Downton Redux

638px-Highclere_CastleDownton Abbey ended just in the nick of time. Not just because the story line had gone missing, but because it was 1925 and the Earl of Grantham was still alive. Parliament passed the Law of Property Act that year and that changed things.

When we first met the Crawley family way back when, it was April 1912. The Titanic had sunk in the north Atlantic, and everyone at Downton was in a tizzy. It turned out that James and Patrick—the heirs to the Downton estate, to the title of Earl of Grantham, and to the family fortune—were on the ship and had gone down with it.

It wasn’t that the Crawleys were so devoted to them (even though daughter Mary was sort of engaged to Patrick, her distant cousin). It was that the Downton estate was entailed, and if there were no more males in the direct line of descent of the original earl, the title could go extinct and the property perhaps revert to the Crown. Blimey, the whole thing could be lost!

What a great plot driver, the entail (think Jane Austen). An entail was an encumbrance on the property deed, defined as “an estate of inheritance in real property that cannot be sold, devised by will, or otherwise alienated by the owner.” Robert Crawley, the reigning Earl of Grantham, owned the property and was responsible for it—and yet he didn’t own it in the sense of being able to sell it, sell parts of it, or leave it in his will. It was all out of Robert’s hands. In the ancient primogeniture tradition, the property would go to the eldest surviving son. Period. End of discussion.

But of course Robert and Cora had no sons, just three daughters. Hence, Robert’s cousin James had been the next in line, and after him, his son Patrick. What now since they both went down with the ship? Family and servants alike at Downton Abbey realized their future was at stake and out of their hands.

Luckily, the family lawyers found Matthew, a distant male relation the Crawleys had never even heard of before but who turned out to be the next successor. After several episodes of ups and downs and other romantic entanglements, Mary and Matthew married. But then, oh no, the Crawley fortune was wiped out when the Canadian railroad in which all their money was invested went bankrupt.

Robert seemed to have no choice—he would have to sell the beloved ancestral family estate! But wait! It’s entailed….”cannot sell, devise by will, or otherwise….” So just how was Robert going to manage that?

We’ll ever know because, luckily, another just in the nick-of-time occurred. Matthew’s dead first fiancé’s father died, leaving his whole fortune to Matthew, who, of course, used it to save Downton. And in gratitude Robert put his name on the title as co-owner. But wait! The estate is entailed, you can’t just put someone’s name on the title.

Well, on it goes. Apparently the writers realized they had backed themselves into a corner with the entail, with no way out. So they just sort of dropped it, as if it had never been. But the next lucky stroke would have come with the Law of Property Act of 1925….

Where does it all go, and how did it get there? Join me at the Harold Washington Library on Saturday, August 6, 2016, at 2 pm for my 125th presentation of “Downton Abbey: Centuries in the Making,” and we’ll get this all sorted out. Maybe.

Copyright Barbara Geiger 2016. All rights reserved.

Photo credit: By JB + UK_Planet – originally posted to Flickr as Highclere Castle 1, CC BY 2.0,

How to Plagiarize

With intellectual property law being such a big deal these days you would think that nobody’d be plagiarizing. But just the opposite. On June 29 the New York Times reported that “Trump Institute Offered Get-Rich Schemes with Plagiarized Lessons.” Just this week one of the opening speeches at the Republican National Convention had several sentences lifted from—irony of ironies—a speech of Michelle Obama’s eight years ago. And then there are ‘borrowings’ that Biden and Obama didn’t apologize for either.

We might just shrug it off as being the antics of modern politicians. Surely we’d find a higher standard of ethics among 19th century religious leaders—or would we?

Phineas_Parkhurst_QuimbyTake, for example, the case of a middle-aged woman in 1860s New England named Mary Baker Glover. She suffered from myriad physical and nervous disorders and visited any number of healers seeking relief. Finally the treatments of mesmerist Phineas Parkhurst Quimby helped. In fact she felt so much better that she wrote long and effusive letters to the local papers praising Quimby’s genius and near-miraculous healing abilities, through a form of laying on of hands and see the person as healthy.

Glover became Quimby’s most ardent student, sitting in on patient sessions and laboriously copying by hand all that the “doctor” had written of his theory and approach. Then suddenly Quimby died in 1866 at the age of 64 (having more luck with his patients than with himself). Glover tried to convince another healer to take over Quimby’s practice, but he refused. So she took up the task herself. Her intentions were honorable.

