Pursuits & Retreats April 2001

A Brand-New Olmsted

The discovery and replanting of a century-old lost landscape

Judging from its late-nineteenth-century downtown buildings, Scranton was once a rich little city. The coal barons who made their fortunes mining anthracite—hard, clean coal—poured their wealth into bricks and mortar. Rugged Richardsonian Romanesque office blocks line the sidewalks. Elaborate churches (one designed by the New York architect Russell Sturgis) punctuate the street corners, their steeples competing with the tower of the Victorian Gothic city hall. Opposite the handsome Beaux Arts high school is a real gem—the public library, a passable replica of a fifteenth-century French chateau in Indiana limestone.

It was the library I had come to see—or, more precisely, the library's garden—on a visit a year ago. The landscape architect responsible for its design was Frederick Law Olmsted, the famous builder of Central Park, whose biography I had recently finished writing. But when Jack Finnerty, the director of the library, called me about the garden, I had to admit that I'd never heard of it. That wasn't really surprising: although the garden was designed in 1892-1893, this Olmsted landscape was completely new to modern eyes.

The Scranton Public Library, also known as the Albright Memorial Building, was built thanks to the generosity of John Joseph Albright, a Buffalo financier who had grown up in Scranton and made a vast fortune in the coal-shipping business. In 1890 he and his three siblings donated the land, which was the site of the family homestead, and Albright pledged to pay for the construction of the new building. He knew exactly what he wanted, specifying that the building should be designed by his Buffalo architect, Edward B. Green, and that the grounds should be landscaped by the Brookline, Massachusetts, firm of Olmsted, Olmsted and Eliot.

Frederick Law Olmsted, who had earlier designed the park system in Buffalo, had recently laid out the grounds of the Albright estate there. Almost seventy years old, he headed the foremost landscape-architecture practice in the United States, perhaps in the world. Although he and his partners (his stepson, John, and his protégé, Charles Eliot) were working on major commissions around the country (the imminent World's Columbian Exposition, in Chicago; a suburban subdivision in Atlanta; and Biltmore, the huge Vanderbilt mansion in Asheville, North Carolina), no project was too small to merit their attention. They submitted a planting plan for the new library's tiny half-acre site. The detailed order list for the job included no fewer than thirty-seven species of shrubs, trees, and perennials.

Green based his design for the building on the fifteenth-century Musée de Cluny, in Paris. The library has steep roofs covered with black glazed tiles, decorative dormers, lively ornament, and stained-glass windows. This style, known as French Renaissance, was popularized in the United States in the late 1800s by the great architect Richard Morris Hunt, who was collaborating with Olmsted at Biltmore; Hunt had first used French Renaissance in a celebrated Fifth Avenue mansion for William K. Vanderbilt. The picturesque opulence, crafted details, and solid materials—all of which were costly—attracted affluent Americans to what has been called the Nouveau Riche style. Albright promised Scranton citizens "a suitable building of the value of from $50,000 to $75,000"; the final cost of the library reached $125,000. The building opened in 1893, and the garden was finished two years later.

Like many old industrial centers, Scranton is no longer riding high. Anthracite is not in demand, and the fifty-odd collieries that once stood around the city were quieted long ago. The population, which in 1930 had grown with the booming anthracite and steel industries to almost 145,000, has shrunk to about half that size. But the architectural legacy of the boom years remains. Like most nineteenth-century civic monuments, the library was built to last. Fortunately, Scranton was too poor to "modernize" its library in the 1960s, so no acoustic-tile ceilings or suspended fluorescent lights mar the beautiful interior. The quartered oak paneling, high barrel-vaulted ceilings, and luxurious marble fireplaces remain miraculously intact.

Olmsted's garden fared less well. Landscape is a fragile art form (everyone thinks himself a gardener), and over the years changing tastes made themselves felt. Flower beds were put in and shrubs were removed or crowded out by new oak trees. When a towering Masonic temple, designed by Raymond Hood in the 1920s, was built next door to the library, the shaded back garden languished. In a final indignity, the plantings on the east side of the building were sacrificed to make way for a parking lot. By 1950 the Olmsted landscape had disappeared.

Presented by

How to Cook Spaghetti Squash (and Why)

Cooking for yourself is one of the surest ways to eat well. Bestselling author Mark Bittman teaches James Hamblin the recipe that everyone is Googling.

Join the Discussion

After you comment, click Post. If you’re not already logged in you will be asked to log in or register.

blog comments powered by Disqus


How to Cook Spaghetti Squash (and Why)

Cooking for yourself is one of the surest ways to eat well.


Before Tinder, a Tree

Looking for your soulmate? Write a letter to the "Bridegroom's Oak" in Germany.


The Health Benefits of Going Outside

People spend too much time indoors. One solution: ecotherapy.


Where High Tech Meets the 1950s

Why did Green Bank, West Virginia, ban wireless signals? For science.


Yes, Quidditch Is Real

How J.K. Rowling's magical sport spread from Hogwarts to college campuses


Would You Live in a Treehouse?

A treehouse can be an ideal office space, vacation rental, and way of reconnecting with your youth.

More in Entertainment

More back issues, Sept 1995 to present.

Just In