In the beginning and for fifty years afterwards it was called the Naval Asylum, then the name was changed to Naval Home, which was considered more appropriate than asylum. As late as the eighties the sailors spoke of it as the White House.
Before the Revolution the site of the Naval Home was known as the Pemberton plantation; it embraced some 500 or 600 acres on the east bank of the Schuylkill between South Street and Gray’s Ferry. On the opposite shore was the little village of Hamilton.
After the battle of Germantown and the occupation of Philadelphia by the British, General Howe selected for his headquarters a house on High Street between Fifth and Sixth. The Chief of Artillery, General Pattison, chose the Pemberton mansion. One day a squadron of troopers galloped up to the gates of the plantation and commandeered it in the name of the King. The owner, James Pemberton, a Quaker, had been deported to Virginia as a suspect, and his wife was alone in the house at the time. She was a determined person and protested vigorously, threatening the soldiers, and vowing she would not give up her home. Madame Pemberton trying to hold up the British Army single-handed is like Mrs. Partington sweeping back the Atlantic tide with mop and broom. Later, however, she softened and consented to sell vegetables out of her garden to General Pattison and his staff, but the Hessians made free with her potatoes and cabbages.
After the British evacuated the city and the Congress renewed its session in Carpenter’s Hall, Alexander Hamilton lived in the house and wrote several famous state papers there. Subsequently, the residence was converted into a naval hospital, and old records show among the names of the sick: Farragut, Porter, Major Twiggs of the Marines (who was killed at Chapultepec), Levy (“the American Dreyfus”), Bainbridge, and Hull. It was an ideal place for a hospital; with broad lawns sloping to the river, trees and flowers. On the site of that hospital, the governor’s house, built in 1844, now stands.
The origin of the Naval Asylum dates from 1799 when an act of Congress provided a hospital fund to which all seamen, government and merchant, were required to contribute twenty cents monthly out of their pay. In 1811 an act directed this money be turned over to a board of commissioners of Navy hospitals. The War of 1812 intervened and it was not until 1826 that the commissioners recommended that a naval asylum be established, to be located in Philadelphia.
Dr. Thomas Harris, a distinguished and prominent surgeon in the Navy, who had served with Jacob Jones in the Wasp and James Biddle in the Hornet when she captured the Penguin, was ordered to collaborate with William Strickland, the eminent architect, in the selection of a site to be purchased, and the planning and construction of an asylum. This resulted in the purchase of about twenty-five acres of the Pemberton estate for which over $16,000 was paid. Not much interest was taken in the proposal, and work progressed slowly; it was not until 1827 that the cornerstone of the present building was laid.
The asylum consists of three structures, separated from each other, yet forming one entire plan, the main building and the residences of the governor and surgeon. The main or principal edifice is three stories in height, built of Pennsylvania marble, and presents a front of 380 feet, including a center building 142 by 175 feet; it is embellished with a handsome portico of eight columns of the Ionic order. The wings contain verandas on each story. The total cost was about $276,000.
On the occasion of the cornerstone laying, Commodore Bainbridge said in Iris dedicatory speech:
A home will be established for the faithful (seaman) who has been worn out or maimed in fighting the battles of his country. A comfortable harbor will be secured where he may safely moor, and ride out the ebb of life free from cares and storms, by which he has been previously surrounded.
The asylum was not ready for occupancy until 1831, when the building was opened with four regular inmates. In 1834 Lieutenant J. B. Cooper, a veteran of the War of 1812, was assigned as superintendent and the asylum became an adjunct of the navy yard.
When the Naval Home was built it was in the country. Now the city has grown around it, but as its broad acres lie off the beaten highway comparatively few, even old Philadelphians, know of its existence. Most people passing by the high red walls, over which hang elm, maple, and plane trees, catch a glimpse through the iron gates and hedges of the stately building, probably think it is either an insane asylum or a jail, and pass on without further thought, unmindful of its unusual historical interest.
There are fine walks and flowers in the park; a ship’s bell, striking ship’s time, from the cruiser Philadelphia, to which Philadelphia children contributed their silver coins two score years ago; brass howitzers of Civil War period, and a 12,000-pound wood-stock anchor. These are spectral reminders of the old Navy and impart an inspiring sea atmosphere to the place. There are also a number of small brass cannon from the battlefield of Brandywine, and carronades captured from the Cyane and the Levant by Charles Stewart, the last of the old sea lions. In the portico are two colossal stone balls brought from the Dardanelles in the Constitution in 1838 and presented by Commodore J. D. Elliott, the stormy petrel of his day, who now rests in the cemetery at Mount Moriah, which is an appanage of the naval home. The figurehead of the old frigate Franklin of 1815 has recently been obtained from the Naval Academy and placed in the grounds. It is a bust of Franklin of fine workmanship by Gerrish, but has been erroneously attributed to William Rush, the celebrated wood-carver. Rifles, boarders’ pikes, cutlasses, and ship models adorn the walls of the assembly hall. There is also a tablet of the governors hung in the hall inscribed with their names; on the list are names famous in the War of 1812, Civil War, and the war with Spain.
