Boston's "changeful times": origins of preservation & planning in America 9780801857294, 9780801866449

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
Acknowledgments (page xi)
Introduction (page 3)
PART I: CHANGE
CHAPTER 1: The Culture of Change (page 15)
CHAPTER 2: Problems with Change (page 39)
PART II: PERMANENCE
CHAPTER 3: Selling Permanence (page 65)
CHAPTER 4: Preservation (page 84)
CHAPTER 5: Parks and the Permanent Landscape (page 110)
CHAPTER 6: From Monuments to Landmarks (page 135)
CHAPTER 7: The Sacred Sky Line (page 165)
PART III: CONTROL
CHAPTER 8: The Limits of Permanence (page 197)
CHAPTER 9: Institutionalized Preservation (page 215)
CHAPTER 10: Public Control (page 245)
Conclusion (page 269)
Notes (page 277)
Index (page 329)

Citation preview

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

LRP

CREATING THE NORTH AMERICAN LANDSCAPE Gregory Conniff ~ Bonnie Loyd Edward K. Muller David Schuyler Consulting Editors George F. Thompson Series Founder and Director Published in cooperation with the Center for American Places, Harrisonburg, Virginia

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES” PLR Origins of Preservation & Planning in America

LRP MICHAEL HOLLERAN

The Johns Hopkins University Press BALTIMORE AND LONDON

© 1998 The Johns Hopkins University Press All rights reserved. Published 1998 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

246897531 ;

Johns Hopkins Paperbacks edition, 2001 | The Johns Hopkins University Press 2715 North Charles Street Baltimore, Maryland 21218-4363 www.press.jhu.edu

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data will be found | at the end of this book. A catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 0-8018-6644-8 (pbk.)

For Aimée

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We have passed together through changeful times. —REV. CHANDLER ROBBINS

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Contents

Acknowledgments xi Introduction 3 PART I: CHANGE

CHAPTER 1: The Culture of Change 15 “Changeful Times” 15 Change Is Good 25 Change Is Inevitable 31 CHAPTER 2: Problems with Change 39 Untamiliar Society 39 Disappearing Landmarks and the

Unfamiliar City 43 The Threatened Domestic Environment 50 Waste, Missed Opportunities, and the Need

for Planning 54 PART 11: PERMANENCE

CHAPTER 3: Selling Permanence 65 Property and Permanence 6/7 Equitable Easements 73 “A Permanent Residential Restricted

Neighborhood” 79 CHAPTER 4: Preservation 84 The Place of Old Buildings 85 Historic Monuments 94 1x

Contents

CHAPTER 5: Parks and the Permanent Landscape 110 |

The Parks Movement 110 | |

Boston Common 115 oe Burial Grounds 123 Wilderness and Scenic Preservation 129

CHAPTER 6: From Monuments to Landmarks 135 | The Bulfinch Front 135 Brimstone Corner 150 A City Worthy of Permanence 161

CHAPTER 7: The Sacred Sky Line 165 The Police Power 166 Haddon Hall 168

Westminster Chambers 173 | Beacon Hill 182

PART 111: CONTROL | CHAPTER 8: The Limits of Permanence 197 | Managing the Permanent Landscape 197 Too Much Permanence? 201

Control 210 CHAPTER 9: Institutionalized Preservation 215 The Paul Revere House 216 The Society for the Preservation

of New England Antiquities 218

Practice 236 ©

Theory 226

Preservation as Public Policy 238 ,

CHAPTER 10: Public Control 245

, Revisions 253 — , | The Zone System 257 “Fixing a Constitutional Limit” 245 ,

Historic Districts 262

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Conclusion 269 |

Notes 277 Index 329

Acknowledgments

Good history relies on good archivists, and I have relied above all on Lorna Condon of the Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities. Thanks to Lorna, and to Ellie Reichlin; thanks to the staff of the Boston Public Library, especially John Dorsey, Aaron Schmidt, Sinclair Hitchings, and Katherine Dibble. Thanks to Philip Bergen and Douglas Southard at the Bostonian Society Library; to Jane S. Knowles, Trevor Johnson, and Catharina Slautterback at the Boston Athenaeum; to Elizabeth Bouvier of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court Archives, Linda McCorkle and the Harvard Business School Baker Library, Laurie Whitchill and Marilyn Simpson at the Rhode Island School of Design Library, Nina Zannieri at the Paul Revere Memorial Association, Paul R. Tierney at the Suffolk County Registry of Deeds, Joyce Connolly at the Frederick Law Olmsted National Historic Site, Herbert Finch at the Cornell Collection of Regional History and Archives, and Janice Madhu at the George Eastman House/International Museum of Photography. Thanks to Harvard’s Loeb Library, M.I.T.’s Rotch Library, Boston University’s Beebe Communications Center, the Massachusetts Historical Society, and the Massachusetts State Archives and State Library, especially its Special Collections. Thanks to David Bohl for his magic touch in the darkroom. Thanks to Antoinette Downing, Marc Weiss, Gary Hack, Christine Cousineau, David Schuyler, Seymour Mandelbaum, Stephen Mrozowski, Patricia Burgess, Garrett Power, James M. Lindgren, Yuk Lee, and the late William

Jordy for comments on early versions of some of this work and for generously making available unpublished materials. Thanks to my graduate research assistants, John Baloga and Debbie Fuller Penn. The National Endowment for the Humanities helped fund my research, and the University of Colorado at Denver provided both funding and precious release time. I am grateful to George F Thompson, president of the Center for Ameri-

xi

Acknowledgments can Places, David Schuyler, Mary V. Yates, and Julie Burris for their able help in making this a book. Finally, thanks to Robert M. Fogelson for his guidance and generous support at every phase of this project. And to Aimée, Max, and Sam, thanks for your patience when my mind has seemed two thousand miles away.

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BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

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Introduction

Change is the order of Divine Providence; nothing is permanent or enduring upon earth. — REV. SAMUEL KIRKLAND LOTHROP

Today Americans take for granted the shared value of continuity in the built environment. Though our urban areas may change rapidly, neighborhood stability and historic preservation are universally approved as principles. We agree that they are good, and argue only about what price we are willing to pay for them in practice.

In the middle of the nineteenth century, expectations and experience both were profoundly different. The whole American culture of city building relied on continual change. After the Civil War, Bostonians watched approvingly as row after row of old houses were pulled down to make way for mercantile “palaces,” which they cheerfully expected to see replaced in their time by still more wonderful buildings. By the turn of the century, Boston was almost completely remade. In whole districts, not a single original building stood; indeed, much of the ground beneath the city had not existed. Old buildings were regarded with distaste. They were “firetraps,” “eyesores,” often converted to unintended uses with unsightly results. Historically significant buildings were not exempt from this perception; while many Bostonians took great pride in them, their appreciation was not aesthetic, and in any case antiquarianism was an attitude of connoisseurship, not a prescription for action. Real estate investors anticipated ever more intensive use. They valued and developed residential property with an eye to its eventual conversion for commercial purposes. Subdivisions were sometimes replatted during the development process to allow denser building. Neighborhood deterioration, if unwelcome, was accepted as inevitable. When residents felt forced to move, they tried to cash in on the changing land uses as profitably as they could, in order once again to secure a suitable home. The cycle from fashionable 3

BosTON’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

new residential area to commercial use or slum could take as little as ten or fifteen years.’ Trying to defend one’s neighborhood from the changing city seemed as futile as defending a sandcastle from the rising tide. During the last third of the nineteenth century, Americans grew uncom-

fortably aware of the pace of change in the urban environment, and in various ways they began to seek instead environmental permanence. They sought homes protected from change, and developers responded with longterm deed restrictions. They defended features of the city they had come to value: not only historic buildings but also neighborhoods, landscapes, burial grounds, views, trees. They sought to create new pieces of the city that would both deserve and achieve permanence: parks, public buildings, and public spaces. Eventually they used public powers to restrain disruptive changes throughout the city. As the city became a more elaborate artifact, it gained physical momentum; continual change became more expensive and inconvenient. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Boston was mainly a collection of buildings, but by the end of the century, it was knitted together by pipes, wires, and conduits as well as more complex infrastructure such as America’s first subway. More elaborate and expensive building types, and the considerable social and economic costs of continual reconstruction and relocation, lent increasing attractiveness to what planner Charles H. Cheney later called

“building for permanency.” If the city could begin to take a permanent shape, then durable infrastructure such as streets, lots, utilities, and transit lines could be configured for particular land uses rather than for generalized speculative potential. Building for permanency produced romantic suburbs notable for their quality as residential environments, and also for the very idea that a subdivision could be designed to remain residential, actively shaped to resist conversion to other uses. The City Beautiful movement created civic and institutional centers meant to express and retain their centrality, and at its most ambitious aimed to make a whole urban environment

worthy of permanence. | Real estate thinking, the main normative theory of urban form during this period, underwent a subtle but fundamental shift from a speculative

outlook to one focused on stability of investment and permanence of value. Deed restrictions established a permanent form and use for the urban fabric, imposing legally what subdivisions and civic centers attempted spatially. While real estate wisdom had once held that restrictions on the use of land diminished its value, turn-of-the-century homeowners were more likely to

consider them essential. Affluent Americans had their pick of neighborhoods where they might remain for the rest of their days without worrying about encroachments from businesses or tenements. 4

Introduction Historic preservation addressed the stability of existing pieces of the environment. In two generations it emerged from an extreme form of antiquarianism, seemingly out of place in the New World, to an accepted approach

for extraordinary features of the city and, by the end of the period, an institutionalized public policy and even a way of thinking about whole urban districts. Conflict between change and permanence often appeared as historically informed opposition to redevelopment of public spaces and landscapes—such as Boston’s Common and its old burial grounds—although these are not traditionally defined as the mainstream of historic preservation. Early parks advocates created landscapes intended to be permanent, and their successors fought to preserve them. Beginning in the late nineteenth century, American cities adopted a great array of new public measures to shape their growth. While the origins of public control lie in sanitation, safety, and the need to regulate private use of public space, by the early twentieth century some public powers had evolved specifically for controlling visible change in the environment. For the first time, American cities explicitly sought to avert change in their patterns of land use and built form, viewing government no longer as a means of promoting environmental change but rather as the only agency able to secure environmental stability. Building-height restrictions, front-yard setbacks, and land-use districts were all brought together finally as comprehensive zoning, a degree of public control once unthinkable, and for the equally unthinkable end of limiting rather than encouraging change in the city. Other examples of the search for permanence can be found in a variety of fields. Architects began adopting the Colonial Revival style in the late nineteenth century, reinforcing preservationism and creating the potential for a permanently established community architectural identity. New “perpetual care” cemeteries aimed to secure an earthly setting corresponding to spiritual eternity. The same period saw the first movement to forever set aside wilderness areas as national and state parks and the beginning of efforts to preserve archaeological remains of pre-Columbian settlement. The pursuit of permanence was not a single coordinated “movement,” because its participants did not identify it as one. Nonetheless, people in diverse fields were saying similar things as they pursued similar goals. Often the same people were active in a number of causes, responding to threats they perceived as somehow connected. The changes that form the subject of this book are, first of all, deliberate physical alterations in places. These actions individually were intentional on someone's part, even if their aggregate effects were often unanticipated or even incomprehensible. Inadvertent changes—fires, erosion, and other natural phenomena—are outside our scope. Intangible changes—in com5

Boston's “CHANGEFUL TIMES” munity ethnicity, in economic control—are not directly our subject either, though they often worked upon the physical environment, and it in turn became their symbol. When one Bostonian in 1844 observed that he lived in “changeful times,” his comment was prompted by an impending physical change, the demolition of a church. But the phrase resonated on many levels: change in the building, change in the neighborhood and the life of the congregation, change in the city and the society. Change in the urban environment was a significant physical phenomenon, and it was a cultural phenomenon as well. Nineteenth-century Americans not only acted to change their environment; they frequently exchanged one environment for another. Alexis de Tocqueville described American restlessness in the first half of the century: “In the United States a man builds a house in which to spend his old age, and he sells it before the roof is on; he plants a garden and lets it just as the trees are coming into bearing; he brings a field into tillage and leaves other men to gather the crops; he embraces a profession and gives it up; he settles in a place, which he soon afterwards leaves to carry his changeable lodgings elsewhere.” * A population forever moving on was the flywheel of the culture of change. If dwellers changed faster than dwelling, physical change did not matter in anyone’s experience. Only the people who stayed put found

environmental change disturbing. |

Increasing numbers of Americans did conclude that their cities changed too much, too fast, and adopted the opposite ideal of environmental “permanence.” They did not define this term; permanence was more of a visceral reaction against change than a well-articulated alternative to it. Nor could permanence ever be accomplished in fact the way change was a fact. Permanence was a goal, and sometimes a practical intention. Americans set out to make buildings and landscapes and neighborhoods that could last a very long time, and set out to create the conditions under which they would last. Environmental permanence cannot be absolute. Even Niagara and the pyramids erode (and their meanings and their surroundings change faster still), Within the mid-nineteenth-century city, the word permanent was commonly applied in a narrow sense, to all durable construction that was not intended as temporary, but this usage began to seem unsatisfactory. Did permanent mean potentially durable, without any commitment to actual duration? Or was it to be taken more literally, as unlimited duration, real perpetuity? More and more Americans thought that it should, that some buildings and landscapes should indeed embody a permanence of centuries, of as long as human intentions could reach. John Ruskin, the nineteenth-century architectural theorist, sought structures that, like the pyramids, would decay only at a geological pace. This required human maintenance to be consistent 6

Introduction over generations and centuries; it was perhaps the idea of such steadiness of human purpose that felt so reassuring. And to the extent that environment conditions culture, physically durable cities could help reinforce steadiness of human purpose. The scope of intentions was lengthening as complex construction lengthened the economic life of buildings, but permanence was also becoming a cultural goal beyond any utilitarian motivations.

