USA > Pennsylvania > Montgomery County > Historical sketches : a collection of papers prepared for the Historical Society of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, Volume I > Part 13
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And why did I speak of the low, many-windowed stone mansion, whose odd nooks and corners, whose carved mantel- piece and bull's-eye window-pane in the dining-room, whose black " cubby-hole " in the garret, moved my childish admira- tion ? Was it because the latest built wing was erected in 1762, or because the oldest portion was older than any date could tell, or because later neighbors remember when all the beauty of the house was spoiled by attempted modern improve- ments ? Or because the rooms were furnished with shabby, faded Brussels carpets, and ugly, big-patterned ingrains, relicts of a past time of grandeur, when common folks had to put up with rag floor-coverings and with a stiff hair sofa and tall side- board, carved, solid, mahogany bedsteads and tables, and other quaint pieces which we degenerate younger ones thought decidedly out of date, and despised accordingly ; or because certain cedar chests held mysterious boxes which we never expected to see opened, but which we have since learned con- tained old miniatures, bits of rare lace, and precious pieces of silver engraved with the family crest, a leopard grasping a shamrock in its extended paw? Oh, no! But because my dear old home, as I remember it, represents better than any other example of which I know the very ideal of a Pennsyl-
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vania mansion of times past-of a time extending from the days of Penn himself to the last decade. I, as you see me, am yet a young woman, but I have lived to witness a tremendous upheavel. Lower Merion but repeats the history of the world at large; my grandfather's farm, Lilac Grove, repeats the his- tory of Lower Merion. Formerly, farm houses such as that in which he lived were to be found everywhere throughout the whole district, but they will soon become so rare as to excite remark when seen.
My grandfather's house, once considered elegant, has given place to a modern palace, a triumph of art and wealth ; the trees and shrubs tended by his hand as a labor of love, are replaced by the marvelous leaf and color creations of the land- scape gardener.
The era of gray stone mansions of ample proportions, built only for comfort and hospitality, is passing away; the era of ginger-bread castles and crazy-patchwork palaces has come; and we, who inherit traditions of old days, can only look on and wonder, if we do not precisely deplore. But, whether for good or for ill, humanity marches forward ; for good we must have faith to believe, if we would not have the past, however we may love to dwell upon it, dwarf our future. Humanity is progressing in Lower Merion ; it is rapidly solv- ing all the old problems as to how man shall live hygienically, virtuously, wisely and nobly. It is not without effort that I say it, but I, who represent the remaining few in Lower Mer- ion, standing as it were between the past and the future, look- ing lovingly, even tearfully backward, and yet longingly, trust- fully forward-I can say that God may have a use for a red- and-yellow palace, just as He had for a gray farm house. If, by removing the latter to make way for the former, He saw fit to indicate one of the means by which humanity might go forward from a beautiful but still an imperfect past to a far more beautiful, a glorious future-still will I say, God's will be done!
Are you willing, in fancy, to enter the old house with me, and mount the dark, crooked stairs to the low garret under
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the steep, shingled roof? Will you rest upon the wide win- dow seat, and gaze out through the projecting dormer, over the stretch of green field spread out before you? If you do, you may discern, about one-quarter of a mile to the northwest of you, a row of dark green, cone-like cedars. (In fancy, remember, for if in reality you search for them to-day, you will find few, if any, traces of them.) These mark the line of the Ford road. Now, do you know that you are facing the route-turn your head a little to the northeast, and you will face the exact spot-by which and at which Lower Merion was first entered by Englishmen? At the conclusion of Wil- liam Penn's memorable treaty with the Indians under the elm tree at Kensington, these Indians volunteered to conduct Penn and his friends a day's journey toward the Susquehanna. The company started from the treaty tree, across the intervening country to the Schuylkill, reaching it at the present Laurel Hill steam-boat landing. A portion of this trail from the Del- aware to the Schuylkill is still intact, in the road between North and South Laurel Hill, which can never be closed. From the east to the west bank of the Schuylkill, opposite Laurel Hill, there was then a ford; the march of improvement had not then backed the water over the falls, and the Schuyl- kill was a rapid stream. From the ford, the road continued as it still does, through the now-existing Park and to the present City avenue, crossing it but a few rods distant from the new station, Bala, on the Schuylkill Valley R. R. And this was the point, visible from the roof of my grandfather's house, at which Lower Merion was first entered by white men. The road, with only a slight change in its direction, proceeds past the place once marked by cone-like cedars, and at the village formerly called Bowman's Bridge, now Merionville, joins the old Lancaster road. The Ford road, with its contin- uation, the old Lancaster road, is thus the oldest highway in the state, founded upon the prehistoric Indian trail from the Delaware to the Susquehanna.