Affairs at the asylum did not prosper at first; there were complaints and recriminations, so in 1838 Commodore James Biddle was selected to take charge with the title of governor, which the Secretary of the Navy wrote “would add to the dignity of the station and at the same time would sustain no diminution of your own.” In changing the title the secretary probably had in mind the naval hospital at Greenwich. He probably could not have appointed a more able man. It may be noted here that Biddle originated what is now known as “Reports of fitness of officers.”
Commodore Biddle was a brilliant officer, whose professional standing was very high; he was energetic, kind, and sympathetic; his great reputation, won in action on the quarter-decks of the Wasp and the Hornet, gave the institution a prestige and importance which had been wanting from its inception. His tour of duty lasted four years, which were the formative years of the -asylum. When Biddle assumed charge it was removed from the jurisdiction of the commandant of the navy yard, and became an independent command. Various improvements were suggested and carried out.
In the bitter winter of 1836-37 many old trees in the grounds were cut down and used for fuel. Dr. Shippen says “this was much deprecated, but in the end it was productive of good for it led to the planting of the noble trees now adorning the grounds. These for the most part were planted as mere switches by Commodore Biddle in 1838-40.”
It was in Biddle’s time that the midshipmen who were under instruction on board receiving ships at New York, Boston, and Norfolk were brought to Philadelphia and a naval school established at the asylum. To this end, a class of a dozen or so was formed, and two professors were employed to instruct them in mathematics and the languages; these were Professor Chauvenet, so well known to midshipmen of a later date by his trigonometry, and Professor McClure. The scheme was not altogether a success. The young men were older than those now admitted to the Naval Academy and nearly all had been to sea. They were restive under school discipline; some of them drank red liquor and “Frenched,” and once, when a chief of bureau incurred their dislike, they hung him in effigy at the truck of the flagstaff. In 1844 a duel was fought by two midshipmen at Burlington, one of whom was seriously and painfully wounded in the face. The other combatant was the late Rear Admiral Rhind, who lived to distinguish himself in the Civil War, and was at one time governor of the home. Altogether sixty-five midshipmen were under instruction at the school until 1844, when it was transferred to Annapolis. Many who attended the school became well known in the Civil War; John L. Worden, the hero of the Monitor, Napoleon Collins, who captured the Florida in Bahia, Rhind, Trenchard, John Downes, Fairfax, and Jonathan Wainwright, who was killed in action.
Of the early governors, Biddle was facile princeps. He was a man of marked culture and evidently was much beloved and respected. His portrait by Sully shows a countenance indicating a severe will and great firmness but withal kind and genial. Upon the detachment of a number of midshipmen who were ordered to sea under Commodore Stewart, they addressed a letter to the governor, a thing now forbidden by Navy regulations, but which reflected the esteem in which he was held:
United States Naval Asylum Philadelphia, July 9, 1840
The Gentlemen recently attached to this Institution, on leaving, take this opportunity of expressing their high sense of gratitude and respect to Commodore Biddle for his many acts of kindness towards them during the period they were under his command; and entertain the hope that at some future time, they may again have the honor of serving under so distinguished a Commander. With sentiments of high consideration, we have the honor to remain Commodore Biddle’s obedient servants. . . .
In the old letter-books are found names that were once familiar in every ship of the Navy, but are rarely heard of today, a fate common to all. It is probable that there is not a wardroom today that has ever heard of Captain John Percival; and yet in his day no one was better known than this eccentric character, “Mad Jack Percival,” whose reputation outlived him many years, and of whom countless stories were told. There are hosts of others too, such as Warrington, Shubrick, Foxhall Parker, Bolton, Stockton, Gwinn, to mention only a few. “Each abode his destin’d hour then went his way.” It is a temptation to digress and write down some of the old sea stories connected with these names. Some day perhaps this may be done, and what a saga of the sea it will be!