Permanence had not only an implicit length but also two directions, toward the past and the future. Ancient buildings and settled landscapes from the past appeared already to have achieved some kind of permanence. Places built for permanence projected durability into the future. When ar-

chitects designed new places to look old, they were combining both directions, invoking an ersatz past to promise a real future. Prospective and retrospective permanence also ran together when neighborhoods designed for permanence—the Back Bay in Boston, elite subdivisions in Brookline and Cambridge—began to mature, and their residents defended them from change. The pursuit of permanence, whether looking forward or backward, is the story of Americans coming to think of their cities as having a time dimension, and beginning to think as ambitiously in that dimension as in the other three. Is permanence inherently good? Planning theorist Kevin Lynch considered and rejected durability as one performance criterion for cities. Other scholars have noted the benefits of change and the drawbacks of increasing durability in urban form. Josef W. Konvitz describes the permanence of infrastructure in the late nineteenth century as a problem rather than a goal, making cities less adaptable and their fabric more liable to obsolescence. Christine Meisner Rosen, similarly, describes the durability of imperfect urban form in the face of opportunities for improvement, such as reconstruction after great fires. Anne Vernez Moudon examines San Francisco’s Alamo Square district, suggesting in her book's title that it was “built for change,”

or at least (as she explains inside) that its spatial pattern proved adaptable to continual changes in physical fabric, and that whether intentional or not this adaptability was generally found satisfactory. Stewart Brand adopts Moudon’s phrase to describe deliberate adaptability by design. When Brand or Moudon write “built for change,” they are talking, paradoxically, about a kind of permanence through flexibility. Lynch, Konvitz, Rosen, Moudon, and Brand all seek a city whose fabric evolves to maintain good fit with its inhabitants—healthy change.* But Bostonians at the end of the nineteenth century found change so disorienting that for increasing numbers of them, no change seemed healthy. John J. Costonis focuses on environmental change in his discussion of the proper place for aesthetics in the law. People understand change, he says, in 7

BosTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

terms of “icons” and “aliens.” Icons are “features invested with values that confirm our sense of order and identity.” Aliens are features, or proposals, that threaten icons. “We bond to our icons for reassurance,” writes Costonis, “and they, in turn, reinforce our sense of order in the world no less than religion or popular culture. An icon’s loss or contamination is accompanied by reactions quite similar to those that, for many, accompanied the elimination of Latin from the Roman Catholic Mass, the death of Bing Crosby, Judy Garland or John Lennon, or even Coca-Cola’s decision to change its ‘classic’ formula.” In Costonis’s terms, this book is an historical examination of the ways people defined and defended icons in one American city. Icons are often called “landmarks” or, especially in the nineteenth century, “monuments.” Both words refer to the boundary markers that let us know our territory, the “landmarks” the Old Testament enjoins us not to disturb.° The terms have been adapted metaphorically to express a deeper cognitive reality: historic monuments, and the familiar landmarks of our past, organize our knowledge of our own territories and therefore of our selves. People orient themselves through mental maps incorporating stable features of the environment. Recognizing our place in the world helps define our identities, as Henry James discovered upon watching the demolition of a Boston house where he had lived as a youth. “It was as if the bottom had fallen out of one’s own autobiography,” he wrote, “and one plunged backward into

space without meeting anything.”’

Change and its antithesis, permanence, might be balanced against one another to arrive at some ideal synthesis— Costonis seeks “stability”; Lynch proposed “continuity.” The pursuit of permanence described here did not arrive at any such coherent resolution. Instead, Americans discovered that the tools they had fashioned for preventing change could also be used to control it, and many people for various reasons found controlled change even more

appealing than no change at all. Once environmental change came under control, Americans faced new questions in how to use that control, which could work for many ends besides permanence or stability. These questions

have occupied American planners since the 1920s. | This book examines the culture of city building, the working suppositions of the many people who were involved in making cities: real estate speculators; legislators and municipal officials; lawyers, surveyors, engineers, architects, and their emerging professional kin, landscape architects and city planners; and, in general, the well-to-do third of the population who made up these other groups’ customers, clients, and activist constituencies. The inquiry inevitably focuses on the upper and substantial middle classes. Its subjects are perceptions and decision-making about urban change; these

8

Introduction were the classes who left written records of their perceptions, and since they made the decisions, they left the built record, too. They exercised the control. Historians who focus on class structure look at efforts to control urban development and to preserve monuments of national and ancestral origins, and they see attempts to consolidate elite status and identity. There is ample evidence to support this reading. In some of the issues I explore, upper- or middle-class Americans clearly acted against perceived threats from lower classes. Much of the preservation movement, as historians have traditionally defined it, can be explained as elite assertiveness of a class- and ethnicitybased traditionalism.’ But if we look at a broader set of preservation issues— not just overt public efforts at saving historic buildings but also attempts to prevent alien intrusions into neighborhoods, to maintain historic spaces such as graveyards, and to continue institutions in their historic structures —we find that many episodes pitted different elites against one another. Wealthy householders fought wealthy developers; factions faced off within the congregations of upper-class churches and within the membership of the Boston Athenaeum. Many land-use and preservation controversies were intraclass disagreements about which parts of the environment were meant as symbolic and which utilitarian, and how to weigh these disparate values. Typically both sides acknowledged patriotic and historical significance, but they disagreed whether it should have any operational weight against the practical forces that drove change in the environment. Were these issues mainly about class, or were elites simply the only people with the luxury of addressing them? Only the well-to-do were likely to stay in one place long enough even to know about the pace of environmental change. Working-class Bostonians presumably had worries more immediate than change in their surroundings, though they also bore more of its disruption and profited less by it than their upper-class contemporaries. We can surmise that the agreeable surroundings of elite restricted subdivisions were attractive to other classes, by the determination with which ordinary Americans pursued similar environments within the limits of their means.

Even lowbrow suburbs eventually used deed restrictions to protect their modest houses from incompatible land uses and encroachments by lowerstatus residents.’ But if the working classes were equally interested in neigh-

borhood stability, their disputes were less likely to end up in the courts or before the legislature. Disputes of the well-to-do, on the other hand, forged attitudes and legal tools later used by the rest of society. Boston was in the forefront of American reactions against environmental change. It was one of the earliest centers of urban preservationism. It was the source of critical case law establishing deed restrictions as a tool 9

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

for private planning. It made the first public efforts at preserving landscapes threatened by metropolitan growth. Its regulation of building heights, the first such restriction in the country, served as a national precedent for zoning. Responses to change were earlier, stronger, and more successful in Bos-

ton than elsewhere. |

Why did these issues arise first in Boston? Why did Bostonians resolve them in such distinctive ways? Boston's history was long and distinguished, and Bostonians savored their history as New Yorkers and even Philadelphians did not. Boston’s townscape too was distinguished, an architectural legacy from Charles Bulfinch and his successors. Boston’s peculiar geography, originally a hilly little peninsula surrounded by mostly shallow bays,

eased some of the pressure to rebuild this existing fabric, because the city could grow by making new land throughout the nineteenth century. Boston was a wealthy city. Eighteenth-century trading fortunes spawned nineteenth-century industrial fortunes, which in turn made Boston a nationwide source of investment capital. The heirs to these fortunes emerged during the nineteenth century as Boston's “Brahmin” aristocracy, defined not only by wealth and privilege but also by an ethic of community responsibility and intellectual and artistic excellence. They turned local institutions such as Harvard College into national institutions and made Boston the center of American high culture. Wealth held by a stable elite, closely identified

with and involved in civic affairs, made for less resistance in Boston than elsewhere to public regulation of property. This identification of individual interests with the community broke down in the twentieth century, as a new politics of polarization turned the environment into a battleground of class and ethnic conflict, but during the nineteenth century, Boston's politics remained sufficiently deferential that Brahmins were confident that they articulated broadly shared values. This story is important not because of Boston’s uniqueness, but just the opposite, because other cities followed Boston's example. A predilection for permanence soon appeared elsewhere across the country. Citizens and architects defended landmarks, even in such comparatively young places as Chicago and California. By the early 1880s, westerners were already working to save some of the region's heritage of Spanish colonial settlement, and by the end of the decade their interest had expanded to include the remnants of Anglo-American arrival only forty years before.’° Developers wrote

deed restrictions all around the country, even though other states’ courts

, were less likely to enforce them. Other cities imposed public controls on development. Chicago enacted building-height restrictions only a year after Boston, and they were later adopted or urged with preservationist rationales in Baltimore and on Fifth Avenue in New York.” 10

Introduction Boston could serve as a model because, despite its distinctive local conditions and culture, it was a big commercial and industrial city in many respects similar to others. It was growing fast, through Yankee migration from elsewhere in New England and through greater immigration than ever before, starting in the 1840s from Ireland and later in the century from Italy and eastern Europe. Old residents, new immigrants, and the expansion of business and industry set up a keen competition for space that forced change at the center of the city. Many of the middle classes opted out of this competition to some of America’s earliest commuter suburbs, where they worked transformations of surrounding towns and then watched as their neighborhoods in turn were altered out of all recognition. All of this looked familiar from other American cities; Boston was fully a part of the nineteenth century’s prevailing culture of change.

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PART I "OAS"

CHANGE

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CHAPTER 1 RAIL

The Culture of Change

Let us welcome whatever change may come. _ NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

At 7:24 p.M., on Saturday, November 9, 1872, the Boston fire department logged a report from alarm box 52 at Summer and Kingston Streets in downtown Boston. An epidemic had idled most horses in the city, so a team of men pulled a single pumping engine to the scene. When they got there the fire had already spread up an elevator shaft and completely consumed the four-story building. They discovered to their horror that water mains laid when this was a residential area carried only enough water to reach two or three stories, and as more engines arrived and connected their hoses, the pressure dropped even lower. The fire easily jumped the narrow streets, aided by fashionable new mansard roofs that jutted their wooden cornices toward one another out of reach of the firefighters’ streams. London and Liverpool insurance underwriters had recently looked at the combination of dangerous buildings and inadequate protection and concluded that downtown Boston was a disaster waiting to happen.’ It was happening. During the night Chief Engineer John S. Damrell ordered his men to begin dynamiting buildings to clear firebreaks, but their untrained efforts simply spread the flames. The fire stopped at the walls of the Old South Church only through some combination of divine intervention and the heroic efforts of firefighters. When the Great Fire was brought under control after two days, fourteen people had died and sixty-five acres of the heart of the city were smoking rubble and surreal heat-sculpted granite.”

“Changeful Times” In spite of the fire’s immense destruction and the magnificence of the buildings it consumed, the city was strangely free of mourning for them. Bostonians hardly knew the place. The “burnt district” had already changed out of 15

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The Culture of Change even for the rich, and extreme overcrowding for the poor. Those who were in between increasingly left for the suburbs—the working classes walking across bridges to Charlestown, Cambridgeport, or South Boston, the middle classes settling the nation’s first commuter suburbs along railroads leading out of the city.2 Boston had no room for more people, yet it continued to grow. Even though its suburbs consistently grew faster than the city, Boston added, on average, its entire 1840 population each decade from 1860 to 1920. In order to accomplish this growth, Bostonians completely remade their whole environment, over and over, working “such a transformation as no other great city of the world has ever undergone at the hands of man,” as a contemporary historian described it.? They shoveled hills into bays, more than doubling the peninsula’s area. They turned to new forms of housing, such as buildings intentionally designed as tenements, and the American premiere of “French flats,” or apartments. Boston also annexed adjacent suburbs, though with less success than other American big cities. Whether annexed or not, the once rural landscapes near the city soon sprouted densely built houses and streets as far as the eye could see. While these new areas spread, Boston was also reworking the old city plan at its center. Mayor Alexander H. Rice, in his 1856 annual review of the city’s finances, reminded citizens that “Boston is subjected to one item of expense which is almost unknown in cities of modern origin . . . the numerous narrow and crooked streets which well enough answered the convenience of a provincial town, are found to be totally inadequate to the wants of a great city, daily becoming more and more crowded with business and population.” *° So Boston widened and cut through new arteries. The pace increased when the legislature in 1868 finally granted the city the right to recover some of the costs from property owners who benefited." “It seems inevitable,” said Mayor Rice, “that these improvements must continue, until a considerable portion of our original territory has been rebuilt.” ” Government involvement in shaping new urban form was conceived as public preparation for essentially private processes. Municipalities graded and paved roadways, provided or encouraged private corporations to pro-

vide other infrastructure systems, located parks, markets, and a host of other public facilities, and often subsidized private enterprises such as railroads that they hoped would attract still further growth. While these powers if coordinated had tremendous potential for consciously shaping the city, Americans not only failed to realize this potential but saw little point in it. “All urban growth was good,” says historian Sam Bass Warner, “and therefore needed no special attention.” The fabric of the city emerged instead from what Warner calls a tradition of “privatism.” As historian Hendrik Hartog explains of New York's grid, “The formal design of the city was public; 19

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

but that design remained only a context for private decision making.” In previous centuries, says Hartog, governments confined themselves to conservatively protecting property rights. But government in America existed not for conserving static accumulations of wealth but for increasing aggregate wealth by promoting growth.” What was life like in such a changing environment? City dwellers’ lives in the mid-nineteenth century were so unsettled as to make this question unimportant for many of them. Peter R. Knights’s research on residential persistence and mobility in Boston before the Civil War reaches the startling conclusion that “one-half of Boston’s population would disappear and be replaced every one or two years.” * Those who remained moved around within the city, and the rate at which they moved was increasing. If Knights’s samples are representative, then Boston’s 1860 population of 178,000 included fewer than 4,000 household heads who had lived in the city in 1830.” Since this stable minority consisted disproportionately of the well-to-do, it was mainly these classes who had the chance to see environmental change affecting their own lives. We can begin to understand those effects by looking at changes in elite neighborhoods. Before the end of the eighteenth century, the city had no exclusively elite sections. Merchants and the wealthy lived in many parts of colonial Boston, especially the center of town, the pleasant high grounds overlooking it, and the North End, which was if anyplace the preferred neighborhood. When the North End’s royalists left with evacuating British troops, the area began

a slow decline in fortunes, eventually to become an immigrant tenement district. The center of the city, around State Street, also lost its residential attractiveness with the growth of business after the war. Movement from these two areas, together with growth of the city’s upper classes, made fashionable neighborhoods expand in other directions. In 1795 the Mount Vernon Proprietors began developing Beacon Hill, changing it from a ragged wasteland into a homogeneous upper-class district. South of State Street, pleasant houses and gardens grew up in the old “South End” of Summer, Franklin, and Pearl Streets and Fort Hill, and after 1810 this district spread westward to Tremont Street and Park Street, facing Beacon Hill across the Common. Increasing land-use segregation yielded a growing turf for the well-to-do, but even in the North End where it was shrinking, the process was reassuringly gradual. As the peninsula filled in to urban densities, elite residential areas maintained stable locations but changed in form, as when Patrick T. Jackson in the early 1830s leveled almost-rural Pemberton Hill and its mansions to create Pemberton Square and its finé row houses.”