Mary_Baker_EddyBut it wasn’t long before the tables were turned—now it was Quimby who had studied under Glover and the manuscripts were from her pen, as indeed they were because she had made the copies. She read and re-wrote for a few years, and then launched her own version, adding religion to the more secular healing practices. Soon, this combination would be called Christian Science.

Glover seems never to have really set up her own healing practice, though. Instead, she figured out pretty quickly that there was more money to be made in teaching, and a lot less liability. So she opened a school. Oh, there were spoilsports who claimed that she had plagiarized Quimby’s writings, but she managed to outwit nearly all of them. Eventually his son George published everything he could, but by then Glover was Mary Baker Eddy (having remarried), and had established her version of the writings as coming directly from God. (Devoted defenders today still explain how it is that Eddy’s methods and her main publication, Science and Health, have no connection whatsoever to Quimby’s work.)

Eddy then established her Church of Christ, Scientist, in Boston. Through her take-no-prisoners approach—for example, no one was allowed to quote so much as a sentence from her works without bracketing it with “by Mary Baker Eddy, discoverer and founder of Christian Science”–over the years she attracted a sizeable following and built a major edifice. She claimed that what she wrote and copyrighted was not hers, but  God’s, despite her invariable insistence that she be cited as the author.

Eddy wrote sternly about the unethical practice of plagiarizing, as a warning to former students who took her materials and set up shop on their own. Any debt owed Quimby was lost in the mists. In fact, when Eddy published her autobiography, called Retrospection and Introspection, in 1891, she stated specifically that the details of a personal life (hers) mattered not at all; it was the spiritual interpretation that was everything. Funny how there are facts and then there are facts.

Eddy died in 1910, leaving behind a hefty organization managing her stringently copyrighted materials. Her followers remained as circumspect about her as ever. People devoted their entire lives to Christian Science, practicing it, well, religiously. While the church officially denounced any worship of Eddy, it seems to have been a common practice. She herself, while sometimes sharply rebuking her devoteés for putting her on par with Jesus, wrote that in the course of Christianity Jesus had his own unique role to play, Mary had hers, and so did the discoverer and founder of Christian Science. This was heady stuff for those who bought into the belief.

And so Annie C. Bill, a fully vested Christian Scientist from London, was shocked when a researcher who was formerly part of the church’s inside circle revealed that several articles authored by Eddy in Christian Science publications were, in fact, plagiarized, some in toto. A sermon from the 1890s, a poem from a schoolbook in the 1820s, other paragraphs from here and there. Bill was so discouraged that she quite the church and set up her own version of Christian Science in the 1920s; her long-held belief that she was called to be the new leader of the church could only have helped her make this decision.

The liberal borrowing of material by Eddy didn’t seem to bother the regular believers too much. The church administrators sort of ignored the accusations as if they didn’t matter. The rather soggy explanation (one that was being used earlier this week by a certain campaign staff) given out was that of course over the years Mary Baker Eddy had read widely, had assimilated many ideas, and it was only natural that they would appear in her writings without her recalling where they had come from.

But one very devout family, the Gilbert Carpenters, Sr. and Jr., wanted a more final elucidation. While to mortal mind it did indeed look as though Eddy had lifted from other writers, they said, in fact it was the other way around! Something published in, say, 1823, and then written up in, say, 1890, was actually cribbed by the 1823 author. How? The Carpenters reminded Scientists that Eddy never claimed that anything she wrote was from her own mind; rather that it was always given her by God. Therefore God was the real author. Now, the 1823 author had not ascribed the essay or poem to God, but claimed authorship for himself. So that would be plagiarism. Since, then, as Eddy had ascribed ownership of her writings to the rightful author, God (except for the copyright….), obviously it was the earlier writer in the wrong; Eddy was just setting the record straight.

This did not go down well. The church administrators quickly disavowed the Carpenter’s explanations and quashed the publication as quickly as possible, and removed them from church membership. So there’s one way of covering your tracks when lifting someone else’s words—blaming the original writer for stealing from you—but maybe not terribly effective. You can always just speak your own words and hope for the best.

Copyright Barbara Geiger 2016. All rights reserved.