Upon John Levering's map, the line of the Ford road is marked by two parallel lines; and nearly touching these par-
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allel lines is one end of that yellow patch, before alluded to as my grandfather's farm. So you see, what I know of Lower Merion was, in a large degree, learned very near the spot at which Lower Merion first became known to the Caucasian race at all. Hence, any doubt as to the propriety of my · beginning my simple narration with a description of my early home, ought, I hope, be dispelled now.
Often have I wondered what these white men saw when they entered Lower Merion. No houses, of course; none of those most prominent objects in a Lower Merion landscape- post-and-rail fences; but, otherwise, I can not help believing that Lower Merion, in all its marvelous natural beauty at least, was very much the same as it is now. It is popularly believed that all of the Eastern and Middle states were once covered with dense forests, but authorities upon early American his- tory are now telling us that this is a mistake. The troubles of the first settlers, in clearing their lands, have been much exag- gerated; the Indians cleared the lands, when cleared at all, and the settlers followed and took possession. Furthermore, the flora of Lower Merion leads me to believe that our local- ity, in its prominent natural features, has altered very little since first known. Had Lower Merion, from the beginning of its history until a comparatively recent date, been covered entirely with dense woods, where would have been space for the growth and spread of the ancestors of our familiar field and marsh plants? Let scientists tell us, if they can. But, so far as I am aware, we have no record either of any special creation or of any new development of one flower in Lower Merion since William Penn rode along the Ford road, two hundred years age. So, as to-day we have in abundance the golden buttercup of the fields and the gorgeous lily of the meadows, we may feel sure that Lower Merion contained, two hundred years ago, just such fields and meadows-precisely as we have long been sure, from the sweet-breathed arbutus and the wax-white pyrola of the high, rich woods within our borders, that Lower Merion embraced just such woods when only the feet of red men wandered among them. And may
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we not feel still more sure that Lower Merion, since known, has changed little, by contemplating the ferns, which are a still older form of vegetation than flowers? for Lower Merion contains quite as many as any locality known in our Eastern states. These ferns have evidently required a long time for their present abundance and distribution-tall ferns for our swamps, feathery ferns for our hillsides, tiny ferns for our rocky heights. Therefore, if, after the white man entered Lower Merion, he wandered about exploring and admiring its loveli- ness, I think I can tell you what he saw. He, the early white man in general, saw, minus houses, barns and fences, what John Levering saw, when, about twenty years ago, he trundled a wheel-barrow before him, surveying the township for one of the most accurate maps ever made, the map containing the memorable yellow patch, near the white margin marked " Phil- adelphia county." He saw what we may all see. He saw some of the most romantic, picturesque, even grand scenery to be found in any known country. Particularly was this the case if he wandered near the Schuylkill, which was then a rapid river. Had we no other evidence, the still remaining eddies below Flat Rock dam would prove to us how impetuous its course was of old.
The hills of the west bank mimicked mountains in their abrupt rise, in their disordered masses of mighty rocks, flung by nature's hand in wild confusion. The deep ravines, cleaving these hills, suggested cruel scars, long healed, and now made health-giving in their clear streams, singing gayly as they leaped to the river in myriads of fairy cascades. One of these ravines, later called Mill Creek ravine, and now known as Rose Glen,' rivalled the larger Schuylkill in its embracing, majestic hills, its towering, dense, blue-shadowed woods, and its sparkling, laughing waters. The narrower ravine, with its smaller stream, at Soapstone quarry, was perhaps even more impressive in the majesty of its perpendicular heights. But, as the hills of the Schuylkill approached what we know as Conshohocken, they scorned to mimic mountains; they became mountains in reality, failing only to reach the clouds. But
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mountains they became, in that they joined the spur from the Valley hills, proving their relationship to the Appalachians as the Indians called them, the "never-ending chain." These grand hills of Conshohocken not only establish their relation- ship to the Appalachians, they proudly point to their relatives' image in the air; for, if to-day, from the summit of the noblest of these can be discerned the distant spires of the Quaker city, if from it the townships of Springfield, Whitemarsh, Plymouth, . Norriton, Lower and Upper Merion are spread out at the feet of the beholder like a map, no less can be descried the far-off, sapphire peaks of the "never-ending" Blue ridge. The early white man had crossed the ocean to behold this sublime spec- tacle, but, alas! many residents of Lower Merion in our time think it scarcely worth while to imitate so good an example; the sublime spectacle is too near home.