By the next decade, however, intensifying competition for space was having less benign effects on these neighborhoods. “The alterations here sur20

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: oeFELIS oe EE ee Sts Lees eae ae Boar. aetetas ee; Sth Ss apes ce — SEEN SSS oe nator pisos Saeenes ftSS ot SEES pert : iBo, myee tyCC a DEES Postepenis eed eaee aes ieeeeee: ere SOESES eres eetee eee oe oe : coMe See ee ee — So ae SESS ee eeSass Bele ys Sek Pc, eae

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The Culture of Change Bostonians who have been absent from their native city for a few years, return to express astonishment as they regard the rapid growth of the city. . . . Extended avenues, squares, and elegant blocks of buildings are springing up every twelvemonth, and the town is increasing in its number of inhabitants with unprecedented rapidity. . . . Old landmarks and localities have almost completely disappeared, and about one-half of Boston to-day is built upon made ground, reclaimed from the tide waters. The Back Bay—scene of past skatings, and boatings, and smeltings, and snipe shootings, has vanished, giving place to palatial residences, elegant parks, superb avenues, and scores of stone churches whose architectural beauty cannot be excelled.”8

Like the Globe’s editor, most nineteenth-century Americans sensed the acceleration of change, and by and large they approved. David Lowenthal describes two distinct strains of thought according to which change was good.’ The Globe’s comments belonged to the newer one, optimistic and imbued with rationality, viewing change as improvement and emphasizing material progress, gradual and continual. The older strain thought of change as renewal, emphasizing less the good to come than the corruption of what was old, and thus the necessity of starting anew. These two views reinforced one another, as Nathaniel Hawthorne showed a few years earlier in recounting an American’s reflections on a perfectly preserved English village: His delight at finding something permanent begins to yield to his Western love of change... . Better than this is the lot of our restless countrymen, whose modern instinct bids them tend always towards “fresh woods and pastures new.” Rather than the monotony of sluggish ages, loitering on a village-green, toiling in hereditary fields, listening to the parson’s drone lengthening through centuries in the gray Norman church, let us welcome whatever change may come— change of place, social customs, political institutions, modes of worship—trusting that, if all present things shall vanish, they will but make room for better systems, and for a higher type of man to clothe his life in them, and fling them off in turn.

The older strain of thought, viewing change as renewal, was a remnant of American revolutionary ideology. Bostonians evoked even earlier roots in

the Puritan founders’ search for a new beginning. The view is akin to the millennial tradition, which anticipated the ultimate end of a corrupt world and the beginning of a good one. Americans in each generation saw their FIGURE 1.6 The Back Bay, c. 1870, photographed over the Common and the Public Garden. At left is the 1861 Arlington Street (formerly Federal Street) Church; at right, the beginning of Commonwealth Avenue. The vast expanse of the as-yet unfilled Back Bay extends behind them. Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities

27

BosTon’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES” |

own time marking this divide. In the Enlightenment’s secularized version, renewal was cyclical: each generation had a right and a responsibility to

| make its world anew. Legal theorists of the early Republic argued that the law, instead of following ancient precedent, should expire to be rewritten every nineteen years. Thomas Jefferson stated the principle most starkly: “The dead have no rights.” * While Puritan and Republican thought dealt mainly with society and in-

stitutions, they easily translated into principles for the environment. Puritans rejected the notion of hallowed ground and thus, in theory, the stabilizing influence of consecrated houses of worship. As for Americans of the early

nineteenth century, while their architecture sought to validate the Republic through timeless Greek Revival buildings in durable granite, Hawthorne suggested in The House of the Seven Gables that statehouses ought to crumble

every twenty years as a hint to reexamine the institutions within them.” American land law during the first two-thirds of the nineteenth century evolved along similar lines. Legislatures and courts consistently ignored expectations of continuity, favoring instead productive use and change. Past generations’ legal edifices, like their physical ones, could be torn down and built over to suit the living. For example, American states abandoned the English common-law doctrine of “ancient lights,” the right to prevent a new structure from blocking an existing window. It was incompatible with “the rapidly growing cities in this country,” explained a legal commentator in 1832.*° Similarly, nuisance doctrine was progressively relaxed to avoid fettering the growth of industries and railroads. Even ownership itself became subject to changing circumstances, through the doctrine of adverse possession, under which a person openly using another’s land as if it were his own would, after a period of years, gain title to it. While this doctrine originated in English common law, nineteenth-century Americans made it easier to in-

, voke. Adverse possession made sense to them because it rewarded action and reflected their impatience with absentee paper ownership.** The most direct interference by past generations brought the most severe

reactions: while bequests often expressed their donors’ explicit wishes, courts were reluctant to let the dead bind the living. The legal version of this Jeffersonian principle was the “rule against perpetuities,” which accord-

| ing to Bouvier’s 1858 Law Dictionary prohibited “any limitation tending to take the subject of it out of commerce” for an unacceptably long period.* “A perpetual entail of real estate for special uses, in a town destined to grow © and expand, was likely in the end to become a public nuisance,” complained one clergyman who, through such an entail, had to live in his predecessors’ eighteenth-century parsonage on what by 1851 had become a noisy downtown street. The Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court agreed with him

7 28

The Culture of Change and overturned the restriction four years later.*° Courts routinely read such stipulations not as strict requirements but as general intentions subject to reinterpretation in light of changing circumstances. Unlike the older thinking, which looked for renewal mainly in society, the improvement strain concerned itself with progress in the material world. Even people who were more interested in spiritual progress could not help but be impressed at the nineteenth century's tangible accomplishments. Rev. Chandler Robbins of the Second Church, for example, turned his eyes from heaven to earth as the congregation in 1844 prepared to leave its 123-yearold building: “What progress has society made since the corner-stone of this edifice was laid! ... And we and our children, if we are but faithful to the mighty trust of the most glorious present which the world has yet seen, may turn our faces forward with a still more hopeful gaze, and expect, that ere the new temple which we are about to rear shall crumble with age, or be exchanged for a more spacious and beautiful house, . . . its worshipers [shall] rejoice in a yet more perfect manifestation of the kingdom of Heaven

on earth.” Faith in material progress was easy in the nineteenth century. The radical but continual improvement familiar today in computers was then the norm in every department of domestic and urban technology. Candles gave way to oil lamps and gaslight and then to the miraculous electric light. Omnibuses appeared and then gave way to horsecars and electric streetcars and, in few places, rapid transit. Water systems, and the sewage and drainage systems they enabled and required, rearranged both houses and streets. In the process many technological dead ends— pneumatic transit, for example, or the many waste disposal methods that competed with flush toilets—were explored and then abandoned, making the march of improvement all the more bewildering. “They invent everything all over again about every five years,” explained Arthur Townsend in Henry James's 1881 Washington Square, “and it's a great thing to keep up with the new things.” *°

A nation that was then building the Brooklyn Bridge and entertaining projects to harness Niagara thought its own powers as sublime as Nature's, and its material progress potentially limitless. Indeed, the most insidious check on progress was inability to imagine the future's still greater improvements. As Rev. Dr. Jacob H. Manning prayed at the dedication of the new Old South in 1875, “Spare it only so long as it shall serve Thy loving pur-

pose. ... When its noble walls must crumble, teach thy people to bow in the faith of something better to come.” *”

Even apart from technological change, the country’s increasing wealth brought evident improvements in its standard of living, at least for the classes then visible to polite society. “In ten years,” predicted one Gothamite 29

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

in 1855, “the finest buildings now in New York will be far surpassed by the growing taste and wealth of builders.” *° Prosperity in turn spurred technological innovation, and mass marketing brought these innovations to more people faster than ever before. A special intersection of technology, prosperity, and marketing gave rise to the suburbanization that contemporaries found perhaps the most striking evidence of material progress. Railroads and then streetcars made vast new tracts available for urban housing, while growing middle classes com-

manded the resources to take advantage of them. Detached houses with sunlight on four sides and their own gardens, however tiny, validated material progress through the moral and spiritual accomplishment of better homes for families. Businesses’ invasion of downtown residential areas was by this thinking a positive force, since it pushed even the timid or nostal-

gic out to suburban Arcadia. Nor was the migration solely to the benefit of these former urbanites. Their arrival improved the suburbs themselves, as at the Roxbury Highlands outside Boston, once “a rough, ragged tract of wilderness,” according to an observer in 1872, “but now covered with elegant dwellings, embowered in trees and flowers, presenting, at every turn, density of population and charming residences.”* “Whatever is old,” said Emerson, “is corrupt”; whatever was new was good. Henry James's Arthur Townsend expressed this faith in reflecting on his new home: “It doesn’t matter, . . . it’s only for three or four years. At the end of three or four years, we'll move. That’s the way to live in New York— to move every three or four years. Then you always get the last thing. It’s because the city’s growing so quick—you’ve got to keep up with it... . [W]hen we get tired of one street we'll go higher.” Sam Bass Warner explains the implications of streetcar suburbs’ “omnipresent newness”: “Whether a man lived in a lower middle class quarter of cheap triple-deckers, or on a fashionable street of expensive singles, the latest styles, the freshly painted houses, the neat streets, the well-kept lawns, and the new schools and parks gave him a sense of confidence in the success of his society and a satisfaction at his participation in it.”*? The new suburban environment, with its emphasis on landscape and nature, was partly a rejection of the old neighborhoods of the city, built up to the street with houses in past generations’ styles. If historic buildings were important or worthwhile, it was in spite of their

age, not because of it. Historical significance resided in sites rather than structures; tearing down the oldest church in Boston made sense to members of the Second Church in 1844 because it allowed them to build anew at their traditional location. Some of Boston's historically minded citizens in 1826 proposed demolishing the Old State House because its site would be an appropriate location for a statue honoring George Washington. Without 30

The Culture of Change any reluctance they recommended “the removal of such an encumbrance”: “If no statue of Washington had been procured, the committee thought that the City could do no act more worthy of its reputation . . . than to raze the present edifice, and to erect a column, or obelisk, as a memorial of the important use, to which that spot had been devoted, and by which it had been consacrated [sic].”**

Over the next half-century this philosophy retained its force. Franklin Haven, president of the Merchants’ Bank, in 1881 led another attempt to get rid of the Old State House, where “a shaft or other monument” could “best commemorate the spot and cherish its patriotic associations.” ** The same argument was applied to other historic structures as well. The Old South was “a hideous structure, offensive to taste,” testified a Glocester resident in 1878, and “a handsome building could be erected there, upon the front of which might be placed an attractive model of the old church, which would answer every purpose of the present structure as a monument.” *° Old buildings without such historic associations were even more subject to negative feelings. They were eyesores and firetraps, and any project that eliminated them was to be encouraged. The anonymously ancient structures of Italian hill towns inspired revulsion in Americans, according to Hawthorne, and “gazing at them, we recognize how undesirable it is to build the tabernacle of our brief lifetime out of permanent materials.” A decade before Boston's conflagration, he reflected that “all towns should be made capable of purification by fire, or of decay within each half-century. Otherwise, they become the hereditary haunts of vermin and noisomeness, besides standing apart from the possibility of such improvements as are constantly introduced into the rest of man’s contrivances and accommodations.” *® Americans had an interest in deciding that a continually changing environment was good, because they believed that it was their natural condition.

Change Is Inevitable Pervasive faith in progress led to a certain resignation on the part of anyone who doubted its benefits (and such people did exist, as we will see in the next chapter). Change was inevitable, most Americans thought, so even if change was not good, there was no point in resisting it. This was, of course, a self-fulfilling prophesy: historic structures would come down if no one acted to save them; threatened neighborhoods would deteriorate if their residents’ instinctive response to undesirable change was to move rather than to resist. Belief in the inevitability of change did not lead merely to passive resignation; nineteenth-century city people actively anticipated, planned for, and depended on change. All planning, financial and personal as well as topo31

BosTON’sS “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

graphical, incorporated the expectation of rapid and continual change. According to historian Edward K. Spann, New Yorkers before the Civil War thought “nothing was permanent and nothing more valuable than the money needed to take advantage of changing times.” Financial practice, even in Boston where family trusts might hold their property for generations, emphasized liquidity of assets: short-term leases and short-term balloon mortgages.*’ For all but the most established tenants and borrowers, these practices implied an instability of tenancy that became painfully evident with each financial crisis. At other times it loomed as a possibility which would have seemed more disturbing except that so many people moved so often anyway.

