Since the Cherry Street Steps were adjacent to property that Holme owned on Front Street, he or his heirs may have installed the stairwell. There’s evidence of this in Irma Corcoran’s book Thomas Holme, 1624–1695 (1992):
Thomas Holme was to leave a cartway thirty feet along the bank…Moreover, he was to lay out his proportion and part so that in the center between Mulberry and Sassafras Streets a public thoroughfare ten feet wide could be made down from the east side of Delaware Front Street.
The Cherry Street Steps are the most documented of any of the lost Penn steps, at least in terms of illustrations and photographs. The staircase was drawn many times by Philadelphia artist Joseph Pennel. And a charming photograph taken by G. Mark Wilson shows a man and a woman in the stairwell. According to Still Philadelphia (1983):
Wilson’s quest for picturesque Philadelphia led him to quaint scenes, some superficially evocative of Europe. He captioned this early 1920s photograph “not in Florence, Genoa or Naples,” but the facts he supplied with the image make it clear that the scene was uniquely American. The couple seemed to be courting. The man, Wilson noted, was Jewish, the woman Irish, a circumstance almost unimaginable where Old-World customs and proscriptions still held sway.
The Cherry Street Steps about 1920. Notice the Frankford El structure atop Front Street in the background. The Library Company of Philadelphia.
Undeniably, this was an immigrant community in the 1920s.
These bank steps were obliterated for sure when I-95 barreled through Philadelphia in the late 1960s.
ELFRETH’S ALLEY
John Watson, in his Annals, refers to the Cherry Street Steps as the Elfreth’s Alley Steps. This is because they were a bit south of Elfreth’s Alley, now a popular tourist attraction between Front and Second Streets. This National Historic Landmark District is the oldest continuously occupied residential street in the United States.
Elfreth’s Alley was opened in 1702 by John Gilbert and Arthur Wells, two property owners who combined their land to create a subdivision through the city block they owned. The alleyway’s namesake was Jeremiah Elfreth, a blacksmith who rented several houses on the block to sea captains, stevedores, shipwrights and craftsmen, some who worked in the same buildings where they resided. It has been the home to all sorts of people in its more than three hundred years, from wealthy friends of Benjamin Franklin to immigrant families.
Looking east on Elfreth’s Alley in 1972. Most Philadelphia alleys by the Delaware resembled this scene long ago. Many are still around. Elfreth’s Alley is the best known and looks even better today. Library of Congress (HABS).
During the Industrial Revolution, the alley became an enclave for European immigrants seeking new lives in North America. As such, they were not all that different than the Quaker settlers who lived in caves by the Delaware River. The tiny row homes on Elfreth’s Alley are excellent examples of Philadelphia’s Colonial, Georgian and Federal housing of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Most are private dwellings to this day.
The alley had become an impoverished neighborhood by World War I and faced possible demolition. In 1934, a group of individuals formed the Elfreth’s Alley Association to save several houses from being torn down by absentee landlords. They later helped rescue the alley from other threats, including construction of I-95.
Fireman’s Hall Museum is on Second Street next to the alley, housed in a 1902 firehouse. This is one of the nation’s premier museums on firefighting, many advances of which were developed in Philadelphia.
The Bank Meeting House was once on the riverbank south of Elfreth’s Alley. Built in 1685, this early Quaker house of worship was used for 104 years before it was pulled down. The relocated Front Street between Race and Arch runs through ground on which this brick structure stood.
SLEDDING TOWARD THE RIVER—NO MORE
Watson wrote that “[t]hirty to forty boys and sleds could be seen running down each of the streets descending from Front street to the river” in his youth. The streets had been graded by his time to better join the “upper” and “lower” planes of Penn’s City. Watson’s sledding comment illustrates how the embankment’s natural grade between Arch and Market Streets was where the change in height was the most pronounced.
There’s definitely no sledding on these streets nowadays, chiefly because Interstate 95 truncated many of the east–west streets on the Delaware’s edge. Arch was one of these streets—blocked off with a solid brick wall that runs along the east side of Front. There was no way to avoid this since the superhighway changes from a below-grade to an elevated structure between Race and Market. The brusque disconnect of Arch Street from the waterfront of which it was such an integral part is truly regrettable. The same goes for Vine Street.
