Philadelphia (Repplier)/Chapter 7
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THE birth of law in Philadelphia was as modest as the birth of learning, at least so far as outward circumstances were concerned. When Penn returned for the first time to England in 1684, he left the little Letitia House to his secretary, Markham, and directed that it should be at the service of the Provincial Council. The wine and beer stored in the cellar were placed at the disposal of the deputy governor, Thomas Lloyd, "for the use of strangers," a kindly and hospitable thought. Penn's periwigs, which were of the finest order, were also consigned to the care of Lloyd, who was permitted to wear them during their owner's absence, and had, as it chanced, an admirable opportunity to wear them out in the fifteen years that followed. The Letitia House was, accordingly, for some time the State House of the province; and in its small, low-ceilinged rooms the men who carried their country's cares upon their shoulders met in anxious deliberation. Four years later, we find Penn writing that he fears the cottage is too contracted for such a purpose, and that the Council should have a building fitted to its needs. The Council thought otherwise. Debt was a thing its members abhorred as only Quakers can, and money was hard to find in the prosperous little colony, already drained of gold by the number and variety of its imports. So for twenty-five years the lawmakers of the province met wherever they could find accommodation,—under the roofs of private citizens, in schoolrooms, and in the Quaker meeting-house. Those were primitive, almost Arcadian days, when the character of public men, and the nature of the laws they enacted, were deemed of greater importance than stone walls, marble floors, and upholstery. The country court-house, the "Towne House" as it was called, was finished in 1709, and in this unpretentious little building the Colonial Assembly and the Supreme Court of the province held their sessions. It was not until the issue of paper currency made money
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seem more abundant, and relaxed the vigilant economy of our forefathers, that Philadelphia aspired to a State House of her own; and even after two thousand pounds had been appropriated to this purpose in 1729, the work proceeded very slowly, and with a due regard to the reluctance of tax-payers,—a class of people who, however contumeliously they may be treated now, were then held in the greatest consideration and esteem.
In 1735 the Assembly met for the first time in the new State House, which was still far from finished. The great chamber now known as Independence Hall was not completed until seven years later; the modest wooden steeple was not added until 1751. A bell was felt to be an imperative necessity, and was ordered forthwith from England, its cost not to exceed two hundred pounds. It was cast in Whitechapel, and around its sides ran the prophetic words, "Proclaim Liberty throughout all the Land, to all the Inhabitants thereof." This English bell, to the bitter disappointment of the colonists, was cracked at its first trial by a stroke of its own clapper, and had to be recast in Philadelphia before it was hung honourably in the little steeple which had been built for its accommodation. The graceful outlines of the State House, an admirable example of colonial architecture, full of dignity, and with an exquisite sense of fitness and proportion, were rendered still more charming to the eye by the deep green of the magnificent trees that surrounded it. These veterans of the primeval forest, the last survivors in Philadelphia of the mighty woods which had gained for Pennsylvania its sylvan name, were sacrificed, one by one, to the indifference or the dislike of the colonists. Penn had dearly loved the deep shadows of their spreading branches. He had hoped and desired that his settlers would spare the trees when possible, and would build their homes at reasonable distances, "so that there may be ground on each side for gardens or orchards, and that the town may be a green country town, which will never be burned, and always be wholesome."
But the early Philadelphians pressed their houses closer and closer together, and they cut down their beautiful trees to economize space, or under the strange pretext of guarding "against fire and stagnant air." The State House was gradually denuded of its green girdle, and stood bare and desolate until after the Revolution; when more room was added to its shabby enclosure, new trees were planted, new walks laid out, a new brick wall built to protect it from vulgar intrusion, and, under the new and dignified name of Independence Square, the old State House yard became for a few years a fashionable loitering-place, upon whose genteel and urban charms Philadelphia poets wrote stilted verses in the columns of the local press.
There were other and far different scenes, however, to be enacted on this hallowed ground before the citizens of the young Republic had leisure for sylvan strolls and verse-making. No building in the United States has an historic interest comparable to that of
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the Philadelphia State House, the birthplace of our national life. Its venerable walls heard the vehement denunciations hurled against the Stamp Act, and the still more vehement resolutions which sent Captain Ayres and his ship-load of tea back to the port of
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London. Here, after the battle of Lexington, assembled that eager, angry crowd who expressed the sentiments of the whole people in a single curt resolution, "to defend with arms their property, liberty, and lives." Here Washington was appointed, by the second Continental Congress, commander-in-chief of the army; and here Richard Henry Lee of Virginia moved on the seventh of June, 1776, that "these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved."
From the little observatory, the "awful platform," as John Adams calls it, that had been erected in the State House yard for the peaceful study of Venus, the Declaration of Independence was read aloud to the people of Philadelphia,—to the few at least who gathered to hear it, and by whom it was received in serious and puzzled silence. The dramatic side of this great historic event was not, as has been often observed, apparent to men who thought less of the document itself, than of how it was to be supported and enforced. They had thrilled with anger and pity when Boston called to them for help. They had exulted jubilantly over the repeal of the Stamp Act, and had watched with proud hearts the last white sail of Captain Ayres' tea ship, Polly, as she turned seaward with her hated cargo. But it was no longer a time for passing resolutions, and rejecting tea. Grim war was at their doors, and the horror of it sobered their enthusiasm, and chilled the first wild rapture of defiance. The men who signed their names to the Declaration of Independence realized to the utmost all the consequences it involved, and the terrible responsibility they had placed upon their own shoulders. The State House bell rang out its message, proclaiming for the first time "liberty throughout all the land, to all the inhabitants thereof"; but the people listened gravely, and with no apparent response. Those who knew what it meant, knew also that liberty is not to be won by proclamation, but bought with the life-blood of brave men who die that their brothers may be free.
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