Making change part of the calculus of all decisions about the urban environment helped bring about that change. In anticipation of redevelopment, New Yorkers built their city as “an irregular collection of temporary buildings,” as one English visitor described it, “not meant to endure for any length of time.” Naturally such buildings deteriorated quickly, and their owners replaced them frequently. “Build better, build something immortal?” asks Spann. “Why, when a new and, one hoped, better world would soon appear in some new and better uptown?” *® The assumption of change encouraged change also by buffering people — some people, the ones making decisions—from the effects of change, and thus forestalling their resistance to it. New Yorkers with a choice settled the central spine of Manhattan Island because they assumed that its waterfronts would eventually become tenement and warehouse districts, and so they were neither affected by nor much interested in the neighborhood succession that in fact took place there.* Bostonians, like residents of other American cities, increasingly buffered themselves from urban change by leaving the city altogether, for outlying towns they believed would remain more stable. The pervasiveness of the assumption of change can be seen in its infiltration even of subjects traditionally assumed permanent. The most dramatic example was the treatment of graveyards. “It is often said by poor people,” said Harriet H. Robinson, from the Boston suburb of Malden, “that the time

will come when they will own six feet of earth, and occupy it until the last trump sounds.”*° Mrs. Robinson spoke in 1884 as the Boston Common Council considered selling part of the South Burying Ground, where her father lay, for a building site. Despite popular expectations of permanence, actual usage in most urban graveyards was in every way the opposite. From the South Burying Ground

alone the city had already given up sections for a piano factory, an alley 32

The Culture of Change to service neighboring residential development, a street, a hotel, and even a music hall. Not only did abutting landowners treat the burial ground as available space for their own continuing expansion; the city itself did not consider it a permanent use of the land. It was a place for putting bodies, not for keeping them. Tombs were built there not to mark permanent resting places but to allow removal of bodies without the inconvenience of digging them up. As for the three thousand or so bodies buried in the ordinary manner in the ground, the city had no apparent intention of maintaining their graves indefinitely. Shortly after active burials ceased, the city closed the graveyard’s gates and stopped taking care of it. Nor were these attitudes directed only toward the paupers’ graves of the South Burying Ground. The aristocratic Granary and King’s Chapel burial grounds downtown received better landscape care, but they too held “speculative tombs” owned by undertakers who regularly removed bodies from them in order to free up space for new interments.” Directory publisher George Adams, carrying out a city-sponsored program of street renumbering in 1850, reserved addresses for their frontage, explaining that “buildings will, no doubt, cover these grounds within the present century.”** Trinity Church, having sold tombs in a basement crypt, later insisted that the sales were revocable in order to reuse the property as a business block.”’ Relatives of the dead tacitly acquiesced in this treatment of burial as a potentially temporary land use. They often moved the remains of their relatives, usually to some place like Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, located far enough outside the city that the departed seemed more likely to rest in peace. But the ancestors brought there by their nineteenth-century descendants might well have expected the same of their original resting places, and even within rural cemeteries, families moved their loved ones’ remains from place to place.** At the hearing where Mrs. Robinson objected to disturbing the South Burying Ground, she was outnumbered by speakers who raised no objections to respectfully executed relocation of bodies and in some cases welcomed it for the potential to improve their loved ones’ posthumous neighborhoods. In a revealing paradox, the city registrar testified that the graveyard was ripe for discontinuation, giving as his evidence the fact that he had ceased receiving requests for the removal of bodies from it. Churches, like graveyards, were popularly considered permanent. While seventeenth-century Puritans rejected consecration as a worldly distraction, in practice their descendants believed that places of worship should be permanent, even in the absence of any formal ritual affirming it. Chandler Robbins expressed these popular expectations when he said of the old Second Church that “a hundred and thirty years of occupancy by a Christian

33

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

church make it a consecrated spot.”.*> As with graveyards, actual practice revealed these expectations to be confused and subservient to the demands of a changing city. While Robbins'’s rhetoric paid homage to continuity and tradition, these often took token or intangible forms: the congregation’s name, for example, or its communion vessels, which “have survived the burning of one house of worship, and the demolition of three. They have accompanied this church in all its vicissitudes and wanderings.” Robbins in 1874 invoked this silverware as he prepared his followers for yet another move to yet another building: “How immediately they transfer to it the hallowed associations which our hearts have twined about them in other temples! How they impart to it at once the air of home!””° Even this tenuous and contrived continuity allowed Robbins and his followers a high tolerance for environmental instability, which they did not just passively accept but actively initiated. In the 1840s both halves of the congregation sought change. The ostensibly conservative North End faction did not seek to preserve the oldest church in the city or even to construct a new building reminiscent of it; like their South End counterparts, they wanted a new building of new design. A generation later, packing and numbering like an archaeological treasure the stones of a twenty-eight-year-old church built for another congregation smacked of desperation for continuity. Yet the congregation began its move before fixing on a destination, and they did not follow through with the fetishistic process of bringing their Bedford Street building with them; they improved the building so far as to make the carefully numbered stones unrecognizable. Another minister moving his flock to the Back Bay at the same time invoked the heroic Pilgrims who “turned their backs upon the dear old churches” and articulated the principle that underlay all this motion: “As we cannot annul, we should cheerfully submit to that law of change which is a necessary condition of our being on earth.” >” While change itself might be a law, the direction of change was by no means certain. Bostonians did not know where their city was going, as they demonstrated during a decade of arguing where to put a new courthouse that was first proposed in the early 1870s. One writer urged the city to build “such a Court House as will suffice for the next twenty years,” since “twenty years from now we may require a house in another part of the city.” Another suggested letting the courts take over the Beacon Hill State House, so that a new one could be built on the Back Bay.>®

The Back Bay complicated any understanding of the city’s future growth.

Downtown had been expanding to the south, but the new land opened a westward direction that had not existed before. Would the business district, like residences and institutions, change its course? If it turned toward 34

The Culture of Change the Back Bay, would it engulf intervening Beacon Hill, as some people expected? ** All American cities faced similar uncertainties, none more than Chicago, where the fire in 1871 suddenly turned all the contingencies of evolving urban form into a single immediate question. “Some do not [re]build,” reported the Globe’s Chicago correspondent, “because they do not know what to build. There is great uncertainty as to where business centres are to be, as to which streets will be plebeian and which aristocratic. The sweeping fire abolished all distinctions, ... and men are waiting until causes over which they have little control have decided whether they are to put up shanties or palaces.” °° Projecting the answers to such questions was the stock in trade of real estate speculators. Real estate thinking was important not merely because it produced most of the built environment but also because it provided the

contemporary terms for understanding that environment. Before the advent of city planning at the turn of the century, the implicit rules of real estate were the main available body of theory for explaining urban growth

and form. ,

Real estate development was a fragmented process in the nineteenth century, especially in Boston. No single developer produced finished pieces of the environment by taking them from raw land through occupancy; instead each step of this process was undertaken separately, mostly by small-scale operators. Land developers made a minimum of tangible improvements, simply packaging land for speculation by recording a plat and staking lots. They often marketed aggressively; larger subdividers hired trains for free weekend excursions to their sites, where clambakes and brass bands were calculated to heighten auction fever. Their product was popular. Most people could flatter themselves that they understood it, and real estate looked like a safe investment at a time when banks sometimes were not. Even the working class could afford the cheapest lots when they were offered on easy credit, and wealthier investors could gamble on land near the center, which might or might not become part of downtown. Everyone could be a speculator.” The word speculation had in the nineteenth century, as it does now, many shades of meaning. In a matter-of-fact sense it means gaining unearned increment from change. James E. Vance, using this definition, emphasizes the importance of anticipating and understanding change in order to profit by it. Richard Sennett, on the other hand, describes nineteenth-century speculation as almost pure gambling. People anticipated change in the sense of expecting it to happen, but when and how was a matter of chance, largely beyond comprehension. Genteel opinion in general, and the Boston elite in particular, was appalled by “speculation,” but their definition focused not on gain but on gamble. A latent Puritanism rebelled at truly unearned profit; 35

BosTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

investors properly earned their gain by understanding their investments, by correctly predicting change.” Investors were aided in their understanding by the pervasive anticipation of change. Our late-twentieth-century sensibilities can be disturbed when we look at a nineteenth-century city street map and realize that much of it shows paper streets that existed on the ground as nothing more than surveyors’ stakes, if that. Such a map does not, in our view, correctly represent reality. But its contemporary users were less likely to be bothered by this distinction. Their view of reality was compounded of what was becoming as well as what had already come about. A view that is today found mainly among those involved in real estate development was then common among average citizens, each of whom was at least potentially a speculative lot investor. The all-encompassing awareness of potential land-use change extended to the domestic environment. Just as homeowners today seldom entirely lose sight of their property as accumulated equity—a consideration that ordi-

narily leads them to value neighborhood stability—so their counterparts in the mid-nineteenth century were ever conscious of it as a speculation, always aware of its potential for conversion, perhaps at some distant date, to something other than a house. Thus even those developers marketing a suburban residential environment, an escape from the city, often felt that they had to promise an investment in what would later become a city.°? This attitude is explained by a sobering corollary of the axiom of inevitable change. When good neighborhoods changed, they generally changed for the worse, as places to live, and neighborhood decline was accepted as a rule of real estate. Nineteenth-century Americans viewed their homes as speculative investments in part by necessity, a defensive adaptation to the changing city. Since they would eventually be forced to vacate their homes, they wanted to do so on favorable terms. The spatial expression of this philosophy was the city of gridded streets of standard lots. “Since the growth of cities leads normally to the ultimate conversion of residence land into business land,” explained real estate writer Richard Hurd, “a uniform system of platting suitable for business purposes throughout the entire city is generally preferable.” No lot, no locality, made any commitment as to its intended use; all were designed to accommodate

the most intense uses they might later be called on to serve. In the ideal urban fabric, every street was wide and straight enough to become a main business thoroughfare. The grandfather of the speculative grid was the 1811 plan for Manhattan, where “some two thousand blocks were provided,” as Frederick Law Olmsted later explained, “each theoretically 200 feet wide, no more, no less; and ever since, if a building site is wanted, whether with a 36

The Culture of Change view to a church or a blast furnace, an opera house or a toy shop, there is, of intention, no better a place in one of these blocks than in another.” * In Boston as in many eastern cities the grid was not such a transcendent Cartesian reality imposed by public authority but a hypothetical norm interpreted by each developer within his own domain, so that the map of the city showed not one grid but a crazy quilt of little gridlets. What developers could interpret they also could and did reinterpret, by replatting streets and lots. The practice of resubdivision grew naturally out of the uncertainties of real estate development. Of all residential land, fash-

ionable upper-class building lots drew the highest prices, so subdividers with even the slimmest hopes of attracting such buyers laid out their plats for this market. Only a few of them could succeed. But did the others really fail? When they redrew their plats as more modest lots a fraction of their original size—often by cutting additional streets through them—the cachet of the imaginary upper-class neighborhood could help in subsequent marketing.® The potential for resubdivision was thus a valuable tool in the land developer’s kit. Plats might be resubdivided while they were still raw land, or they might be redrawn around those lots that had already been sold and perhaps built upon. Resubdivision was also carried out at a smaller scale by individual lot owners. In the literature of housing reform this process is familiar as the way back courts and rear tenements were created out of already small yards. But the practice was also common at the other end of the social scale, where the owners of great houses sold off their gardens as building lots, often remaining in the mansion and therefore taking an interest in the quality of the new development.® In at least some cases the potential for individual resubdivision was anticipated in the original design of plats, as in the suburbs of another New England city where subdividers laid out large one-hundredby one-hundred-foot lots, “for houses or dividing to sell again”: “Our object is to WHOLESALE land rather than to retail,” said their advertisement, “giving the buyer the opportunity to sell a considerable portion at advanced prices, thereby securing his own home site at a practically nominal figure.” °’ While resubdivision of individual lots changed neighborhoods more gradually than wholesale replatting, in the aggregate it could be more disruptive because it was less orderly and predictable. For homeowners, however, it was always in the lexicon of possibilities, a last resort to pull the full speculative value out of their property.

I n nineteenth-century Boston there was an intimate relationship between rapid growth that made the physical environment unstable and a culture that approved and even celebrated such change. But people naturally enough did 37

Boston’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

not like feeling forced from their homes. In spite of a prevailing ideology that change was both inevitable and productive, for the greater good and for themselves as individuals, nineteenth-century Bostonians expressed much the same feelings of regret, fear, and anger we would expect under similar circumstances today. During the 1870s and 1880s, Bostonians began to decide that these were not merely self-indulgent sentiments to be set aside but valid objections to the culture of change.

38

CHAPTER 2 TERI

Problems with Change

Progress is a terrible thing. — WILLIAM JAMES

Change was the norm in nineteenth-century America in other realms aside from the urban environment, and much of the change was not pleasant. A modern urban industrial society was emerging from an agrarian country, and this was a disturbing process. These larger social forces helped create the preconditions for a shift in the way Americans viewed environmental change.