Probably the early white man explored these ravines, tracing the creeks to their sources upon the "Bryn Mawr" or "high hill" region, if one region of hills can be called higher than another where all are high hills. He found these creeks Schuylkills in miniature, rapid rivulets, enclosed by wood, clothed heights, every turn in their course displaying a new picture of charming beauty. The high hill region he found to consist of majestic sweeps of flower-dotted fields broken into velvety billows, each sweep and billow framed in by the same noble forests of beeches and chestnuts, oaks and tulip poplars, with undergrowth of blossoming shrubs, laurels and azaleas, vacciniums and dog woods, as characterized the borders of the Schuylkill. But when he passed the high hill region, he dis- covered that he had crossed the water-shed, dividing the trib- utaries of the Schuylkill from those of the Delaware. The branches of Cobb, Indian, and smaller creeks, with their wildly romantic fringes of anemone-starred woods, violet varied meadows, moss-grown rocks, and tinkling falls, were as beau- tiful after their own kind as the gorge-sheltered affluents of the Schuylkill. Thus was Lower Merion, from river to rivulet, from mountain to knoll, from glade to mead, from tree to
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flower, the very perfection of loveliness, a true 'Paradise of earthly beauty. And so it is to-day.
. And, if we wandered in fancy, like swift-winged birds, over the whole township, will you also, in fancy, again sit with me upon the broad window-seat of the dormer, in the same low garret, under the sloping, shingled roof? If so, I pray you, glance out with me again. It is only a green field upon the left of us which I want to show you, a very little higher than the one in front of us, a part of the yellow patch upon the map. But that green field, a portion of the property of the late Dr. Jonathan Clark, was determined by the United States Coast Survey to be the highest point of land within twenty miles of Philadelphia. If you stood out in that field, you could command an extensive view. You could see Mount Holly in New Jersey, and Roxborough and Point Breeze in Pennsylvania. And that reminds me; as Edward Harvey was the first to introduce the ailanthus into Lower Merion, so also was Jonathan Clark the first to introduce the mulberry, he being among the earliest in the neighborhood of Philadel- phia to attempt silk culture.
We don't often see a little old-fashioned, horse-hair- covered trunk in these days, but here is one in this old gar- ret. This served all the fair daughters of the family in years past, during their sojourn at the famous Friends' Boarding School at West Town. Well do I remember how often I gazed at that trunk in the garret, and wondered why it was that I could never take it to West Town. But I. was only a degenerate scion of the old stock, for my father had married "out of meeting." Edward Harvey had taken Margaret Boyle by the hand, in the quaint little edifice near the General Wayne tavern, years before, consequently their sons and daughters were welcome at West Town; but no Quaker record bore the names of Margaret Boyle's grandchildren. Still, if Margaret did marry "in meeting," she must have been rather gay for a Quaker maiden. Her miniature, as a young girl, shows her in a short-waisted, puffed muslin dress of quite a worldly pat- tern; her hair is arranged in veritable bangs, surmounted by a
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muslin turban, fastened above the forehead with a cameo brooch. Beautiful she must have been ; her dark hair and eyes, and pink-and-white complexion abundantly prove this.