Images retrieved from online public domain sources.

Re-visiting Mariano Park


IMG_0505A year ago I posted “Early Wrangles in Mariano Park,” when there was a possibility that the little triangle of trees and café tables at Rush and State might be lost to Rush Streeti-ification. It’s the only public outdoor space in the neighborhood, and losing it did not sit well, literally, with residents. And the charming little pavilion designed by architect Burch Burdette Long and erected 116 years ago in autumn 1900 was threatened with demolition or egregious changes.


Bow Truss coffee-Mariano ParkI’m happy to report that all is well, and perhaps even better. Bow Truss Coffee Roasters has taken over the little structure, gotten rid of all the signs and distractions, and taken it back to its original Prairie-style simplicity. It has also responded to customers’ demands for gelato.



Mariano Park new tablesSo little Mariano is still a public park for everyone to share, now with new tables and chairs, terrific locally roasted coffee and artisanal Black Dog gelato. A much loved, tenacious little spot well into its second century.

Uber-super Rockstar Alexander Hamilton in Chicago!!!

Since this is an internet tour, and we’ve been strolling amongst the greats of imaginary literature in Lincoln Park, let’s live it up and fly in our imaginations to our next visit. Flying fits in perfectly with this fantasy version of Herr Goethe. The 1910 Goethe monument committee wanted something less literal than the other statues in the park (you have to wonder if Goethe’s buddy Schiller would be envious or snickering behind his hands). So the competition instructions told sculptors they should be free “from the trammels of costume and conventionality,” and “to give free flight to their imagination and enthusiasm.” And they did.

Goethe and eagleWe’re landing on the lawn just south of Diversey, on the east side of Cannon Drive. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, whom you might not readily recognize in this incarnation, was sculpted by Herman Hahn and unveiled to great ceremony on June 13, 1914. Just in the nick of time before the Great War broke out in Europe on July 28, 1914 and suddenly you couldn’t even have a German surname any more (think of how the Battenburgs metamorphosed into the Mountbattens). Hahn’s sculpture is said to capture the ‘spirit of Goethe’ rather than resemble him physically. And unless he and the pet eagle had spent inordinate amounts of time at the gym and the tanning bed, that explains it.

The statue is enormous, and sort of like the apotheosis of Goethe in sculptural form. Maybe that’s all very well for George Washington, whose real estate interests we noted last week. Well, no, that’s pretty darn strange for Washington, too. But maybe in DC where politicians are always aggrandizing themselves it blends in better. Let’s face it. Chicago is not the kind of town where people go around apotheosizing.

Goethe plinthAnd so there were criticisms of the statue. According to the park district website, “After its completion, the critics lampooned the Monument to Johann Wolfgang von Goethe in the Chicago Tribune for several weeks.” The closest thing I’ve been able to find to a criticism is the caption under a photo of the statue being lowered into place, which reads, “The huge bronze statue, on a granite base . . . is of heroic dimensions. . . The monument represents the almost nude figure of Goethe, standing with his foot on a rock.” Not too scathing.

It’s just as well that the semi-nude statue doesn’t actually resemble Goethe himself, who died in 1832. No doubt there were Germans in Chicago in 1914 whose grandparents—whose parents—had actually seen the man in life. It’s one thing to have an idealized statue of someone in the buff from a  mythological age two thousand years ago; quite another of someone your father sipped coffee with.

Regardless, it’s an amazing piece of art, and worth a visit. Staying firmly on the ground, let’s carefully cross Cannon Drive and walk half a block south to visit Alexander Hamilton (1755-1804), the reigning star of Broadway right now. The sculpture was cast and placed in 1952, so  I was going to write something to the effect that that just goes to show how avant-garde and trend-setting we are here in Chicago, or at least Kate Buckingham, the donor was. But lo and behold, the statue has been removed—what awfully poor timing on the City’s part! Hamilton’s been taken off to have his gold skin re-gilded, so maybe his not being here is perfectly appropriate. To see an air-brushed, telegenic version of his face, look at any $10 bill—it will have to do for now. Or of course you can spend $8,000 for a ticket to the musical.

Hamilton plinthHard to say if Hamilton, who is fully clothed, would approve of the Goethe statue, but when he’s on his pedestal, he faces the other direction.