Unfamiliar Society From the 1840s onward Boston’s in-migration from the New England countryside began to be overwhelmed by waves of migration from across the Atlantic, first from Ireland and then from southern and eastern Europe. Bostonians who were happy to see their city grow by assimilating the sons and daughters of Maine farmers were less happy about assimilating the children of Ireland. An anti-Irish and anti-Catholic mob in 1834 burned the Ursuline convent in Charlestown, an early and virulent manifestation of antebellum xenophobia.’ By the last third of the nineteenth century, nativism had subsided from a political movement into a pervasive and uncomfortable consciousness that much of the urban population was not “wholesome American stock” but something else, poor or transient or especially foreign, a population whose ways were at best strange, and one that was growing at an alarming rate. One by-product of this growth was ethnically based machines of political power and patronage which seemed to make a mockery of America’s republican principles, and which encouraged a growing nostalgia for apparently simpler times. At the other end of the social scale, old urban aristocracies such as Boston’s Brahmins were being displaced from the apex of wealth by a numbingly rich kind of newcomer to the national scene. Brahmin wealth, mostly 39

BosTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

inherited, was tied to position within a local community and to an ethic of responsibility to that community. The new larger fortunes of industrial America were embodied in impersonal and placeless corporations or held by the flamboyant robber barons who could buy and sell businesses at this modern scale. Boston remained one of the nation’s centers of capital, but its conservative bankers and trustees frowned on excess and took a dim view of their new financial more-than-peers elsewhere. Bostonians ranging from

the old-money elite to the native-born working classes thus saw unwelcome social extremes emerging both above and below them. “Two enemies, unknown before, have risen like spirits of darkness on our social and political horizon,” wrote Boston historian Francis Parkman in 1878, “an ignorant proletariat and a half-taught plutocracy.”” A growing incidence of civil unrest seemed to come hand in hand with this stark class differentiation. Mob violence grew more common in American cities in the middle years of the nineteenth century and then erupted at an unprecedented scale during the Civil War. When the Union imposed a military draft in July 1863, rioting Irish immigrants lynched blacks in New

York and plunged the city into virtual anarchy; by the time the army reestablished control several days later, rioters and troops together had killed more than a hundred people. In Boston’s North End a mob attacked an armory, which the militia defended by firing a cannon into the crowd, killing several people.* While these riots could not compare in ferocity with the battles of the Civil War itself, to many Boston residents they were more dis-

turbing. They brought the war’s chaos home to otherwise secure northern territory and undermined whatever ideas of common purpose people used for making sense of the great national self-destruction. After the war this sense of looming conflict did not abate but arose increasingly from labor strife. In 1877, at the depth of the worst depression the

nation had yet experienced, railroads cut wages, triggering a strike which turned violent when the companies tried to keep trains running with nonunion labor backed by police and the militia. Federal troops killed scores of people to take control of cities from Baltimore to Chicago. In comparatively placid Boston, Harvard president Charles W. Eliot began drilling riflemen in the college yard. The violence in 1877, wrote one historian a generation later, “seemed to threaten the chief strongholds of society and came like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, startling us rudely. For we had hugged the delusion that such social uprisings belonged to Europe and had no reason of being in a free republic.” *

It seemed possible that American cities could be engulfed in Europeanstyle class warfare. Commentators drew parallels between the 1877 disturbances and the Paris Commune six years earlier. The experience of pitched 40

Problems with Change

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BOSsTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

so dependent upon the influence of outward and accustomed surroundings... ?”'” He went on to deny this rhetorical premise, but the passion in his sermon reinforced what many of his parishioners must have felt: that Brattle Square Church really was a particular building in a particular place, and not an abstract and transportable institution. The congregation forced itself to sacrifice its church because, faced with the altered neighborhood around it, the culture of change dictated that this was the appropriate response. Even though they would all understandably feel regrets about the move, said Lothrop, to give in to their “attachment and reverence for this spot and this house” would be a self-indulgent “gratification of our personal feelings.” When nostalgia became an impediment to change, it was in this view a “morbid” impulse.” The prospect of losing Brattle Square Church brought the greatest public outcry yet from Boston's “citizens generally, who feel that they have, as it were, some right of property in this old landmark of the past.” ’° These protests, however, were not yet channeled into any effective avenues of opposition. Old Brattle Square Church held its last service on July 30, 1871. Elite churches were usually empty in the summer, as their congregations fled to the country and the shore, but this service was packed. The society sold the building, which then stood for many months as a forlorn shell. That fall they laid the cornerstone for their new building, designed by H. H. Richardson, on Commonwealth Avenue in the Back Bay. The new building’s dedication on December 22, 1873, followed a few weeks after that year’s financial panic, which together with the fire reduced

the congregation's ability to subscribe the hefty pew sales needed to pay for it, even as budget overruns made such sales all the more imperative. The church opened under a mortgage, a common practice which ordinarily seemed prudent enough, when at Lothrop’s dedication sermon all could hear yet another disaster: the new building’s acoustics were appalling.”°

Now Bostonians saw revealed an unhappy side to churches’ Back Bay migration. If their leaders sincerely believed them durable institutions continuing on new sites, the churchgoing public was willing to treat them in the same spirit of change they had already shown for their neighborhoods. The Back Bay’s oversupply of churches in a small area was convenient for a sort of religious comparison-shopping. As each new church opened, the curious thronged it for a season. The new Brattle Square Church and its tower succeeded as an architectural presence on Commonwealth Avenue, but its elderly minister and difficult acoustics made it fare badly once people ventured inside. Within a year it was searching for a new pastor so that Lothrop could retire; with uncertainty in both treasury and pulpit, even those parishioners who were inclined to stay hesitated to make a financial commitment.

46 |

Problems with Change

By 1875 the new building’s mortgage was overdue, and the congregation openly discussed selling it. The debt was easily within reach of the society's wealthy members, but they had already given, and before they would give more they wanted to see a more general support that was not forthcoming. When the proprietors announced a parish meeting to consider ways of avoiding a sale, almost no one came. Lothrop, his health failing, took a leave of absence, and the church closed in the summer of 1875. The congregation disbanded. So the Brattle Square Church, after much talk about the necessity of moving to avoid a slow death in its old location, moved and instead died quickly. What killed it? Not bad acoustics or debt. Both could have been remedied,

but the parishioners lacked the will and instead fled. Bostonians saw two possible interpretations. One, in keeping with the culture of change, was that they had waited too long. In this view the congregation killed itself in the 1850s and 1860s, when it clung morbidly to the past. If the congregation had dwindled slowly in its old church so that it could not be rebuilt in the new, this explanation would be compelling. But the congregation left for the Back Bay more or less intact, ample in both numbers and wealth, and fell away only after it arrived.

The other explanation is the one that Lothrop and his contemporaries were so eager to discount: that Brattle Square Church really was an irreplaceable building, that the parishioners’ embarrassment was over not their architect's acoustical miscalculation but the act of desecration they had com-

mitted in selling the old church to be torn down. This explanation led to dark conclusions, for it did not follow that the congregation could have continued its life permanently in its old meetinghouse. If it could not live apart from its Brattle Square building, and if the square itself was so inhospitable as to be lethal to the congregation, then Boston’s growth had strangled this church dead. Brattle Square Church raised one further question that was at the heart of any ideas of permanence for architectural landmarks: Was it the union of institution and structure that was consecrated, or the structure itself? Had the congregation committed its act of desecration when it moved from its Brattle Square church, or when it allowed the building to be demolished? The idea of preserving landmarks independently of institutions seemed grotesque to Lothrop, who asked, “Would we leave these churches stranded and useless on their old spots, to be monuments then not simply of change, but of decay and death?” His contemporaries were ill equipped to answer these questions, but in a few years they would ask them again for the Old South Church. How were people to respond to the sadness they felt at these changes in 47

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

the city around them? Those who had begun to lose their faith in change | treated such emotions as more than anomalies. The destruction of culturally significant buildings and landscapes could reverberate with the same jarring notes as the increasing disharmony of society at large. The destruction of visually prominent structures could be disorienting, and this disorientation was itself yet another stimulus helping to re-form attitudes toward change. One current conceptual framework for questioning change was the nineteenth-century romantic tradition in the arts, but only in the second half of the century did Americans connect that tradition with the process of shaping the urban environment. By the 1840s some Americans were expressing

an awareness of the dark side of progress, a growing sympathy with the wilderness that was being vanquished as settlement spread across the continent and across the new suburbs. But these were literary qualms; they had no place in the practical culture of city building. Since they were framed as a conflict between civilization and nature, they made few distinctions within the city and so had little to say about any changes there other than its over-

all growth. ,

These qualms about lost nature were often expressed in the vicinity of cities, as they extended into and destroyed or transformed the countryside. The Hudson River school of landscape painting made people particularly sensitive to change in that region above New York City; painter Thomas Cole complained that “they are cutting down all the trees in the beautiful valley on which I have looked so often with a loving eye.” New York native Henry P.

Tappan, chancellor of the University of Michigan, returned to the city in 1855 and bemoaned its expansion over an island once “remarkable for its natural beauty.” Just across the rivers, “the heights of Brooklyn, the shores of Hoboken, might have been preserved for enchanting public grounds. They, too, are lost forever.” ”* After Boston annexed the town of Roxbury, one resident described its transformation: Parker's Hill with its gray ledges, seamed by the frost of ages, but painted with the soft and parti-colored lichens, and decorated with ferns and nodding grasses, has yielded to the ravages of the drill-and sledge hammer, to the pick and shovel. .. . The dog-tooth violets, the cowslips, the columbines, the anemones, the gentians have fled... and blank, unadorned highways have taken their places, fringed no longer with beauty of any kind, but presenting rows and blocks of very inferior

houses.” | |

With the growth of cities, their residents found increasing occasion to rue disruption not only of their sylvan settings but of streetscapes within the city itself, as familiar and pleasing scenes were lost. “New York is notori-

48

Problems with Change

ously the largest and least loved of any of our great cities,” said Harper’s Monthly in 1856. “Why should it be loved as a city? It is never the same city for a dozen years together. A man born in New York forty years ago finds nothing, absolutely nothing, of the New York he knew.” *4 The cumulative effect of losing landmarks and whole swaths of the city was more than sadness; it was actual cognitive disorientation, the uncom-

fortable sensation of a reality not in accordance with internalized mental maps. When the environment changed so thoroughly that people could no longer tell where they were —literally, in the case of returning residents, but figuratively true for many others—then change in the environment alone could bring into question the idea of change as improvement. The shift from vernacular to self-conscious architecture reinforced the disorienting effects of environmental change. Vernacular replacement of ordinary buildings by similar structures had hidden the pace of change, but the rapid succession of exotic styles and frenzied eclecticism exaggerated it. So long as change seemed good, this was encouraging. But as soon as change was potentially disturbing, then the urban environment was among the most disturbing phenomena around. Surviving old buildings, even ordinary ones, took on a reassuring aspect, not merely for the sentimental associations particular to each of them but also for their general suggestion of continuity.

But as Americans looked around themselves they found little such reassurance. An awareness of the pervasive newness of their environment, its complete lack of remnants from antiquity, gave them a cultural inferiority complex. Bostonian Charles Eliot Norton, upon arriving in England in 1868, found that the patina of age gave scenes in that country “a deeper familiarity than the very things that have lain before our eyes since we were born.” Years later, as professor of art history at Harvard, Norton reflected on this experience in an article entitled “The Lack of Old Homes in America.” He worried about the culture that was evolving in a nation of temporary abodes, “bar-

ren... of historic objects that appeal to the imagination and arouse the poetic associations that give depth and charm to life.” Thanks to the culture of change, he said, “Boston is in its aspect as new as Chicago,” and neither could offer anything to measure up to Norton’s Old World standards.” The national centennial celebrations in 1876 reinforced a growing awareness of American history which helped residents of the eastern states rec-

ognize and value what continuity did exist in their environment. In the Boston area this awareness was especially immediate, as people marked a succession of centennials of particular battles, parading through Lexington and Concord and Bunker Hill’s Charlestown and feeling the evocative power of surviving places that had witnessed momentous events. The specifically 49

BoOsTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

architectural awareness promoted by exhibits at the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition legitimized affection for remaining old buildings and helped

launch the Colonial Revival school of architecture. As the Colonial Revival style grew in popularity, the loss of old buildings became all the more disturbing. Now they were not merely quaint survivals but prototypes, their worth multiplied by all the progeny they might have

spawned in the future. For the first time since Americans became architecturally self-conscious, they could imagine the possibility of a permanent community architectural identity. “When we have an opportunity of designing a building to be erected on some ancient site,” wrote one correspondent to the Boston-based American Architect and Building News, “why not recognize the fact that the germ of a vernacular style was planted here 200 years ago, and, instead of ruthlessly rooting it out and substituting a neo-Grec or Jacobean mansion, take the tender sapling from its withered trunk, and replant it in its parent soil. . . ?”?° In matters of taste, at least, old could be good. One reason people were prepared to believe that old was good was the

growing conviction that, in at least one important component of cities, change was indeed bad. That component was the private domestic environ-

ment, each family’s home.

The Threatened Domestic Environment _ Americans first acknowledged an exception from their approval of change ~

in the urban environment in their vision of the ideal home, and even though | their ideal relied upon material progress, it eventually became an important

challenge to the whole culture of change. 7 }

By the middle of the nineteenth century, residential development in and — around American cities was being shaped by what Gwendolyn Wright has called “the cult of domesticity.””” The main axiom of this domestic ideology was separation of the workplace from the home. Houses were to be located © in exclusively residential districts from which men would leave each day for workplaces such as offices, warehouses, and factories; the household was no longer to be a unit of economic production. Women and children therefore _ would be separated from work and protected from its effects. “The family,” says Kenneth Jackson, “became isolated and feminized, and this ‘women’s sphere’ came to be regarded as superior to the nondomestic institutions of the world.” The cult of domesticity taught, in Jackson’s words, that “the home ought to be perfect and could be made so.” It needed to be perfect because the home and the nuclear family within it became more important as the basic building block of society, taking over moral, spiritual, and educational roles once filled by other community institutions. After the Civil War, 50

Problems with Change says Wright, Americans set aside the quest for national salvation to seek instead “redemption for one’s own family.” Home life was considered the seat of all virtue; the stability of civilization rested upon the stability of the hearth.”* The house symbolized the family and its place in the world. “The good family and their suburban home became almost interchangeable concepts,” says Wright.”? “The suburban home, how it was furnished, and the family life the housewife oversaw, contributed to the definition of ‘middle class,’ at least as much as did the husband's income.” *° Houses were set on their own grounds, separated from neighbors at the sides and rear and set back especially from the street, surrounded by an ornamental space not meant to be productive like fields or kitchen gardens, nor utilitarian like urban courts or “yards” in the old meaning of the word. The new suburban yard recreated as a private retreat the nature that was being lost from the public landscape. It allowed the idealized domestic environment to extend outside the walls of the house and served, says Jackson, as “a kind of verdant moat separating the household from the threats and temptations of the city.” ** Every part of this ideology isolated the home and family from cities and the changes that were going on in them. The idealized domestic environ-

ment put a boundary around the realm where change was normal or acceptable. Segregating home from work separated it not only from industrial nuisances but also from all the powerful economic engines of urban change. The domestic environment was instead a stable, permanent alternative to the city’s tumult, “waiting like a refuge,” says John Stilgoe, “in the storm of the late nineteenth-century urban frenzy.” This was true in theory whether the family owned a gracious suburban villa that met the demanding requirements of the ideal or struggled to afford a simple cottage of its own. Families that were unable to buy into the physical expressions of the suburban ideal nonetheless tried to adapt rituals of the cult of domesticity to the less hospitable setting of urban housing. The lowest classes in their tenements experienced little stability in the physical environment, as the real estate market continued treating their homes as a transitional phase on

the way to some more profitable land use, but settlement-house workers tried to socialize them to the domestic ideals of stability.** American families did not necessarily become in practice any more settled or less migratory. Kenneth Jackson describes this paradox of a highly mobile population pursuing an ideal of rootedness, which was resolved, he says, by treating each particular house as “the temporary representation of the ideal permanent house”: “Although a family might buy the structure planning to

inhabit it for only a few years, the Cape Cod, Colonial Revival, and other traditional historical stylings politely ignored their transience and provided an architectural symbolism that spoke of stability and permanence.”*” The 51

BosTon’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

drive to express domestic permanence explains why the Colonial Revival and its kin, such as Mission Revival in California, received more widespread popular acceptance than anything American architects have done before or since.** In the best suburban developments this reassuring imagery extended

_ to large-scale design that nestled the individual houses in an apparently timeless pastoral landscape. These refuges and signs of permanence served as an increasingly impor-

tant underpinning to the culture of change, a reassuring private stability which allowed people to face with equanimity the continual changes in their public environment. Within the city, the Back Bay development served this same purpose, allowing upper-class Bostonians, fortified in a precinct they believed secure, to hand over their old neighborhoods to business or to

lower classes.