And now, do you ask, am I describing my ancestress sim- ply because she was noted for her beauty? Oh, no! But because it may be a matter of historic interest to the people of Lower Merion to know that such was the appearance of a descendant of the great Earl of Cork, who lived and died in Lower Merion. True, her father was a scapegrace younger son, who ran away from home and taught school in Chester county; who, when the Revolutionary war broke out, took the part of the Colonies and enlisted as a captain in Wayne's brigade, thus cutting himself off from his family forever; but his daughter was proud of the name which she bore. Marga- ret was also considered an accomplished woman, for, when she went to Europe upon her wedding tour, she kept a journal, describing her travels, which, in those days, was a rare thing for a lady to do. But her beauty and accomplishments are alike forgotten. Her remains, with those of her husband and many of her kindred, are interred in the little grave-yard adjoining the antique Lower Merion Meeting house.
It is generally known that this quaint, cruciform structure, with steep roof, cream-colored stone walls, and diamond-paned windows, was erected in 1695; that here assembled many of · the very first settlers of the locality, the Welsh Friends; that here are buried the bodies of remote ancestors of quite a num- ber of Lower Merion families, the location of whose graves can not now be discovered; that, in 1828, this meeting-house became the property of the Hicksite branch of Friends, the Orthodox erecting a new place of worship, just over the line in Philadelphia county ; while, strange to relate, both branches used and still use the grave-yard in common. But does any one notice that this is the oldest known structure in Lower Merion upon the line of the ancient Indian trail? It was established here to meet the wants of the Welsh settlers in Merion, who still used the trail as their principal route to and from the primitive city. In time, a meeting-house was built 20
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in Darby, and another in Haverford. Two new roads were therefore laid out; one from the meeting-house in Merion to that in Darby, and one, also from the meeting-house in Merion, to that in Haverford. These two roads substantially survive, the former being the old Darby road, leading along the Penn- sylvania railroad, past Merion and Overbrook stations, toward Haddington; the latter, the Church road, leading past Elm and Wynnewood stations beyond the lower corner of Ardmore.
From Bowman's Bridge, or Merionville, on past the Mer- ion Meeting-house, the Lancaster road, a continuation of the Ford road, is, as we have seen, the oldest road in the state. From Merionville to the city line, that portion of the Lancas- ter road, or as it is sometimes called, Blockley and Merion turnpike, is comparatively modern, dating, however, beyond Revolutionary times. The Lancaster turnpike, passing through Lower Merion from the neighborhood of Overbrook to Rosemont stations, Pennsylvania railroad, is also an ancient highway.
But there is one road of Lower Merion concerning which much of interest may be related, and which can best be fairly described by beginning as the road itself does, in the neighbor- hood of Merion Meeting-house. This is the route popularly known as the old Gulf road, and, facetiously, as Billy Penn's road. It turns off from the ancient Indian trail but a few rods westward from the Merion Meeting-house.
Between the latter and the former is one space of territory little changed by the march of modern improvement, for here stands intact a beautiful example of the antique gray stone, Pennsylvania farm house, the residence of Edward Price. Before the entrance is quite a remarkable relic, in the shape of a stone horse-block with three steps, an object once very common in country neighborhoods, but now as little seen as the spinning-wheel. Diagonally opposite this old mansion, embowered in a lovely grove of maples, and outlined against a grand forest, formerly stood another antique mansion, the stones of whose massive chimneys weighed many tons. Liter- ally, the mansion still stands, but it is so disguised by recent
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alterations that its own builder would never recognize it. But it would scarce be possible to tell the history of Billy Penn's road without referring to this old house.
It is said that William Penn himself personally superin- tended the laying out of this road from Merion Meeting-house to Paoli, riding on horseback throughout its entire length. He commanded that every mile should be marked by a gran- ite post, upon which was carved the Penn coat-of-arms, con- sisting of three balls, humorously termed the "three apple- dumplings." How can I better continue the history of Lower Merion than by sketching the history of this road? For, if the history of one farm is the history of Lower Merion in miniature, so, also, is the history of one public pathway that of Lower Merion and the world.
The antique, disguised, modernized mansion near the entrance to Billy Penn's road, gave shelter to Lord Corn- wallis for a short time preceding the massacre of Paoli. He was waiting here for a Tory, who had volunteered to conduct him along this same Gulf road to the Gulf mill, just over the line in Upper Merion, where the Americans had concealed their stores of ammunition. Cornwallis's subsequent career is better known. With only a field or two between the entrance to the road and the settlement stands the tiny, little, changing village of Libertyville, believed to be almost identi- cal with the oldest settlement in the state, claiming to have been founded nearly a year in advance of either Chester or Philadelphia.