Crossing Cannon Drive back east again we come to John Peter Altgeld, another German, and fully clothed, too. Altgeld was governor of Illinois from January 1893 (just in time for the opening of the World’s Columbian Exposition that May) until January 1897. Altgeld was a progressive, pro-labor Democrat. During his four-year tenure as governor he pardoned the three surviving Haymarket Riot (1886) prisoners and refused to agree to the use of Federal troops to dispel the Pullman Rail Strikers in 1894.

Altgeld frontAltgeld was just 54 when he died in 1902, while at work in the offices of Clarence Darrow. He was buried in Graceland Cemetery. It is a good thing that generally dead people are very peaceful.  After the Haymarket affair the Commercial Club funded the development of Ft. Sheridan, up in Highwood, as a means of having army troops at the ready to quell any other complaints the working class might care to voice. Several of the Graceland trustees were involved. And then Altgeld’s grave is very near to that of George M. Pullman’s, and the two could not have been on friendly terms!

Eventually more Chicagoans, including such influential reformers as Jane Addams, saw to it that Altgeld’s genuine humanitarianism was recognized officially, and sculptor Gutzon Borglum (famous for Mt. Rushmore many years later) was hired to create a fitting monument. Erected in 1915, it’s about a third the size of the massive Goethe statue, honoring a man who in life never sought to aggrandize himself, but fought for the rights and the good of his constituency. What a concept.

Borglum signatureBorglum later created the statue of General Philip Henry Sheridan that stands at the intersection of Belmont and Sheridan Road, a site as busy and jammed with traffic as Altgeld’s spot is green and peaceful.

Let’s do a little more imaginary flying, straight east across Lake Shore Drive, to the Emmanuel Swedenborg monument, just south of the Diversey Harbor inlet. He’s a normal, life-size kind of guy, but just a bust, rather than complete figure, and he faces west into the continual stream of traffic on the Drive. He’s another of our Lincoln Park statue crowd that never set foot in the United States. Who was Swedenborg and why is he here, anyway?

Emanuel_SwedenborgEmmanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772) was 67 when Hamilton was born. He was the son of a prominent Swedish Lutheran bishop, and an important mining engineer who, rather than buying a red sports car during his mid-life crisis, became a mystic, channeling Biblical interpretations from angels and reinterpreting Christianity. Bright, lively, and fully involved in the Enlightenment activities of mid-18th century London, Swedenborg influenced the thinking of William Blake and other post-enlightenment Romantics.

His writings were inspiring enough that he developed quite a following, and some of his devotees eventually formed the Church of the New Jerusalem (still functioning today; there’s a branch in Glenview), while others took his writings more philosophically than religiously. Chicago architect Daniel Burnham and his family were among the second group.

Burnham’s family moved to Chicago in 1855, when he was nine years old. They came in hopes of better business opportunities and were apparently well-rewarded. Who encouraged them to do this? The Swedenborgian community that had formed in Chicago as early as 1836 (!) when Jonathan Young Scammon’s family had settled here. You know the Scammon name—he was an early advocate for education, founded Oakwoods Cemetery in 1860, started the city’s first newspaper, opened a bank, and has an elementary school named in his honor. So there were some early Swedenborgian movers and shakers in Chicago.

The bust of Swedenborg was originally installed in 1924, was stolen at some point, and then recast and replaced 2012. And then, because we can’t actually fly across LSD to take a photo of this monument, you can just click here and see the Park District version.

This probably all sounds dry as dust—but Swedenborg was anything but. For a little lively reading, I refer to you Why Mrs. Blake Cried: William Blake and the Sexual Basis of Spiritual Vision by Marsha Keith Schuchard, at least partly available online here.

And that was some decades before Joseph Smith introduced polygamy to Mormonism in the 1830s, although another book could be written, swapping Smith’s original wife Emma for Mrs. Blake in the title. (Swedenborg, who never married, did not advocate plural wives, nor did any version of Swedenborgianism practice this.) Blake apparently arrived at the multiple-partner idea straightforwardly, thanks to his hearty libido. Smith, however,  claimed to be following Old Testament precedent after being threatened with destruction by angels  if he did NOT practice it—God made him do it. (Angels again. They were busy in the 18th and 19th centuries, it seems.)