The problem was that the forces of environmental change did not respect the conceptual boundaries around them. Even the favored classes watched their private refuges overtaken. One universal threat was the very streetcars that allowed mass realization of the suburban ideal. Where neighborhoods grew on vacant land around a trolley line, homebuyers wanted to locate at least a block or so from the noisy tracks; when a streetcar company sought a line in an existing street of owner-occupied dwellings, such as Boston’s

Columbus Avenue or Marlborough Street, it could count on a vigorous Opposition. Streetcars were not such a serious nuisance as elevated trains, but they were harbingers of further change, announcing the impending arrival of apartment houses and businesses, the metamorphosis of neighbor-

hood character. |

Homeowners’ insecurity was magnified by the idealization of the domes-

tic environment, which made them sensitive to nuance and thus vulnerable | to a broader variety of potential changes. “The very qualities that made the home so meaningful,” says Gwendolyn Wright, “also made it precarious.” A middle-class ideal that imitated country seats of the wealthy could never entirely measure up on an eighth of an acre, and so the suburban home relied on its neighbors’ houses and lawns for much of the identity it sought to project. Real estate expert Richard Hurd asserted at the turn of the century that in residential areas “the erection of almost any building other than a residence constitutes a nuisance.” *° _ Sensitivity to change was further reinforced by continuing belief in the inevitability of neighborhood decline, a deeply ingrained and tenacious idea still driving residential planning and the housing market well into the twentieth century, long after evidence was available to support a more optimistic view of the potential for environmental permanence. The infamous “red52

Problems with Change lining” maps that steered residential mortgage lending starting in the 1930s ostensibly showed the phases of neighborhood deterioration, based, says Jackson, on the assumptions that “change was inevitable” and “the natural tendency of any area was to decline.”*” Neighborhood stability, in this view, was only a respite from the inevitable and was therefore all the more important to maintain. One of the periods in a neighborhood's life when it was most vulnerable to change was the early stages of development, while uncertainty remained as to what would fill its vacant lots or even whether they might be resubdivided. Subdivision lots were most often taken up and built upon during economic booms and lay dormant during busts; more or less complete development of a tract could take several cycles during which building patterns there might shift dramatically.® Buyers preferred, where possible, to avoid this uncertainty. Homeowners’ insecurity translated into a powerful economic force. Marketing emphasized “established” neighborhoods, the character of which was already safely settled. Developers of elite subdivisions, and later their middle-class imitators, took on an increasing share of infrastructure provision, installing utilities, paving roads, and planting trees and more elaborate landscaping, in order

to reduce uncertainty about the neighborhood's ultimate character. This concern eventually drew land developers into the separate field of house building. In the early nineteenth century, subdividers often initially sold lots under conditions requiring prompt construction, so that early buyers’ houses would help establish the value of the rest of the tract. By the 1890s developers sometimes built the first few houses themselves in order to control this critical determinant of neighborhood character.*? In the middle of the

twentieth century this trend would culminate in vertical integration of the housing industry, so that a single developer commonly took responsibility for subdividing and improving a piece of raw land, building all the houses on it, and selling them to the public.*° Before this integration, sensitivity to neighborhood change ensured that homeowners and prospective buyers would remain skittish as long as any undeveloped lots remained nearby. A steadily growing portion of the real estate market was nonspeculative, purchases by prospective residents who set the value of residential land not by its potential for but by its protection from change.*’ This new definition of value made the real estate industry ever more interested in the conceptual boundaries that exempted areas from the prospect of change. No place within reach of a metropolis was truly immune from change; like every historic structure, every valued neighborhood was potentially threatened. When intangible qualities of neighborhoods became a large part of their 53

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES” | financial value, then their decline became not only a potential domestic |

as a whole. | , |

trauma for their residents but also a significant economic waste for society

Waste, Missed Opportunities, and the Need for Planning The waste resulting from premature neighborhood obsolescence was “one of the most appalling losses in the economic life of the United States to-day,” developer J. C. Nichols told the Eighth National Conference on City Planning in 1916.7 Americans first began counting the costs of change in the nineteenth century, not through abstract concepts such as obsolescence but in the actual physical destruction of buildings long before their useful life was over. “We have been building up only to tear down a few years later,” said Hugh O’Brien, Boston’s mayor from 1885 to 1888." As increasing environmental change forced people to recognize the economic waste in this process, some of them began to ask whether there might be better ways of making cities so that they would not need to be unmade so quickly.

Dislocation from environmental change showed up in numerous parts of the urban economy. Business districts shifted location, and residential , neighborhoods fell from fashion, buffeting the finances of individual families and preventing the economic stabilization that could be accomplished through a system of long-term mortgage financing.” Infrastructure was provided haphazardly and then, like Boston’s downtown hydrants during the fire, proved inadequate to its altered tasks. Cities paved streets only to have

one new utility after another rip them up. |

Boston provided one of the most direct examples of these costs in its continual struggle to cut traffic arteries through its tangled web of narrow seventeenth-century streets. “During the past twenty-five years,” said Mayor O’Brien in 1885, “we have expended millions of dollars for widening and extending streets that could have been saved if some systematic plan had been

adopted. ... A vast amount of property in buildings has been destroyed by change of street lines and grades.” *° Street widening caused not only public costs but private disruptions as well; investments had to be made in uncertainty and sometimes amid the remnants of buildings that, while in theory “made whole” by municipal compensation, in practice were both a wasted asset in themselves and a drag on investment around them. The Boston Common Council street committee complained in 1860 that widening North Street in the North End had failed to improve business along its length because “new fronts have been placed [on] mere shells of buildings . . . dis-

figuring the appearance of the street.” *° |

-When American cities were smaller and simpler, such dislocations might 54

Problems with Change have seemed an acceptable price for their vitality. But by the end of the nineteenth century some of them were growing to rank among the world’s largest; surely urban fabric at this new scale could not be disposable. Historian Josef

Konvitz speaks of cities’ permanence as a problem beginning at the end of the nineteenth century, in that increasingly durable public works —transit lines, subterranean utilities, even paved streets themselves—no longer

afforded flexibility in urban form. Elaborate new building types such as railroad stations, hotels, department stores, and elevator office blocks represented large investments that needed to be amortized over long periods and, unlike small older houses and warehouses, were not adaptable to unanticipated uses. The city planning movement arose in part as a response to this problem: if important parts of the environment were in fact permanent, then they ought to be planned as permanent.*’ Planning for the future in this way required a new concept of progress. On his return to New York in 1855, Henry Tappan pointed out a fundamen-

tal criticism of the culture of change, a flaw in the notion of progress as Americans had applied it in their cities. The world’s great cities, he said, pro-

gressed cumulatively as each generation built upon the best of those who had come before. The city should be “continually becoming dearer to us as it becomes more beautiful and contains more objects to render it worthy of our love.” But New York grew by frenetically tearing down and rebuilding, indiscriminately destroying the best along with the worst. “If she goes on increasing and flourishing,” asked Tappan, “must not all the works of the present and prosperous generation sink into insignificance, and leave not a trace behind... . ?”*8 Americans had to figure out how to turn Tappan’s criticism into a prescription, how to plan the best that would be kept as a foundation for what was to follow. Bostonians drew these same philosophical lessons from their street widen-

ings, because they would have been so clearly avoidable if previous city builders had exercised foresight. Nor was the problem limited to the old streets of the original peninsula; it was if anything more serious in the suburban wards of Dorchester and Roxbury, annexed in 1867, where many miles

of new development relied on what only recently had been country lanes and farm roads.*? At an 1870 meeting of the American Social Science Association, in Boston, Frederick Law Olmsted pointed out that it is practically certain that the Boston of today is the mere nucleus of the Boston that is to be. It is practically certain that it is to extend over many miles of country now thoroughly rural in character, in parts of which farmers are now laying out roads with a view to shortening the teaming distance between their woodlots and a railway station, being governed in their courses by old property lines,

55

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES” which were first run simply with reference to the equitable division of heritages, and in other parts of which, perhaps, some wild speculators are having streets staked off from plans which they have formed with a rule and pencil in a broker’s office, with a view chiefly to the impressions they would make when seen by other speculators on a lithographed map.*°

Such haphazard growth was setting the stage for a repetition of the same congestion and inefficiency the city experienced at its center, and the same expense and disruption in correcting them—which, said Olmsted, could never be accomplished as completely as if streets were laid out well in the first place. The traditional solution was to extend an urban grid over the countryside, as New York had done at the beginning of the century and many other cities did later, providing a neutral armature for whatever urban growth might bring. Olmsted soon began arguing that such plans, intended to accommodate unlimited changes, were almost as wasteful as no planning at all. As the nation’s most prominent landscape architect and prophet of the parks movement, a pulpit he had gained as co-winner of the 1858 design competition for New York’s Central Park, Olmsted took on the even greater challenge of becoming the country’s leading critic of the culture of change in the urban

environment. |

Olmsted formulated his most profound argument for environmental permanence by looking beyond the costs of actually changing land uses to count also the opportunity costs of trying to accommodate change by providing for every land use on every site. Grids might in theory be infinitely adaptable, but their one-size-fits-all urban fabric was in practice inappropriate for most of the uses to which it was actually put. A year after Olmsted's Boston speech, he made this argument in a plan for Staten Island, then a semirural suburb of New York. Most of the island would never be used for commercial or industrial purposes, he said, and designing it for these uses

would only make it less suitable for its inhabitants.” A few years later Olmsted had honed these arguments further, as David Schuyler describes. In 1876, with engineer J. James R. Croes as his assistant, he reported a plan for parts of Westchester County that were about to be annexed to New York City as the Bronx. The Department of Public Parks, charged with laying out the new territory, spent several years wrestling with the difficulties of extending the Manhattan street grid, or something like it, over the rugged topography north of the city. Olmsted and Croes questioned the wisdom of this approach. While most people involved in developing the city considered the grid a great success, they said, its “inflexibility” increasingly brought problems: 56

Problems with Change If a proposed cathedral, military depot, great manufacturing enterprise, home of religious seclusion or seat of learning needs a space of ground more than sixtysix yards in extent from north to south, the system forbids that it shall be built in New York. ... The rigid uniformity of the system of 1807 requires that no building lot shall be more than 100 feet in depth, none less. The clerk or mechanic and his young family, wishing to live modestly in a house by themselves, without servants, is provided for in this respect no otherwise than the wealthy merchant, who, with a large family and numerous servants, wishes to display works of art, to form a large library, and to enjoy the company of many guests.*?

The clerk or mechanic and his young family, as a result, could never hope to live in their own home in New York; the idealized domestic environment was denied to most of the city’s population by the grid itself, the very instrument that was supposed to provide the ultimate in land-use adaptability. “An attempt to make all parts of a great city equally convenient for all uses,” concluded Olmsted and Croes, will also make them “equally inconvenient.” They explained their alternative through the then especially powerful metaphor of the home: “If a house to be used for many different purposes must have many rooms and passages of various dimensions and variously lighted and furnished, not less must . . . a metropolis be specially adapted at different points to different ends.” ** If specific districts of the city could be built with a view to specific land uses, they could be laid out more appropriately for their intended uses, enhancing their functioning while at the same time saving money that would have been spent pointlessly adapting them for uses they would never accommodate. Topography, said Olmsted and Croes, ensured that Riverdale in the Bronx would become a commercial district “only by some forced and costly process,” so why not lay it out in winding roads rather than straight blocks, which not only cost more to construct but marred the landscape’s residential attractiveness? ”° Such an approach required two innovations in real estate thinking. The first was “a certain effort of forecast as to what the city is to be in the future.” Olmsted had already shown on Staten Island and in the Bronx his willingness to make such an effort; the workings of major topographic determinants were not mysterious. Such forecasting was after all the real estate speculator’s stock in trade, but Olmsted stepped on the speculator’s prerogatives by suggesting that projecting future land use was a matter not only of private but of public interest.*° The second innovation was to establish “permanent occupation” by intended land uses. Unlike Manhattan's grid, the curving streets that Olmsted proposed for Riverdale’s suburban villas would never be good for anything 57

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Problems with Change

else. This challenged the culture of change at its heart, the belief in limitless possibilities, as Olmsted acknowledged: “It may be questioned whether,

even in a locality as yet so remote from dense building and so rugged in its topography, the demand for land for various other purposes will not, in time, crowd out all rural and picturesque elements, and whether, for this reason, it would be prudent to lay it out with exclusive reference to suburban uses?”*’ This was a delicate question. Olmsted pointed to London, still the largest city in the world and growing in increments greater than New York’s, where similar picturesque suburbs were absorbed whole rather

than converted as the metropolis overtook them. He pointed also to the considerable flexibility within such a district for incremental changes and different building types that could be accommodated without altering the district’s permanent character. Despite these arguments, New York followed few of Olmsted’s recommendations, although Riverdale grew to be just such a district as he proposed.** In 1881, Olmsted moved his office to Brookline and continued addressing issues of environmental permanence in his plans for the Boston park system and in other work around the country.

