Girard kept that slip of paper, and a few years afterward, in a generous
mood, sent the girl a present of a blue shawl. She wrote in
acknowledgment, and incidentally said she was soon to sail for France
"to get an education."
Girard was surprised that any woman would want an education, and still
more amazed at the probability that she could acquire one. In fact, when
the girl had written her name for him, he kept the slip of paper more as
a curiosity than anything else--it was the handwriting of a woman!
Girard never received but that one letter from the young lady, but from
his shipping agent in Martinique word came that Marie Josephine Rose had
married, when sixteen, the Vicomte Beauharnais. Some years after, Girard
heard from the same source that she was a widow.
Later, he learned she had married a Corsican by the name of Napoleon
Bonaparte.
* * * * *
Girard used to say that he did not come to Philadelphia of his own
accord, but having been sent there by Providence, he made the best of
it.
War was on, and all American ports were blockaded. How long this war
would last, no one knew. Girard's sympathies were with the Colonies, and
the cause of liberty was strong in his heart. He was glad that
France--his La Belle France--had loaned us money wherewith to fight
England. Yet all his instincts were opposed to violence, and the pomps
of army life for him had no lure.
He unloaded his ship, put the craft at safe anchorage and settled down,
trying to be patient. He could have sold his cargo outright, but he had
a head for business--prices were rising, and he had time--he had all the
time there was. He rented a store on Water Street and opened up at
retail. It was the best way to kill time until the war closed.
The rogue biographer has told us that Girard's ship was loaded with
"niggers," and that these were sold by the mercenary captain and the
money pocketed by himself, "all being fair in love and war."
This tale of business buccaneering has long been exploded, but it is a
fact that the cargo was used by Girard as his first capital. He used the
money wisely and well, and repaid the other owners--one-third being his
own property--with interest.
When the war was over, it was expected that Captain Girard would again
take to the deck and manage his craft. But this was not to be. That
there was a goodly dash of sentiment in his nature is shown in that,
after ten years, he bought the boat and would have kept her for life,
had she not been wrecked on the Florida Reefs and her bones given to the
barracuda.
In front of Girard's little store on Water Street there was a pump,
patronized by the neighbors.
Girard had been there about three months. He was lonely, cooped up there
on land, sighing for the open sea. Every day he would row across to his
ship and look her over, sweeping the deck, tarring the ropes, greasing
the chains, calculating how soon she could be made ready for sea, should
news of peace come.
The weeks dragged slowly away.
Girard sat on a box and watched the neighbors who came to the pump for
water. Occasionally there would toddle a child with jug or pail, and
then the crooked little storekeeper would come forward and work the
pump-handle.
Among others came Pollie Lumm--plump, pretty, pink and sixteen.
Girard pumped for her, too.
He got into the habit of pumping for her. If he was busy, she would
wait.
Pollie Lumm was a sort of cousin to Sallie Lunn. Neither had intellect
to speak of. Pollie had the cosmic urge, that is all, and the marooned
sea-captain had in him a little--just a little--of the salt of the sea.
Fate is a trickster. Her game is based upon false pretenses--she should
be forbidden the mails.
She sacrifices individuals by the thousand, for the good of the race.
All she cares for is to perpetuate the kind.
Poor sailorman, innocent of petticoats, caught in the esoteric web,
pumping water for Pollie Lumm--Pollie Lumm--plump, pert, pink and
pretty.
And so they were married.
Their wedding-journey was in a scow, across to the bridegroom's ship,
riding at anchor, her cordage creaking in the rising breeze.
Pollie Lumm, the bride of a day, was frightened there alone with a
one-eyed man, when the rats went scurrying through the hold. She wasn't
pink now; her color had turned to ashy yellow and her heart to ashes of
roses. Girard could face the wind of the North, but a crying woman on a
ship at anchor, whose rusty chains groaned to the dismal screech of
tugging cordage, undid him. A lesser man--a devil-may-care fellow--could
have met the issue. Girard, practical, sensible, silent, was no mate for
prettiness, plump and pink. He should have wedded a widow, who could
have passed him a prehensile hawser and taken his soul in tow.
The bride and groom rowed back, bedraggled, to the room over the store.
Pollie could not cook--she could not figure--she could not keep
store--she could not read the "Philosophical Dictionary"--nor could she
even listen while her husband read, without nodding her sleepy head. No
baby came to rescue her from the shoals, and by responsibility and care
win her safely back to sanity.
Poor Pollie Lumm Girard!
Poor Silly Sailorman!
Venus played a trick on you--didn't she, and on herself, too, the jade!
Pollie became stout--enormously stout--the pearl-like pink of her cheek
now looked like burnt sienna, mixed with chrome yellow. She used to sit
all day in front of the store, looking at the pump.
She ceased to hear the pump; she did not even hear its creak, which she
once thought musical.
Her husband sent for a doctor. "Chronic dementia," the doctor diagnosed
it.
She was sent to an asylum, and there she lived for thirty-eight years.