WCE buildingsAnyway, Swedenborg also dwelt much on the Book of Revelation, especially the sections describing the New Jerusalem in physical detail. It’s not hard to see that image manifested in the design of the World’s Columbian Exposition, or in Burnham’s later city planning efforts. It’s amazing to learn the actual provenance of ideas!

Oh, and by the way, lest you think we slighted George Washington, Father of Our Country, in the statue department last week with the 4th of July post—there is no Washington statue in Lincoln Park–but there IS a marvelous equestrian statue of the general at 51st Street and Martin Luther King, Jr. Drive. Created by Daniel Chester French and Edward C. Potter, and installed in 1904, it conveys a sense of dignity, power, and movement—and you can almost hear Washington crying, “Hi-yo, Silver! Away!!” or something like that.

Images by the author or retrieved from public domain.

Copyright Barbara Geiger. All rights reserved


A Tale of Two Georges

George III in 1762Just how bad was King George III, anyway? Bad enough for the American colonists to start a revolution and set up a new country? Bad enough for colonists to “sacrifice their lives and fortunes”, as the Daughters of the American Revolution’s American’s Creed puts it?

Unlike his two predecessors, aptly named George I and George II, Mr. III decided to take a hands-on approach to the colonies across the sea. Perhaps well-intentioned, the young king (he was crowned in 1760 at the age of 22) was politically inexperienced, and had politics a-plenty to deal with just amongst his own advisors and members of parliament.

The British royal family’s official website explains that the king’s “direct responsibility for the loss of the colonies is not great,” although he was against the rebellion until the denouement with the Treaty of Paris in 1783. And it says that he did not create the egregious Stamp Act of 1765, or the Townshend Acts of 1767.

tea party tarringThere is no mention, though, what George’s reaction was to the Boston Tea Party or his role in the British government’s swift and harsh reprisal with the Intolerable Acts, which led directly to colonists arranging the First Continental Congress and thence to the Revolution. Although, judging from this charming image, it’s not hard to see why the Brits might have reacted strongly!

Well before George III ascended the throne, though, a 16-year old Virginia colonist named George Washington (six years older than Prince George) was hired to survey parts of William Fairfax’s 5,500,000 acres in the Northern Neck area of Virginia. That’s right: five and a half million acres.

Washington surveyorFairfax had inherited the property through his Culpeper side of the family, given them in 1649 by an exiled Charles II. Washington’s family was  related to the Culpepers and Fairfaxes, but untitled and with small-sized gentry land holdings. Washington was quick to realize that owning vast amounts of land was where wealth and power lay, and it became his life goal. He began speculating in “good unoccupied lands”.

Washington’s surveying experience and knowledge of the land provided a strong resume and in 1753 colonial Governor Dinwiddie hired him as his agent to the French, who had the gall to occupy some lands along the Ohio River also claimed by the English. Successful at this endeavor, Washington was promoted to Lt. Col. of the Virginia militia.

Dinwiddie then sent Washington and 160 troops back to the Ohio in 1754 with instructions to take the region back for England. Shots were fired and in the process the Virginia militia had killed 13 French soldiers. Thus began the French and Indian War which would drag on for another nine years.

proclamationOf course Washington and his Virginia militiamen were all English citizens. They petitioned the Crown for a land grant in the Ohio and Kanawha River valleys, and during the course of the fighting they were promised a total of 500,000 acres. When the war finally came to an end, George III issued “The Royal Proclamation of October 7, 1763 by the King”. This included a section on “Soldier Settlement”, which indeed rewarded the militia men who had fought with land bounties in the amounts of 5,000 acres to field officers, 3,000 acres to captains, on down to 50 acres for privates.

But the proclamation also spelled out the new official British position on relations with the Indians in these territories. Specifically, “whereas it is just and reasonable, and essential to our Interest, and the Security of our Colonies, that the several Nations or Tribes of Indians with whom We are connected, and who live under our Protection, should not be molested or disturbed in the Possession of such Parts of Our Dominions and Territories as, not having been ceded to or purchased by Us, are reserved to them . . . We do therefore . . . declare it to be our Royal Will and Pleasure . . . that no Governor or Commander in Chief in any of our other Colonies or Plantations in America do presume for the present, and until our further Pleasure be known, to grant Warrants of Survey, or pass Patents for any Lands beyond the Heads or Sources of any of the Rivers which fall into the Atlantic Ocean from the West and North West, or upon any Lands whatever, which, not having been ceded to or purchased by Us as aforesaid, are reserved to the said Indians”. This meant the formerly promised Ohio and Kanewha Valleys. Well.