Olmsted explored his philosophy of the permanently differentiated city through another medium, planning for private development of suburbs. He defined “true suburbs” as places “in which urban and rural advantages are agreeably combined with . . . prospect of long continuance.”*? Olmsted's subdivision designs, like his proposal for Riverdale, used curvilinear layouts

that were intentionally unsuited to anything but individual residences and that would resist conversion to other uses. The first of his suburban designs to be constructed was Riverside, Illinois, begun in 1869. In an earlier unrealized project for Berkeley, California, Olmsted felt himself excused from the culture of change by the nature of his client, the brand-new College (now University) of California, which was presumably less interested in profit than in creating suitable surroundings for its campus. Olmsted therefore presented as one of the strengths of his plan its street layout, which “would be inconvenient to follow for any purpose of business beyond the mere supplying of the wants of the neighborhood itself.” At his Fisher Hill subdivision in Brookline, where construction began in 1884, the same logic clearly governs the curvilinear street pattern, which avoids any convenient connection between Boylston and Beacon Streets. Practical concerns were bringing real estate thought into line with such reformers’ ideas. Olmsted's extensively landscaped subdivision designs were examples of the larger trend of developers taking on ever larger up-front exFIGURE 2.2. Frederick Law Olmsted’s design for Fisher Hill, Brookline, 1884. Courtesy National Park Service, Frederick Law Olmsted National Historic Site

59

BosTOn’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

penses. These costs included not only their provision of increasingly elaborate roads, utilities, and landscaping but also money they spent assembling and carrying large tracts of land that could only be brought onto the market over long periods. Stability of investment thus became important not only for the buyers but even more so for the developers of elite property, who had to be confident that their heavy initial investment would be returned in enhanced value over the years or even decades that might be required to complete sales. The people who later created such communities as Chevy Chase, outside Washington, D.C., says Kenneth Jackson, were “more interested in quality than in rapid growth.” The financial strains of maintaining quality through lean times in Riverside, Roland Park, and the Country Club district of Kansas City made their respective developers keenly interested in protecting that quality against any threats of change.” Similar worries plagued developers and investors in downtowns, where even more money was at stake. There the desire for stability arose not in

order to finish selling off a project but from the need for longer times to recoup initial investment. As New York attorney William Seton Gordon explained in 1891, “While most changes are attended by an increase in the value of land, all have a tendency to lessen the value of buildings by dis-

turbing the harmony assumed to exist at the first between buildings and neighborhood.” For the tremendous investments being made in downtown buildings, this made accurate understanding of future land shifts increasingly important. Around the turn of the century the real estate industry sought a scientific understanding of urban change through increasingly systematic and quantitative appraisal methods. Investors hoped to defeat the disruptive power of change by correctly forecasting it.

By the decades after the Civil War, theorists, city-building practitioners, and much of the public had found problems with the culture of change. People were displeased by the flux around them and were no longer reluctant to say so. If change in the urban environment was really a malady rather than a healthy fact of life, if at least some parts of cities ought to be perma-

nent, then what could Americans do about it? , People in Boston and other cities tried actions of several sorts. They mobilized to prevent the destruction of buildings they valued as historic. They also mobilized to prevent encroachments on valued landscapes, and to create park landscapes meant to be permanent. They began exploring whether governments traditional role of promoting change could be reversed, using public powers instead to bring stability to the urban environment. But first and most important, people sought private solutions, attempting to keep themselves and their families out of the path of change. They chose 60

Problems with Change

homes not for their speculative potential but as antispeculations, places they thought would retain their character, often suburban retreats. Developers sought to meet this demand, exploring private planning through deed restrictions. If people wanted permanence in their surroundings, and were able to pay for it, could they have it?

61

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PART II

Ro

PERMANENCE

BLANK PAGE

CHAPTER 3 LAKE

Selling Permanence

The making or unmaking of value in a community lies in proper restriction|s] of land, and the more rigid and fixed they are, the safer and surer is the land owner’s investment. —ALEXANDERS. TAYLOR

When Dr. Lemuel Hayward died in 1821 after a long career as one of Boston's leading surgeons, he left a mansion and an acre of garden behind it on Wash-

ington Street, between Bedford and Essex Streets, for eight heirs to share. The family decided to subdivide the garden as building lots. Fashionable new streets and row houses had been sprouting for years all around it. In the spring of 1823 a surveyor laid out the garden as nineteen house lots along a thirty-six-foot-wide dead-end “avenue,” which soon came to be called Hayward Place. The heirs agreed to convey each lot with the condition “that no other building shall be erected or built on the lot except one of brick or stone, not less than three stories in height, and for a dwelling-house only.” The lots sold quickly, and the street was built up with what a resident later described as “large and elegant dwellings, . . . all of brick or stone,” either occupied by their owners or “rented . . . to tenants at a high rent.” Several of the heirs, including Dr. Hayward’s son George, settled on the little street. Time passed, and Boston grew. Next-door to the former Hayward garden, “Rowe's Pasture” was built up. George Hayward became a prosperous surgeon in his own right and moved to Beacon Hill; his father’s mansion came down to be replaced with a commercial building. By the early 1860s, forty years after Hayward Place was laid out, a busy horsecar line ran down Washington Street, its old houses either converted to businesses or replaced by big new mercantile structures. Business had spread onto side streets as far south as Bedford Street, the first big cross street north of Hayward. In the midst of all this, Hayward Place itself was still a quiet middle-class neighborhood, many of its houses occupied by their owners. By comparison with Peter Knights’s samples of Boston’s population, their lives were stable. Elli65

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nor Hayward, widow of one of the original heirs, still lived at number 13, and across the street at number 3 lived Samuel Parker, a retired customs inspector who had bought his house new in 1823. Early in 1862, change turned the corner onto Hayward Place. The house next door to Parker's belonged to a Walpole resident, James Nightingale, who rented it that year to a Frederick Loeber, who lived nearby and owned a restaurant at the center of town on Congress Square. Shortly after Loeber rented number 2 Hayward Place, Parker heard workmen busy there. As he explained later, “It seemed, from the apparent preparation, that the changes might be more than what is usual in regard to dwelling-houses ordinarily,” so he inquired and “to his great surprise and sorrow, he was informed by the workmen that . .. Loeber was going to convert the house . . . into a restaurant, or eating-saloon.”* Parker's neighbors were as unhappy about the change as he was, and once the restaurant opened they accused Loeber of having large numbers of people in and about said premises, at all hours of the day and night, eating and drinking, and indulging in all kinds of merriment and loud and boisterous conversation, debate, and controversy, in the usual manner of allowing such establishments to be conducted in the large cities, and where the police have little or no power to repress or control the conduct of the class of persons collecting about restaurants, saloons, eating-houses, and other similar places of refreshment; and, in this way, . . . Loeber, as the natural and almost necessary consequence of applying the premises, . . . to the use aforesaid, has 66

Selling Permanence rendered the locality about Hayward Place almost wholly unfit for quiet and comfortable residences.

Their description underlines the close relationship between dissatisfaction with environmental change and a more pervasive unease about the social changes that accompanied urbanization. The sense of losing control over society led to new demands put on spatial segregation of land uses as a means of ordering social relations. In the eighteenth century Dr. Hayward had built his mansion undeterred by the White Horse Tavern across the street, but now to the residents of his former garden Loeber’s restaurant indicated the unraveling of civilized life.

Property and Permanence | In nineteenth-century America, with its reverence both for individual rights and for private property, it was perhaps inevitable that environmental permanence should be addressed first as a question of property rights. A man’s home was his castle, and from that small part of the city he need fear no disturbing change. But if like the Hayward heirs he sold off parts of his garden for others to build on, did he have to relinquish all control over its future use? If buyers wanted “quiet and comfortable residences” insulated from change, was there no way to accommodate this market? Land conveyancers searched legal tradition for tools that could be adapted to these new tasks. Restrictions in deeds, specifying permissible uses of land or forms of buildings, had been available as a legal tool for a long time. They appeared in Boston during the seventeenth century, and before 1810 they were used on Beacon Hill to specify front-yard setbacks, maximum and minimum building heights, and construction “of brick or stone” only.® Those writing such restrictions found many prototypes, which in the theory of the time could be grouped into two categories: easements and covenants. Easements altered the definition of what rights made up a particular piece of property; covenants modified the bargain by which the property was conveyed. An easement establishes a relationship between two or more pieces of property. Party-wall easements, for example, set rules by which owners of abutting row houses share their common walls; rights of way allow access from one property across another. An easement “runs with the land”: it fixes a relationship not between individuals but between pieces of land, no matter who comes to own them later. Ordinarily the relationship is permanent. The problem with easements was that they were not, in theory, adaptable to the new uses that Americans had in mind, such as prohibiting restaurants for the neighbors’ benefit. English precedent, the ancestor of American juris67

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

prudence, recognized only a limited set of easements, such as access, party walls, and riparian rights. Conservative English courts refused to enforce restrictions “of a novel kind . . . devised and attached to property, at the fancy or caprice of any owner,” which would then run with that property “into all hands however remote.”’ They were nervous about the very permanence that made easements attractive. Unlike easements, covenants were infinitely flexible, limited only by the imagination of the people writing them. A covenant, according to a contemporary definition, was an agreement, a branch of the law of contracts, the object of which could be anything not specifically illegal.° Massachusetts deeds in the first half of the nineteenth century included, for example, covenants to build row houses with facades “uniform, one with the others,” to build only “dwelling-houses . . . or buildings for religious or literary purposes,” and to put “a roof of slate or of some other equally incombustible material” on any building more than twelve feet high.? One special form of covenants, conditions, if violated caused a property to revert to its original owner. Donations of land to religious congregations often included conditions requiring that a church be built by a specified time. Subdividers sometimes sold lots on condition that buyers erect houses within a certain period; this eliminated speculators and ensured that buyers would help establish the neighborhood."®

The problem with covenants was how and by whom they could be enforced, questions that in turn determined how long they remained effective. There was no doubt that a covenant, unless it stated otherwise, remained binding indefinitely between the individuals who originally signed it. The trouble began when properties changed hands. A covenant was of limited use if people could evade it by selling to others, but English precedent frowned on the assignment of contracts. This difficulty had been overcome by the invention of “real covenants,” that is, covenants whose subjects “touched,” or

inherently concerned, a piece of land and therefore like easements would

“attach” to it so that “he who has the one is subject to the other.” An early and common example was fence covenants, dividing responsibility for maintaining shared boundary fences. Conditions followed their own logic, the risk of forfeiture necessarily running with the land, but the reversionary rights vesting in the original owner personally and descending to his heirs, rather than attaching to any other piece of land he might happen to have owned. The presumption that covenants related individuals rather than pieces of property gave courts great latitude in deciding who could enforce

them and whether they continued to run or expired with the sale of the property or the death of their original beneficiaries.” The evolution of these legal tools was crucial to efforts at securing envi68

Selling Permanence ronmental permanence, but their importance was indirect. Legal evolution followed rather than led real estate practice, and practice was surprisingly independent of theory, at least until courts in the late nineteenth century began taking an active interest in restrictions. Nonlawyers, and even some lawyers, blissfully ignorant of legal subtleties, simply wrote in plain English

what they meant to accomplish, in the innocent faith that courts would enforce it. Other more subtle lawyers drafted restrictions that they hoped would satisfy every school of thought. Either way, deeds left it to the courts to find the theoretical underpinnings for enforcing them, if it came to that.

The overwhelming majority of deed restrictions never made it into a courtroom. If a restriction was signed and then followed, or if it was violated without anyone suing, then its doctrinal correctness was irrelevant. The plain English of the restrictions succeeded or failed on its own, their evolution following a logic that came not from the theories of law but from the exigencies of real estate development. The courts that hammered out deed-restriction doctrine were guided by the principle of “reasonableness” and therefore were strongly influenced by prevailing practice and the expectations that had arisen from it. In practice, deed restrictions at midcentury were used less to withdraw land from the potential for change than to shape change during a limited period of development. Deed restrictions could be used in pursuit of two distinct goals in the built environment: uniformity or stability. Uniformity was addressed through the specificity and stringency of the restrictions’ substance; stability through their duration, their enforcement, and their potential for revision. In the early nineteenth century both uniformity and stability were new goals, and eventually both were widely pursued, but developers’ most immediate aim was uniformity.’* The residential subdivisions that first used systematic deed restrictions, such as Mount Vernon Street (1801) and Louisburg Square (1826) on Beacon Hill or Gramercy Park (1831) in New York, were designed as ensembles and used restrictions to ensure that the

actions of independent builders would contribute to an overall composition.’* The idea of such an ensemble —or at least its realization—was new on

this continent and conflicted with the ordinary practice of uncoordinated individual construction. Deed restrictions resolved this conflict in a way more acceptable to Americans than the leasehold tenure of England or the strict public controls of France, where these design precedents came from. Uniformity was no threat to the culture of change. By creating a predictable product, restrictions rationalized the land-conversion process, making it more efficient and profitable. Early restrictions at first glance seem to promise not only uniformity but stability; most of them before the 1860s specified no duration or expiration 69

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and therefore appear to be perpetual. This appearance is misleading. An examination of mid-nineteenth-century practice suggests that most of them were conceived as applying only to the first generation of construction on each lot.’° Conditions in deeds from the city of Boston in 1859 on the South End's Worcester Square, for example, referred to “the building which may be erected.” © This interpretation is reinforced by internal evidence in the restrictions themselves. First, many named existing buildings to be copied— a common formula for construction contracts, but unreliable over a long period during which the prototype might be altered or disappear. Five deeds on Common (now Tremont) Street in 1811 contained the condition “that all the said houses to be erected on said house lots . . . shall be as to the number of stories and the height of them in conformity with the new block of houses to the Northward thereof on Common street, unless all the proprietors of the said five house lots should unanimously agree on some other plan, in which their several houses shall be uniform, one with the others.” *” Second, the requirement that a building be erected by a certain time implied applicability to that structure alone.”* Finally, covenants were commonly put in the form of conditions—violation of which would forfeit the property —making it appear unlikely that they were expected to apply beyond a limited time. Common sense boggled at the uncertainty that conditions could create in real estate titles over a long period, and courts were thus very reluctant to

let them run indefinitely. a

Bostonians at midcentury still looked to London for urban-design prototypes and probably modeled their deed covenants more or less directly on 70