The question is often asked if the beneficiaries relinquish their pensions when admitted. Yes, at first but not now. A beneficiary retains his pension, or retired pay, and as he has no expense he is enabled to build up a neat bank account. If a beneficiary has neither pension nor retired pay he is allowed $3.00 pocket money monthly. He is generously taken care of; has his own room, excellent food, and ample allowance of clothing, medical and dental attention, heat and light. The library in the assembly hall contains 5,000 volumes of reference, history, and fiction. There are motion picture shows three times a week and during the winter months vaudeville entertainment is furnished by the welfare associations. In suitable weather there are holiday excursions on the river or in the country.
There is a pretty custom at the home at Christmas. The beneficiaries provide a tree, presents of shoes, sweaters, stockings, woolen caps, and gloves, etc., as well as toys and a spread for poor children of the neighborhood, who look forward yearly to this entertainment. The late Bishop Partridge once said in a sermon in Shanghai, “a sailor-man is the tenderest hearted creature God ever breathed the breath of life into.” This is true, as is shown not only at Christmas, when the beneficiaries become hosts to about two hundred children, but also by their generous contributions to the relief of the poor and needy. They contribute annually to the Navy Relief fund, and at a recent call from the welfare federation the beneficiaries contributed nearly $500.
There are no punishments. The word is taboo. A few days restrictions are sometimes authorized for minor offenses, but a second violation of the liquor regulations of the home within a year is followed by dismissal. In the old days there was a good deal of drinking among the beneficiaries. It is not so now. When Lieutenant A. H. Foote (afterwards rear admiral) was executive officer in the early forties, he induced many of the old pensioners to sign the pledge and thus conditions were greatly improved. This was really the; beginning of his well-known temperance work in the Navy, and it was he who was largely responsible for the abolition of the grog ration.
The keynote of discipline at the home was sounded in 1842, by the Honorable A. P. Upshur, Secretary of the Navy, in a letter to Commodore James Barron:
The mildest and most forbearing course seems to be the most proper toward men in the decline of life and who have devoted their best years to the service of their country. This it is well known accords with your feelings, and the Department relies with entire confidence in those feelings on the sound judgment and discretion by which they will be controlled. Expulsion from the asylum should be the last resort.
The idea of a naval home for veterans connotes long service, old age, or disablement from wounds and other injuries incurred in line of duty. This is not necessarily so, because the requirement of twenty years previous service has not been enforced for several years. In view of the recent World War it would not be practicable. The average age of the beneficiaries now at the home is sixty-two; the oldest is ninety-one, and the youngest twenty-four. Nearly all the Civil War veterans are dead; a few Samoan survivors are still left; the majority of the men now on the rolls (233 in all) served in the Spanish War.
The oldest men, of course, have had a wide experience in peace and war, and in all parts of the world, but like all men who have done things, they are reserved and reticent and do not like to talk about themselves. They are a fine-looking body, and at the monthly muster, in the assembly hall, when all hands appear in their simple uniforms and medals, these elder ship men make an impressive and eloquent picture, dignified by the white hair of many, and the crutches and canes of those who cannot walk without artificial aid.
Recently there died at the home a man at the age of ninety-three; he had served in the Civil War; his father fought in 1812, and his grandfather was one of the Boston Tea Party in 1774. Thus the span of three lives reaches back to Bunker Hill. In 1851 a man died in the home who was the last of the crew of the Bonhomme Richard. He was one of the two men who assisted John Paul Jones to lash his vessel to the Serapis in that memorable engagement off Scarborough Head. At the same time there were two others who were in Perry’s barge when he shifted his flag to the Lawrence at the Battle of Lake Erie. One of the oldest men in the home today is over ninety; he was at Hampton Roads and witnessed the action between the Monitor and Merrimac. In the early fifties a man was admitted who had fought under Hull when the Constitution defeated the Java; he had scars of seven wounds received in that fight.
Another man now in the home, a native American, who lived in England when a boy, served first in the British Navy and when our Civil War broke out he returned to the United States and fought four years in the federal Navy. He went back to England and enlisted in the British Army and was a non-commissioned officer in the Abyssinian Campaign in 1867, and for bravery on the field was commissioned a second lieutenant by General Napier (afterwards Lord Napier of Magdala). Subsequently he quarreled with an officer at mess, challenged him to fight a duel, and killed him. For this he was broken by general court-martial and reduced to the ranks; he was transferred to South Africa and took part in the Ashantee War. At the end of his enlistment he returned to the United States and again enlisted in our Navy.
In 1843 the body of Commodore David Porter was brought to Philadelphia from Constantinople in the brig Truxtun, and was buried at the foot of the flagstaff in the grounds, but was afterwards removed to Woodland cemetery in West Philadelphia, the first person to be buried there.
Here “the sailor is home from the sea,” without care and without worry, and nothing to do except to await the inevitable turn of the ebb tide.