From the pre-historic Indian trail the Gulf road winds down among hills and woods toward the rich and charming valley of Mill creek. It passes a long-neglected farm, with once pretentious mansion and a then-considered elegant lodge- gate. This farm, until recent years, was the last remnant of land in southeastern Pennsylvania held by the Penn family, in that branch of the proprietor's descendants known as Penn- Gaskell. And now the road approaches Mill creek, crossing it by an antique stone bridge, having shingled walls for para- pets, as was the old style in Pennsylvania. Upon the right
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hand side still stands a very primitive saw-mill. Upon the left is a deep hollow, said to have been the cellar of a pre- Revolutionary grist-mill, which gained, during the troublous days of the struggle for independence, a very bad reputation. This, however, is a mistake, as will be seen further on.
Do not be deceived by the fork in the road. The ancient highway, surveyed by Friend William himself, turned up the creek. The way down the stream is comparatively modern, although we would find much of interest if we traveled that road, mainly a series of picturesque mills nestled among grand hills, clear down to the Schuylkill. What would prob- ably interest us most would be the very dingy manufactory, in which, in its better days, Deringer first made his famous pistols. But we cannot pause now. With a pretty farm- house upon our right and an equally pretty meadow upon our left, we will turn up the creek, as our Quaker forerunner did. The semi-mountainous woodland scenery is similarly lovely upon both sides of our way. We soon approach a cluster of old mills, and equally old, if not older, houses. One of these latter is another of the now rare, but formerly abundant, gray-stone country mansions. Before I tell you its history, look down in the hollow at the patched-up, but still habitable, log-house. This is nearly two hundred years of age, and was, it is said, built and occupied by a civilized, con- verted Indian.
Do you remember my saying that Lord Cornwallis waited for a Tory to conduct him to the Gulf, or Gulph, as it was then written? This Tory lived in this same old stone mansion, standing very much as he left it. Now, Tories were not always the wicked monsters that we younger Americans imagine them. In Pennsylvania, at least, they were mostly good, honest Quakers, who deprecated war, prayed for peace, and were conscientiously loyal to their king. This Tory was said to be such; a member of Merion meeting. His remains are probably buried in the Friends' grave-yards there. The name of John Roberts has been, it may be, unjustly covered with infamy. Certain it is that he was tried and convicted of
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treason, for aiding and abetting Cornwallis, and hanged in Philadelphia, and not, as popularly believed, in his own apple- orchard, still haunted by his ghost. Another popular belief regarding him has some foundation in fact, so it is said. The same John Roberts ground glass with flour in his own grist- mill to feed American soldiers. In this he was aided by a miller named Fishburn, whose modernized stone cottage stands upon the newer Gulf road, near the present town of Bryn Mawr. The mill, whose cellar may be seen hard by the weather-beaten saw mill, is said by some to be the one in which the dark deed was accomplished. But better authority states that the still-standing structure, nearly opposite Roberts' house, and now used as a stable, is the one. The white flour, hiding murderous particles sharper than steel, was providenti- ally prevented from doing harm, though for the intent to kill, as well as the adherence to Cornwallis, John Roberts paid the penalty. His residence later became the property of Blair McClenahan, the Irish patriot, whose services to the country, during the war of 1812, ought never be forgotten by any grateful American.
The road proceeds by several more old mills, and then passes through the creek by a ford, which, fortunately for the lover of the picturesque, has never been superseded by a bridge. As we are pedestrians, we will cross upon the board foot-walk, steadying ourselves by the log hand-rail. And now only a strip of wood-land, but dense as the primitive wilder- ness, separates us from the dam, beside which is the tottering wall of the Dove mill, where was, at one time, manufactured all government and bank-note paper, distinguished by its water-mark-of a dove with an olive branch. Now the road emerges from its bordering woods, and passes into a stretch of green fields. But, down the slope to the right, do you not see a wonderful collection of dark rocks, of strange, fantastic forms, overhung by clumps of cedars, daintily festooned by grave-vines? This remarkable bit of country, near the upper course of Mill creek, covers several acres. It is called the Black Rocks; it is a paradise for botanists and artists and a
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