Religiously, once a month, her husband went to visit her, but her brain
was melted and her dull, dead eyes gave no sign. She was only a
derelict, waiting for death.
* * * * *
The first six years that Girard was in Philadelphia he made little
headway. But he did not lose courage. He knew that the war must end
sometime, and that when it did, there would be a great revival of
business.
When others were beaten out and ready to give up, and prices were down,
he bought. Merchant ships were practically useless, and so were for
sale. He bought one brand-new boat and named it "The Water-Witch," for
this was the name he had for Pollie Lumm when she used to come with her
jug to his pump.
As soon as the war closed and peace was declared, Girard loaded his two
ships with grain and cotton and dispatched them to Bordeaux.
They were back in five months, having sold their cargoes, bringing
silks, wines and tea. These were at once sold at a profit of nearly a
hundred thousand dollars.
The ships were quickly loaded again. The captains were ordered to go to
Bordeaux, sell their cargoes and load with fruit and wine for Saint
Petersburg. There they were to sell their cargoes and buy hemp and iron,
and sail for Amsterdam. At Amsterdam they were to buy drygoods and sail
for Calcutta.
There they were to sell out and with the proceeds buy silks, teas and
coffees and make for America. These trips took a year to make, but
proved immensely profitable.
Girard now bought more ships, and very properly named the first one
"Voltaire" and the next "Rousseau."
By Seventeen Hundred Ninety-five, he owned twenty-two ships and was
worth more than a million dollars. In fact, he was the first man in
America to have a million dollars in paying property at his disposal.
After he was thirty he was called "Old Girard." He centered on business,
and his life was as regular as a town clock. He lived over his warehouse
on Water Street and opened the doors in the morning himself. He was
regarded as cold and selfish.
He talked little, but he had a way of listening and making calculations
while others were arguing. Suddenly, he would reach a conclusion and
make his decision. When this was done, that was all there was about it.
The folks with whom he traded grew to respect his judgment and knew
better than to rob him of his time by haggling. His business judgment
was remarkably good, but not unerring. Yet he never cried over lacteal
fluid on the ground. When one of his captains came in and reported a
loss of ten thousand dollars through having been robbed by pirates,
Girard made him a present of a hundred to enable him to get his nerve
back, and told him he should be thankful that he got off with his life.
He loaded the ship up again, and in a year the man came back with a
cargo that netted twenty-five thousand dollars. Girard gave him a silver
watch worth twenty dollars and chided him for having been gone so long.
Then Girard made a pot of tea for both, on the little stove in the
office back of his bank, for the millionaire always prided himself on
being a cook.
His brother Jean had now come to join him. Jean was also a ship-captain.
Stephen bought a third ship and called it "The Two Brothers," in loving
token of the ownership.
When his brother Jean proved to be a bad businessman, although a good
sailor, Stephen presented him his own half-interest in the ship, and
told him to go off and make his fortune alone. Jean sailed away,
mortgaged his boat to get capital to trade upon, lost money and
eventually lost the boat. When he wanted to come back and work for his
brother, Stephen sent him a check, but declined to take him back. "The
way to help your poor relatives is to remit them. When you go partners
with them everybody loses."
Girard was a man of courage--moral, financial and physical. When his
ship, the "Montesquieu," arrived at the mouth of the Delaware on March
Twenty-sixth, Eighteen Hundred Thirteen, she was headed off and captured
by an English gunboat. Word was sent to Girard that he could have his
boat by bringing an inventory of the craft and cargo and paying over
British gold to the amount. He went down the bay in a small boat, met
the enemy on a frank business basis, paid over one hundred eighty
thousand dollars in English guineas, and came sailing back to his own
calm satisfaction, even if to the embarrassment of the crew. The boat
was loaded with tea, and Girard was essentially a tea-merchant. He knew
his market and sold the "Montesquieu's" cargo for just five hundred
thousand dollars.
When yellow fever came like a blight to the city, and the grass grew in
the streets, Girard gave bountifully to relieve the distress of the
people. But a panic of fear was upon them. They forgot how to live and
began to pray. Preachers proclaimed that the Day of Judgment was at
hand. Whole families died and left no one to look after their affairs.
Every night, wagons went through the streets and the hoarse cry was
heard: "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!"
Then the old millionaire showed the heroic side of his nature. He
organized a hospital at Bush Hill, and took personal charge of it. Every
office that could be done for the sick and dying, he did. With his own
carriage he would go to houses, and lifting the stricken ones in his
arms, carry them out and transport them to a place where they could have
attention.
As the spirits of others sank, his soared. To the men who walked in the
middle of the street with a sponge to their noses, he would call in
banter. He laughed, danced and sang at the pesthouse--things he was
never known to do before. "Fear is the only devil," he wrote on a big
board and put it up on Chestnut Street. He would often call at fifty
houses a day, carrying food and medicine, but best of all, good-cheer.
"If death catches me, he'll find me busy," he used to say.