GW-StuartSo men who had planned a future based on the prospect of acquiring good-sized property holdings, and had survived a miserable guerilla-style war in deep and hilly forests, were left in the lurch. Washington had a plantation to go home to, but wanted his men to receive their bounty lands, and he wanted his Kanawha acres too. (Eventually, after the Revolution, some land would be distributed.)

Two years later came the Stamp Act—the British decided the long war had been waged on the colonists’ behalf, and so they ought to pick up the tab for it. Never mind that the territory they had fought for was now off limits. Things continued downhill from there, until the Intolerable Acts of 1774.  Washington had risked life and limb in the French and Indian Wars—he’d had two horses shot out from under him—in part, at least, to claim the prize of several thousand acres of fertile land in the Kanawha Valley, and was not a happy camper.

While the egregious taxes without representation may indeed have been sufficient cause to revolt and break away from the power of Britain, many of the Patriots had an even more compelling reason. Land–the only means to a stable life and financial prosperity they knew.

RoyalFireworksIt’s possible, of course, that Washington was just a big fireworks buff and wanted to do something that would warrant sending up pyrotechnics for centuries to come. Handel had written Music for the Royal Fireworks for George II the same year that Washington started surveying for Fairfax, so we know they were a Big Deal in that era.

And then perhaps the colonies had just simply outgrown their dependency and were ready to leave home in the time-honored tradition of rebelling against the father, whatever actually triggered the Declaration. But broken promises and disparagement of their services would have stoked the the urge to revolt for the veterans of the French and Indian War.

fireworksHowever we got here, enjoy our 240th Independence Day. Ooh and aah with excitement at the fireworks. And give a thought to the two Georges who made it all happen.



Image of Washington surveying from All other images have been retrieved from public-domain online sources.

Copyright Barbara Geiger. All rights reserved.

A Bicycle Named Gladys

FEW4Frances Willard learned to ride a bicycle in 1892, when she was 53 years old. In the tradition of naming your trustworthy steed, she named her bicycle, calling it “Gladys”. Willard was one of the most influential women of the late 19th century, internationally revered—not for riding a bike, but as the president of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) and for her progressive leadership in women’s and family causes.

It was just in Willard’s nature to work for justice, to learn new things, and to take advantage of new technology—like bicycles and telephones.

www.loc.govMiss Willard was the first woman to be honored with a statue in the National Statuary Hall Collection in the Capitol Building in Washington; she’s since been joined by five other memorials to women. (A bit of trivia: in the super best-selling 2003 The Devil in the White City, Willard is mistakenly referred to as “Mrs. Willard.” She never married and was proud to be a self-sustaining single woman.)

But we’re not here to talk just about sculpture and bicycles this week. We’re studying the history of the Willard house and gardens in Evanston.

When Willard’s family moved to Evanston in 1858 from its farm near Janesville, WI, they rented a home that they called Swampscott, just south of the new Northwestern University. After the tragic early death of Frances’s younger sister Mary in 1862,  the family gave up that house.

By 1864 father Josiah Willard had recovered from his grief enough to  begin building a new home  according to a plan he found in the very popular Cottage Residences by Andrew Jackson Downing. The house was designed specifically after the ‘Cottage for a Country Clergyman’ pattern, in a neo-Gothic style with wooden board and batten cladding.

Mr. Willard was also an avid gardener and set about landscaping (although the term was not used as a verb then) the grounds around their new home with the ‘choicest of plants’. But tragedy struck again when just a year later Josiah Willard became seriously ill. He realized that his condition would probably end his life very soon, and he moved back to his childhood home in Churchville, NY. He wrote to his brother that the most painful thing was knowing he would never see his Evanston home and gardens again. And he asked his daughter to please take good care of those gardens. He died in 1868.

Frances, her mother Mary, her brother Oliver and his wife (also Mary) scattered, not wanting to be in Evanston with memories of two painful losses. By 1870 they returned and lived as a family in the house for the next several years. Frances Willard had become a popular teacher and traveled much of the time. Then, she became involved with the WCTU and really found her calling.

