, but the banks are almost deserted, for it is morning, and few carriages or pedestrians

THE WISSAHICKON. 19

have yet come out. Halting at Maple Spring, a look is taken at the late Joseph Smith's strange museum. Mr. Smith, who died at the ripe old age of eighty-one, about two years ago, had a genius for fantastic carving. Out of the roots of the laurel, which produce such tortuous shapes, he has fashioned every imaginable strange figure and caricature of beast, bird, and reptile, and made a museum which is one of the curiosities of the country. He had wonderful skill in taking a laurel-root, detecting a fantastic resemblance, and then, with very little change in its original shape, making it the representative of a living or imagined thing. This museum contains the most remarkable collection of devils thus made, including the representative devils of all countries. Mr. and Mrs. Beelzebub sit on either hand, and their son is riding a galloping horse. There are monkeys, birds, rats, snakes, elephants' heads and trunks, the heads of prominent men, and all of them are the original and scarcely-changed roots. The place is full of such fancies, some fashioned into picture-frames or flower-baskets, and to each of the curiosities this professor of "rootology" attached a quaint and amusing history. His museum at Maple Spring remains just as he left it, and is one of the attractions of the Park. Behind the house pours down, in steady stream, the pure spring-water that gives the place its name.

THE HERMIT OF THE WISSAHICKON.

Resuming the journey up the ravine, we come to the " Old Log Cabin Bridge," which, with its attendant wild scenery, has been for many years the subject of the artist's pencil. Near by a lane leads to the " Hermit's Pool," where the eccentric "Hermit of the Wissahickon," John Kelpius, almost two centuries ago, dug his well and made his home ; preached to his disciples of the near approach of the Millennium ; and finally, casting his magical "wisdom-stone" into the stream, died in 1704, to the great relief of his Quaker neighbors, who did not relish such alchemy in close proximity to the city of Penn. The region is a weird spot, and the old hotel near the Log Cabin bridge, that was in former days the resort of such lively parties, has many a pleasant memory for its visitors. It has been swept away by the progress of Park improvements, but its frequenters will not soon forget the ingenuity with which the landlord increased his trade by keeping a sheepish-looking bear chained to a tree, with a sign —

" This bear drinks sarsaparilla."

"N.B. — Sarsaparilla sold at the bar."

That bear became the most expert cork-drawer of his time, but he must have succumbed as a martyr to too much drink.