He showed the same courage when the financial panic was on in Eighteen
Hundred Ten. At this time every one was hoarding and business was
paralyzed. Girard had one million dollars to his credit with Baring
Brothers in London. He drew out the whole sum and invested it in shares
of the United States Bank. This bold move inspired confidence and broke
the back of the panic.
In Eighteen Hundred Eleven, when the charter of the United States Bank
had expired, and Congress foolishly declined to renew it, Girard bought
the whole outfit--or all there was left of it--and established "The Bank
of Stephen Girard," with a capital of one million two hundred thousand
dollars.
When near the close of the war the Government was trying to float a loan
of five million dollars, only twenty thousand was taken. "The Colonies
are going back to the Mother Country," the croakers said. If so, all
public debts would be repudiated.
Girard stepped forward and took the entire loan, although it was really
more than his entire fortune.
The effect was magical. If Old Girard was not afraid, the people were
not, and the money began to come out of the stockings and ginger-jars.
Girard believed in America and in her future. "I want to live so as to
see the United States supreme in liberty, justice and education," he
used to say.
He loved pets and children, and if he was cold it was only to grown-ups.
On each of his ships he placed a big Newfoundland dog--"to keep the
sailors company," he said. The wise ones said it was because a dog was
cheaper than a watchman. Anyway, he loved dogs, and in his yellow gig,
or under it, was always a big, shaggy dog. He drove a slow-going, big,
fat horse, and used to say that if times got hard he at least had a
horse that could plow. During the last twenty years of his life he used
to make daily trips to his farm, where Girard College now stands, and
work there like a laborer with his trees and flowers. If he did not love
Venus, he certainly did Ceres and Pomona. "If I knew I should die
tomorrow, I would plant a tree today," he once wrote.
* * * * *
By his will Girard left many benefactions for the betterment of
humanity. His bequests to the City of Philadelphia and the State of
Pennsylvania were these: To the Philadelphia Hospital, thirty thousand
dollars; to the Pennsylvania Institute for the Deaf, twenty thousand
dollars; to the Philadelphia Orphan Asylum, ten thousand dollars; to the
Philadelphia Public Schools, ten thousand dollars; to the City of
Philadelphia for the distribution of fuel among the poor, ten thousand
dollars; to the Masonic Loan Association, twenty thousand dollars; to
the City of Philadelphia for the improvement of its streets and public
squares, five hundred thousand dollars; to the Philadelphia Public
Library, forty thousand dollars; for the improvement of canals in the
State of Pennsylvania, three hundred thousand dollars; and greatest of
all, two million dollars for the founding of Girard College. Besides
this was a residue of the estate which went also to Girard College, the
total value of which endowment has increased until it is now more than
sixteen million dollars.
At the time of the death of Girard his bequests to public institutions
had never been equaled by individual philanthropies in the history of
the world.
And since then, I believe, only two men have given as much for the cause
of education.
However, it so happened that no public statue nor material
acknowledgment of Girard's great gifts to Philadelphia and the State of
Pennsylvania was made--except at his own expense--until the year
Eighteen Hundred Ninety-seven, when a bronze statue of this great
businessman and philanthropist was erected on the north plaza of the
City Hall. This statue has no special setting and is merely one of a
dozen decorative objects that surround the square.
That particular clause in Girard's will which provided that no
clergyman, preacher or priest should ever be allowed to act as trustee
for the school, or ever be allowed to enter the school, is still
respected, outwardly at least.
The gatekeeper challenges you thus: "Are you a clergyman?" And those who
fail to say flatly, "No," are not allowed to enter.
Horace Greeley once approached the gate at Girard College wearing his
usual little white necktie, his spectacles and his beatific, innocent
smile.
"You can't enter," said the grim Saint Peter.
"Why not?" was the astonished reply.
"You are a clergyman!"
"The hell I am!" said Horace.
"Excuse me--walk right in," said Saint Peter.
The heirs tried to break the will, basing their argument on that item
concerning clergymen.
The Supreme Court upheld the will, finding nothing derogatory in it to
the Christian religion or public policy.
Girard did not say, "Christian clergymen"--he was opposed to all formal
religions.
Girard had very positive ideas on the subject of education, and he was
the first man in America to put manual training to a practical test as a
part of the school curriculum.
At Girard College there are now constantly more than two thousand boys,
who have a home and school advantages. There are certain grave dangers
about institutional homes for children, in that there is a strong
tendency to kill individuality. But certain it is that Girard College
has ever labored, and in a great degree succeeded, in minimizing this
tendency. It is the proud boast that any boy who is graduated at Girard
is able to take care of himself--he can do things that the world wants
done and is willing to pay for.
The boys are graduated at eighteen, which is the age that most students
who go to universities enter. But Girard boys, almost without exception,
go right into practical business, and Philadelphia merchants are not
slow to hire them. Girard College has a long honor-roll of noble men who
have succeeded beyond the average, helping themselves by adding to the
wealth and happiness of the world.
Great was the mariner and merchant who made these things possible!