But untimely death struck the Willard family for a third time. Oliver died in the late 1870s, leaving a widow and children behind. Mother Mary built an addition on the north side of the house for daughter-in-law Mary to live with her family. Shortly thereafter Mary decided to take her children to Germany. The WCTU had thrived and grown under Frances Willard’s leadership, and she invited the organization to use the vacated annex as its headquarters.

This left Frances, her mother, and her secretary/companion Anna Gordon in the original 1865 Evanston house. Historic photos from the 1880s show the three of them on the front steps, surrounded by a vibrant, flourishing Victorian garden. Miss Willard was at the height of her success, and had enough income to redecorate the house and garden.

1887 photo clearThings soon changed. Mother Willard died at the age of 87 in 1892, and her daughter’s interest in the house and gardens withered. The gardens lost the exuberant feeling that Mother and Frances Willard had created in happier times, and the vigorous plantings were replaced with a simple easy-to-maintain lawn and a few shrubs. Miss Willard herself died six years later, at 59. She willed her property to the WCTU, which has  owned it ever since.

The simple approach to the grounds worked best for an organization that put all of its  resources into its many programs. The WCTU maintained the original house as a museum and memorial to Willard.

Willard House 1967Over time it has undergone several restoration projects. Currently a thoroughly-researched, major interior restoration of the parlor and the first floor office is underway and will be completed in September 2016.

We have the opportunity now to replicate the gardens in front of the 1865 structure as they were in 1890, in the spirit of “Saint Courageous,” as Mrs. Willard was known, and the “do everything” spirit of Frances Willard herself. Gladys was restored last year, and, as with this blog post, Gladys is just the beginning.

I’ll present a special program on the inside story of the Willard House garden restoration at the House on July 9, 2016. See the News and Events page at the FWH website for more information and to register.

IMG_0889By the way, Gladys the Bicycle would never need to stop for a drink, of course. But there is a fountain named for Willard in–where else–Lincoln Park. This piece by sculptor George Wade was first exhibited at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition and called the “Frances Willard Fountain”. It served fresh drinking water to humans, horses, and dogs. Several copies were made and erected in cities throughout the U.S. The Lincoln Park version was installed in 1921 and stolen (!) in 1958. This new casting was placed in 2011.


Photos from Library of Congress, courtesy of the Frances Willard House Association and the WCTU, and by the author.

Copyright Barbara Geiger 2016. All right reserved


Strolling Among the Literati

Hans Christian AndersenWe’ve left the macho south end of the park, with its general and dentist and voyageur and president, and are now in the central area with the more genteel literati. All of whom but one never set foot in the United States, until they were sculpted after their deaths.

Hans Christian Andersen is the first visit as we walk north along Stockton Drive. The statue is located just south of Dickens Street—which is completely appropriate. He and Charles Dickens met in 1847, and found common ground in their stories about the troubles of the poorer classes in the new industrial economy. Apparently Andersen, who never married and struggled with his feelings towards women, got a little too attached to Dickens.

Dickens eventually stopped replying to Andersen’s correspondence and backed out of their friendship. (Maybe he was afraid of being linked eternally, as Goethe and Schiller were after Goethe’s death in 1832. But he needn’t have worried. It turns out with modern DNA testing that the corpse in Schiller’s coffin isn’t Schiller.) Maybe the statue’s location at Dickens Street isn’t so perfect.

There is no statue of Dickens in Chicago; he specifically requested that his books alone constitute his legacy.

Regardless of his personal problems, Andersen is of course still beloved for his fairy tales—The Little Mermaid, The Princess and the Pea, Thumbelina, The Emperor’s New Clothes, and The Ugly Duckling amongst them. He was made a Danish National Treasure in his own lifetime.

Given the ubiquity of malicious step-mothers in classic fairy tales, you’d think that there’d be one hovering over the statue of Hans Christian Andersen. But instead there is a graceful swan at his feet, recalling the story of the cygnet that thought it was an ugly duckling—a metaphor for Andersen’s own life story.

swan boatsTouching to think of the swan paddle-boats that used to ply the waters of the South Lagoon just a block or two away before it’s ecological transformation several years ago. How literal and unliterary we have become.