Other key east–west streets cut short from the river by I-95 include Market, Chestnut (excepting a motor vehicle viaduct connection to Penn’s Landing and Market Street), Walnut (excepting a pedestrian overpass to Penn’s Landing), Pine, Lombard, South (excepting a pedestrian walkway over the highway), Bainbridge, Fitzwater and Catherine. Not to mention Willow, Noble and Poplar Streets in Northern Liberties and numerous minor streets and alleys leading to the river all along the Delaware.
9
ARCH TO MARKET
INVENTORS AND MILLIONAIRES BY THE DELAWARE (ENTER STEPHEN GIRARD)
Arch Street was first called Holme Street, after Penn’s surveyor, Thomas Holme. Then it became Mulberry Street.
Early on, this east–west lane was dug down east of Second Street to make it level with the Delaware shoreline, in order to allow for easier access to docks and ferry slips at the end of Mulberry Street. A single-span arched bridge was constructed to carry Front Street over the lowered road. Hence, Philadelphians began to refer to Mulberry as “the arch street.” The stone archway was taken away in 1721 after falling into disrepair and becoming a public nuisance, as Watson notes at length in his Annals. But the name stuck.
THE ARCH STREET WHARF
There were two sets of bank steps on this block, along with five alleys passing through various wharf facilities built atop made-earth east of Water Street. The northernmost set of steps between Front and Water connected to Old Ferry Alley, which led to the ferry landings on the river.
One of these was the Arch Street Wharf, constructed in 1690 and prominent in colonial times. It was here that an unclaimed shipment of coffee was left to rot in the hot humid summer of 1793, leading Dr. Benjamin Rush to conclude, incorrectly, that this was the source of Philadelphia’s deadly yellow fever epidemic that year (more about this in chapter seventeen).
The Arch Street Landing remained at the heart of the city’s commerce on the Delaware River well into the 1800s. It was located approximately where Delaware Avenue and Highway 95 run in front of Pier 5 Condominium today.
Watson relates an amusing incident that occurred in the 1730s or so just west of the wharf/landing at what was once 87–89 Water Street: “[O]ld Anthony Wilkinson had his cabin once in this bank, which got blown up by a drunken Indian laying his pipe on some gunpowder in it.” The place where this happened existed for over two centuries afterward, becoming part of Philadelphia’s lore first through eyewitnesses and then through John Watson’s chronicle. That spot no longer exists owing to I-95.
JOHN FITCH AND OLIVER EVANS
The era of the steamship began at the Arch Street Wharf on July 20, 1786. It was from there, on that date, that Pennsylvania-based inventor John Fitch (1743–1798) navigated the first vessel ever successfully driven by steam. The test of his small skiff on the Delaware River was the earliest practical application of steam power to navigation in the world.
The next year, Fitch made the first public demonstration of a steamboat in the presence of delegates from the Constitutional Convention, which was then in session at the Pennsylvania State House (Independence Hall). Simply named Steam-Boat, Fitch’s cumbersome craft was forty feet long and had six paddles on each side connected to a twelve-inch cylinder steam engine
. It made three miles per hour against the current.
Plan of John Fitch’s Steam-Boat. Library of Congress.
Fitch soon inaugurated a ferry business between Philadelphia and Camden, departing regularly from the Arch Street Landing. This was the world’s first steam ferry service. He later began transporting passengers and freight between Philadelphia and Burlington, New Jersey, as well as points south of Philadelphia. The Steam-Boat cruised almost three thousand miles in 1790 alone.
In all, John Fitch constructed four steamboats that demonstrated the feasibility of using steam for water locomotion. He received a U.S. patent for his invention on August 26, 1791. Yet while his boats were mechanically sound, Fitch was not able to rouse support for his new method of ship propulsion. He never attained riches and was rewarded with only ridicule for his work. Nevertheless, Fitch was the most important of the handful of men who built steam vessels before Robert Fulton introduced his Clermont.