[photo by Ashley P on yelp]

Andersen’s sculpture was first exhibited at the World’s Columbian Exposition in 1893 (he died in 1875) and then installed here in the park amongst a large crowd of celebrating Scandinavians (and other local groups) in 1896. The great landscape architect Jens Jensen was a fellow Dane, just making his mark on the West Parks district at this moment.

Strolling two blocks north, we come to the very serious statue of Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller, installed in May 1886—strangely enough the same month of the terrible Haymarket Riot, in which several German workers were killed or arrested. Like the Scandinavians, Germans were in ascendency in Chicago in the Gilded Age. They were also the target of some brutal discrimination, as evidenced by the Haymarket debacle. We’ll look into that more in a few weeks when we come to the John Peter Altgeld statue farther north in the park.

Herr Schiller was a philosopher, poet, playwright, a leading figure in the German Romantic movement who died young in 1802. Despite the bronze-clad respectability of the statue, he was, appropriately for a Romantic, up to other things. When he was twenty-seven, he loved two sisters, “the angels of my life,” and they apparently loved him back. He spent the summer and autumn of 1778 with the two of them. He later married the younger sister Charlotte (the elder was already married) and they had four children. Schiller also kept a drawer of rotten apples in his study, as he believed the smell helped him write. Being brilliant takes more imagination than we might think.

Andersen, his neighbor to the south, would have been delighted to know that Schiller put these words in the protagonist’s mouth in his play, The Piccolomini: “Deeper meaning resides in the fairy tales told to me in my childhood than in any truth that is taught in life.”

800px-Lincoln_Park_ConservatoryThe Schiller monument, sculpted by Ernst Bilhauer Rau, was installed in this exact spot in 1886, with a marvelous view north to the formal gardens and conservatory. There are many Schiller monuments in the US and in Germany, including a combined Goethe-Schiller piece erected in 1857 in Weimar, Germany. [photo by alanscottwalker; wikipedia commons]

Where Schiller himself has gone is a mystery. He was thought to have been buried in a mausoleum at Alter Friedhof Weimar when he died in 1802. Goethe was placed in a coffin next to his when he died in 1832. Recent DNA testing, however, proves that these are not Schiller’s remains but those of an unidentified man. There’s probably a lot more of that sort of thing than we realize, as we learn every so often from cemetery exposés in the news.

Less worldly, very local, and in amongst all these European literary lights is one home-grown and very popular poet–Eugene Field, 1850-1895. His memorial is actually inside the zoo, on the east side, northeast of he Helen Brach Primate House.

Helen Brach was the heir through marriage to the Brach Candy Company fortune who was murdered and vanished without a trace in 1977. She had an airtight will that endowed a foundation to support a variety of causes, including this zoo house. She and Field are an unlikely duo.

Field wrote widely but was best known for his children’s poems—favorites such as “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod”, “The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat”, and “The Rock-a-Bye Lady”, the poem that inspired this statue. Elementary schools all over the Midwest are named for Field.

ShakespeareCrossing Stockton and heading north, on the same latitude as the conservatory, there’s the man who may or may not have existed, William Shakespeare.

A plaster model of the piece was displayed at the World’s Fair, and then the full-scale bronze cast and placed here. You start to get the sense that Chicagoans were sculpture-crazy around the time of the World’s Fair, as though, if only we could erect enough of these, we could save western civilization. Or at least keep sculptors well-employed.

So here’s Shakespeare, who never saw America, lounging in a rather lax position while idly contemplating the conservatory across the street. Or is he looking past it, towards London, far, far away?

He’s festooned with bows and robes and things, all very sculptural. Chicago’s great sculptor Lorado Taft had pondered the difficulty of creating any sort of graceful flow with modern American clothing; his contemporary William Ordway Partridge had the luxury in creating this statue of rummaging through fanciful Tudor images and designing a delightful costume that dramatically expresses “17th-century theatre” to the max.

We’ll visit a more eclectic group on our next walk, a few weeks from now. In the meantime, we’ll visit a site next week that memorializes a WOMAN, and then of course have an Independence Day salute of sorts on July 3. Until then, keep staring off into the horizon, if you’re a statue.

Photos from Library of Congress, Wikipedia, and by the author, unless otherwise noted.

Copyright Barbara Geiger 2016. All rights reserved.