Other inventors experimented on the Delaware River with applying steam to watercraft in the late 1700s and early 1800s. Oliver Evans (1755–1819) of Philadelphia invented a steam-driven amphibious dredge that he called the Oruktor Amphibolos (amphibious digger). In 1805, Evans floated it down the Schuylkill River, steamed it up the Delaware to the central waterfront and then drove it west on Market Street back to where he started.
The contraption was intended to clear away river mud that constantly accumulated between the city’s docks, but it turned out to be inefficient for that purpose. Still, this was the first motorized vehicle in America and the world’s second motorized carriage, as well as the first steam-powered land vehicle in the world. General Motors once credited the Oruktor Amphibolos as the forerunner of the modern automobile. It was also a distant ancestor of today’s Ride the Ducks amphibious vehicles that take tourists around Philadelphia and then plunge into the Delaware for a cruise on the river.
PATENT NO. 1 AND FIVE-POINTED STARS
Samuel Hopkins (1765–1840) was another local inventor associated with Arch Street near the Delaware. This Philadelphia Quaker was granted the very first patent under the Patent Act of the United States on July 31, 1790. Hopkins lived on the north side of Arch between Front and Second Streets.
Signed by President Washington and Secretary of State Jefferson, United States Patent No. 1 was for an improvement “in the making of Pot ash and Pearl ash by a new Apparatus and Process.” Hopkins’s patent was noteworthy not only because it was the first of its kind but also because it was vitally linked to the fledgling nation’s economy. Potash, America’s first industrial chemical, is an impure form of potassium carbonate.
One block farther west on Arch Street is the Betsy Ross House, the supposed home of another inventive person. Betsy Ross’s role in sewing the nation’s first flag is subject to dispute, but the skilled upholsterer most certainly contributed to the Stars and Stripes’s design by changing its stars from six to five points—five-pointed stars were easier to cut from cloth. At the very least, Ross represents the many artisan women of Philadelphia who ran businesses and supported their families during the colonial and federal periods.
FILBERT STREET STEPS (TRESSE’S STAIRS) AND CLIFFORD’S ALLEY
The steps and lower alley of Old Ferry Alley must have been abandoned in the mid-1800s, as Abraham Ritter notes: “Passing a flight of steps to Water street (now closed), a little below, at No. 53 [North Front].”
The southernmost stepped alleyway on that block was located at 29 North Water. Initially called Tresse’s Stairs, the stairway was installed by Thomas Tresse, a notable merchant with scores of mercantile enterprises in Philadelphia’s early days.
These stairs and the alley leading to the river were later named Clifford’s Alley, since they led to Clifford’s Wharf on the Delaware. Ships left for Boston, Savannah and other coastal ports from this place. The alley and wharf were named after Thomas Clifford, whose business was at 29 North Water Street. He and his family were shipowners and importers of hardware from Liverpool.
A corner of Clifford’s dock had collapsed into the Delaware in the early nineteenth century. Nicknamed “the broken wharf,” it became a convenient place for boys to go swimming. This was an early leisure activity done amid Philadelphia’s busy working waterfront.
STEPHEN GIRARD (AND HIS TOWNHOUSE)
Bordering Clifford’s Wharf were the wharves of sailor, shipping magnate and banker Stephen Girard (1750–1831). Other Girard properties surrounded his docks, including his home and attached office (i.e., “counting house”) at 23 North Water Street and his warehouse at 31 and/or 33 North Water Street. Girard was previously at 43 North Front, as Ritter records:
In 1791, and long before, No. 43 [North Front], at the south corner of another flight of steps to Water street, our late opulent Stephen Girard, was proprietor of a greengrocery, where edibles to all tastes, from an onion to an apple and a bean to a slice of pork, could be had for the money. He occupied through to Water street, and could sell at No. 31 there as at No. 43 above.
Stephen Girard resided at his Water Street town house overlooking the Delaware River for almost forty years. He lived with several young housekeepers, perhaps some of whom were mistresses, after he committed his wife to Pennsylvania Hospital in 1790. The daughter of a Philadelphia shipbuilder, Mary Lum (1758–1815) had suffered a debilitating mental illness after several years of marriage, causing her to be prone to emotional outbursts and fits of violence. She spent the rest of her life in the hospital’s insanity ward. The situation caused Girard great sadness, since he professed to love her and especially since he never had an heir.
As a result, the French émigré focused his efforts on working and making money. At his house, he managed his investments and land acquisitions to accumulate a vast fortune. Here, he devised ways to use his money and personal credit to finance the War of 1812 for the United States. He entertained Talleyrand, Louis Philippe, Joseph Bonaparte (Napoleon’s brother and ex-king of Spain and Naples) and many distinguished French diplomats and refugees.
Girard and his servants could gaze south from the tall mansion’s windows and rooftop balcony, searching for his cargo-laden vessels as they made their way up the Delaware from around the world to dock at his wharves. He owned some eighteen ships, and his packets—ships that sailed on a regular schedule—were the foremost line afloat at that time.
Girard spent much time at his mahogany desk, drinking imported wine and orchestrating his various commercial activities or reading the works of Voltaire, Diderot and Rousseau. He also contemplated ways to bequeath his money, including the founding of a school for “poor, white, male orphans,” and ways to improve his adopted city of Philadelphia.
Girard grew old and lonely at his waterside home, with only the wants of his business dealings to keep him occupied. Here, he passed away at age eighty-one the day after Christmas 1831, the richest man in America—his estate was about $7.5 million. And here, his infamous thirty-five-page will was read for the first time to his relations and others while his body lay in repose in the parlor.
Drawing of Stephen Girard’s house on Water Street. From The Life and Character of Stephen Girard of the City of Philadelphia (1886).
Site of Stephen Girard’s house today. The Philadelphia Anchorage of the Benjamin Franklin Bridge is in the background. Photo by the author.
The four-story house stood until the 1840s, when it was torn down and replaced with stores. The Delaware Expressway now covers the site completely. But incredibly, all of Stephen Girard’s household possessions still exist. These items—furniture, paintings, silver and textiles made in Philadelphia, England, France and China—are on display inside Founder’s Hall at Girard College.
NATHAN TROTTER AND FRANK WINNE
Another importer/exporter who did very well in Philadelphia’s river district was Nathan Trotter (1787–1853), born on Elfreth’s Alley into a Quaker household. He lived and worked in this part of town all his life, plying his trade as a metals refiner and broker. Trotter
grew rich and, like Girard, died a millionaire.
His firm, Nathan Trotter & Company, was headquartered at 36 North Front Street for over 150 years. His storehouse remains standing and is now a condominium. Still in business in Coatesville, Pennsylvania, Nathan Trotter & Co. is the oldest metals manufacturer and distributor in the United States.
That both Trotter and Girard became so moneyed while living a mere block from each other along the Delaware is remarkable. Other millionaires lived and labored on the Philadelphia waterfront; they will be profiled in subsequent chapters.
The one-time offices and warehouse of Frank W. Winne & Son are next to Trotter’s building. Founded in Philadelphia in 1895, Winne was the nation’s largest maker, importer and distributor of ropes, twines and packaging products—all in high demand during Philadelphia’s bygone mercantile period. The Winne buildings are now apartments, and the Winne company is still based in the Philadelphia area.
This block of Front Street most epitomizes the thoroughfare at the peak of its commercial and maritime importance—at least the west side of the block. The east side has disappeared as a result of I-95. And, of course, comparable four- and five-story structures that once flanked both Water Street and Delaware Avenue are gone due to the highway.
Front Street today, showing Penn’s View Hotel/Ristorante Panorama, Old City Mercantile (Girard’s Warehouses) and the Nathan Trotter and Frank Winne buildings. All structures are from the early to mid-1800s. Note how I-95 cuts off Front Street. Photo by the author.
STEPHEN GIRARD’S WILL (I OF III)
Stephen Girard left the City of Philadelphia some $500,000—an immense sum in the 1830s—for use in improving the riverfront area east of Front Street. Almost the whole rise in importance of the Port of Philadelphia is traceable to this bequest.
Philadelphia's Lost Waterfront Page 6