Selling Permanence the land-lease covenants that regulated building there. In the South End, for example, the city closely followed English practice, substituting the word deed for lease.® Leasehold covenants naturally applied only to the first structure on each lot, because tenants would negotiate new leases before rebuilding. Intentions about duration and enforcement of covenants were clear in the context of a well-defined landlord-tenant relationship but became ambiguous when the same terms were inserted into freehold deeds. Americans had not yet thought through all these ambiguities. Like landlords enforcing their leases, it was subdividers or their heirs who enforced deed covenants or released buyers from their requirements. Neigh-

bors within the plat had nothing to do with it.*° Restrictions used in this way did not withdraw land from potential change indefinitely to protect purchasers, but only long enough to protect the developer while selling off the lots in a subdivision. Unscrupulous subdividers sometimes unloaded their last lots quickly, or even at an advanced price, by leaving them unrestricted.” Marketing and description of subdivisions indicated a certain ambivalence about the purpose of deed restrictions. Lot purchasers were clearly meant to think of the restrictions as a benefit to themselves, not just to the subdividers. In 1835 the developers of Pemberton Square on the east slope of Beacon Hill aimed, they said, “to impose only such restrictions and obligations as will, in their opinion, subserve the interests of the purchasers.” But when subdividers alone could enforce restrictions, or omit or even rescind them, then the protection depended on the developer’s good faith— if indeed the developer could be found after the lots were all sold.” There is no indication that most homeowners expected their deed restrictions to provide any such durable legal protection. What long-term benefit they received was not from the restrictions themselves but from the character of the neighborhood that the restrictions helped create. A different kind of long-term relationship was established when land was subdivided by a unit of government. From the 1840s to the 1860s, the city of Boston transformed the tidal flats along the neck into the new South End, selling thousands of lots of filled land. Most or all were subject to deed restrictions, specifying size, placement, and materials of buildings and restricting them to residential use for twenty years.” The municipality would be around indefinitely, and unlike private subdividers it would presumably be responsive to neighborhood concerns and interested in long-range land uses. By the end of the 1850s, Bostonians were already beginning to look at deed restrictions with environmental permanence in mind. Restrictions were put to work for this end as the city began its expansion onto the Back Bay in 1857, an extraordinarily ambitious project which would take decades to complete. A three-member state commission administered it, from the beginning sub71

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4

Selling Permanence they simply wanted Loeber’s restaurant out. In 1869, just five years after the

state’s high court bestowed residential permanence upon them, Hayward Place’s owners—including some of the original plaintiffs—petitioned the city of Boston to extend the street through so that it could become a business thoroughfare. The following year they signed mutual releases of their restrictions, “it being deemed for the best interests of all concerned, that said condition and restriction should be waived, so that .. . Hayward Place, and the houses thereon, may be used for business purposes, we the undersigned, owners . . . waive all of said conditions and restrictions, . . . so that each several owner may use his or their respective estates entirely independent of any other owner.” *” Two years later the Great Fire swept away all the new mercantile buildings to within a block of Hayward Place, and the flood

of commercial refugees seeking new quarters swamped what remained of the little neighborhood. Parker v. Nightingale launched in America the branch of property law variously known as deed restrictions or covenants, equitable restrictions, or equitable easements. While the real estate industry and the public called them restrictions, the lawyers’ term equitable easements best embodied both what was new and what was powerful about them. They were “equitable” because judges ruling on them would act technically as courts of equity rather than courts of law and could therefore order that violations be abated, rather than leaving them in place and merely awarding damages. They were “easements” because they established relations between property rather than between people, so that legal action could be initiated not only by subdividers but by neighbors, who most cared about violations.

Equitable easements took a while to filter into practice, partly because courts took time to work out the details of the new doctrine. On the Back Bay, residents wanted the protection promised by this tool and were too impatient to wait for the courts. In 1866 they secured an act from the legislature that accomplished the same result by empowering them to sue the Back Bay commissioners to enforce their restrictions; three years later the Supreme Judicial Court declared that owners in the Back Bay already had a right to enforce their own restrictions, under the Parker doctrine.*® In the emergence of new legal doctrines like that of equitable easements, the conservative momentum of the law is maintained by judges’ reluctance to reverse precedent explicitly, relying instead on finding rules to “distinguish” cases from earlier decisions that they do not care to follow. In Parker v. Nightingale, Bigelow thus did not change the definition of deed restrictions FIGURE 3.3 Plan accompanying petition for extension of Hayward Place, 1871. Engineering Department, City of Boston 17

BosTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

but articulated a category that supposedly had existed all along: restrictions imposed for the mutual benefit of a group of owners, and therefore enforceable by any of them. By what rule would courts, and property owners, know when a set of restrictions belonged to this new category? The Parker decision stressed the common “scheme or joint enterprise” expressed in the restrictions, upon which all the Hayward Place owners had relied.*” The “general

plan,” as it was called in subsequent decisions that further elaborated the concept, was a reification of binding shared assumptions about a neighbor-

hood’s enduring form and character. ,

Courts were initially cautious in recognizing the existence of such plans. The kind of arbitrary control developers had often exercised while selling off a subdivision was not enough to make restrictions enforceable afterward by the purchasers. In the decade after Parker, the Massachusetts high court — recognized plans conferring mutual enforceability only in the Back Bay and Beacon Hill.2® But as popular expectations grew that restrictions would be enforced, courts had an easier time discovering such plans. The restrictions imposed in any residential subdivision developed in a reasonably coherent manner created equitable easements.*® As the body of case law matured into a predictable set of rules, land developers could follow these rules in their deeds. By 1895 the “natural” assumption, according to the Supreme Judicial

| Court, was that any restrictions were intended as part of a general plan.*° The burden of proof had shifted in favor of permanence.

: Given the commercial context of American real estate development, equitable easements were most clearly accepted when courts decided they were worth money. Justice Bigelow suggested this possibility in the Parker decision where he noted that purchasers might pay a premium for restrictions. In 1890 the Supreme Judicial Court recognized expectations of permanence under restrictions as a compensable property right. The city of Boston in 1886 had taken one side of Pemberton Square for a new courthouse site. When the square was developed in 1835, it was “mutually agreed, in the strongest and most unmistakable terms,” according to the court, that certain areas “shall remain forever open,” including the front ten feet of the courthouse lots. The city blocked Nathaniel W. Ladd’s view of the square by building to the front line of the lots but claimed that equitable easements, unlike ordinary easements, were not property interests for which Ladd had any right to compensation. Wrong, wrote Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.:

“If the plaintiff has an easement, the city must pay for it.”* | In some other jurisdictions, an economic viewpoint governed interpretation of deed restrictions from the beginning, but that worked against securing permanence in the environment because it suggested remedies through paying damages rather than correcting violations. The problem, as Andrew J.

78 :

Selling Permanence

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King points out in a study of restrictions in Illinois, was that “a change in neighborhood usually indicated that business or multi-family use now predominated. Normally land values would rise, and the plaintiff could show no recoverable monetary loss.” Environmental permanence was not an eco- | nomic but a cultural goal. Compensation “would be an unsuitable remedy” for an encroachment beyond the building line on Commonwealth Avenue, decided the Massachusetts high court in 1891. “The injury is not one easily measurable by money.” ** Strictly economic theories of land use, which did not reckon neighborhood character independent of its financial value, could not account for complaints about neighborhood change and could do little to answer them. Massachusetts judges, like other affluent Americans who were moving to restricted subdivisions, did want an answer to neighborhood change. Their decisions increasingly reflected a preference for permanence. Justice John W. Hammond, upholding restrictions in a 1911 case, summed up the Massachusetts judicial attitude. “If, in these days of noise and bulging, intrusive activities, one who has been in confusion all day desires to have a home where, awake or asleep, he can pass his hours in quiet and repose,” he wrote, “there is no reason of public policy why, if he can get it, he should not have it.”

“A Permanent Residential Restricted Neighborhood” While lawyers and judges worked out what legal tools would be available for

the private control of neighborhood change, thousands of large and small 79

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

subdividers were figuring out how to respond to this new market preference. Some form of land-use and building-line restrictions became common even in unpretentious subdivisions.* Restrictions spread nationwide even to places where neither courts nor custom had favored them previously; IIlinois subdividers used them throughout the late nineteenth century, even | though courts refused to enforce them there until 1902. Everywhere their use became more self-conscious; developers began to treat restrictions as a

marketing tool. | ,

Early restrictions regulated buildings’ construction and position on the land; restrictions on permissible uses gradually became common and even-

tually became the most important application of the tool. Regulation of siting and dimensions fit the early idea of applying restrictions to a single generation of building, though they could also serve over the years to keep alterations and reconstruction in conformity with their surroundings. Landuse regulation inherently applied over a period of time, whether finite or permanent. The first generation of use restrictions focused on the activities to be excluded, accepting the nineteenth-century pattern of mixed land uses but seeking a benign mix. A particularly thorough version in Cambridge in 1850 forbade owners to build structures “which shall be used for the trade or calling of a butcher, currier, tanner, varnish-maker, ink-maker, tallowchandler, soap-boiler, brewer, distiller, sugar-baker, dyer, tinman, working brazier, founder, smith, or brickmaker, or for any nauseous or offensive trade

whatsoever; nor occupy such lots for these or any other purposes which shall tend to disturb the quiet or comfort of the neighborhood.”** | _ Soon mixed use itself began to seem a problem, and restrictions focused not on what would be prohibited but what would be allowed, at first simply

by limiting land to residential use. Developers soon found that there was a market for unmixing uses even further by separating social classes. They restricted subdivisions to ensure a certain class of occupancy by limiting them to single-family houses, by setting a minimum construction cost for them,

| and in many parts of the country by limiting the race, religion, or ethnicity of their owners or occupants.*’ Almost as important as class were the visible signs of class, and provisions for design and landscaping, together with prohibitions of such activities as outdoor drying of clothes, made for ever more

elaborate restrictions. ,

Developers could best project an elite character for their subdivisions by

, combining a future assured through restrictions with a visible past offering a patina of environmental continuity. J. C. Nichols, developer of Kansas City’s

Country Club district, explained in 1916 that good subdividers practiced “preservation . . . of the interest and charm, the historic feeling, the peculiar individuality of property.” Near Boston, this combination of preservation

80 ,

Selling Permanence with prospective permanence was “The Vision” described in a brochure for the new deed-restricted community of Westover: “Here is a compact area of nearly a thousand acres of virgin territory of striking natural beauty, which has been preserved for a notable undertaking — the planning and building of a complete village of small estates, where every home shall have a perfect setting and a protected privacy, in harmonious and artistic surroundings, which shall grow more beautiful through succeeding generations.” Other developers provided this appearance of continuity not with any actual historic features of their sites but through design controls requiring traditional styles of architecture. Oak Hills Village in Newton “could not be thoroughly New England unless the houses within its gates were typically New England,” said one description of its architectural restrictions. “Modernity appears only in the conveniences that are inside the dwelling.” *® While restrictions grew in complexity, the “restricted neighborhood” came to be treated as something of a commodity, a standardized product that could be traded without further description. Real estate advertisements used the word restricted to telegraph an image of exclusivity and stability while rarely bothering to elaborate on the substance of the restrictions.” Specifics were more common in advertisements for moderate rather than high-prestige developments, addressing resistance among people who might fear that their intentions would be restricted against. An 1897 advertisement for a Devon Street subdivision in Dorchester offered “small, choice building lots . . . restricted to one or two family houses”; the message was that duplexes were

not prohibited.*° For elite projects, on the other hand, advertising copywriters could rhapsodize about picturesque settings and use a phrase such as “carefully restricted” to say all they needed.”* The Norton Estate in Cam-

bridge near Harvard was designed in 1887 by Charles Eliot, an Olmsted apprentice and son of Harvard College president Charles William Eliot, and it included restrictions elaborate for the time. They permitted single-family dwellings only, to cost at least $4,500 above the foundations, specifying large setbacks not only for front yards but also at the sides and rear of lots, and regulating the heights of fences. Advertisements for the lots expressed all this as a “carefully protected neighborhood.” “In some localities,” found Helen C. Monchow in a 1929 study of deedrestriction practice, “subdividers literally sell the restrictions themselves.” Many developers distributed pamphlet explanations of their restrictions, written partly as aids to their administration and partly as marketing tools. Developers became among the most vocal critics of change in cities because in their restricted subdivisions they were selling the remedy. We have a remarkable window on the developers’ view of their product; in 1917 some of the biggest subdividers in the country began an annual “Conference of De81

| BosTON’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES” velopers of High Class Residential Property,” with a stenographer keeping a verbatim transcript. At the second conference John Demarest, who was developing Forest Hills Gardens in a suburban area of New York City, brought up the marketing of restrictions. Salesmen needed to be “properly couched in the real pathetic situation that has been created” in old urban neighborhoods, “sections that we find all over the city, sections that have been destroyed and ruined practically by reason of lack of restrictions,” Demarest said. “It could be made a very impressive sales argument as distinguished from rattling off, ‘We restrict against this and we restrict against that.’. . . Your restrictions are unquestionably one of your best selling assets, if they

are properly presented.” »

At the same conference Harry Kissell described how he presented the benefits of his Springfield, Ohio, restrictions: “That can be illustrated by going into one of the finished residential parts of town where they have built a billboard up against a good house and I took a picture of that and in the advertisement I said, ‘This can not happen in Ridgewood,’ and then we © took pictures of houses jammed into lots, and so forth, with no air spaces, and we said, ‘This can not happen in Ridgewood, and then we took pictures of unsightly alleys and said, ‘This can not happen in Ridgewood.’” “You could say,” added Demarest, “that if they had not come in and damaged that _ section of the City they could still have remained in those magnificent sur-

roundings that they created years ago.” ** , Subdividers found that buyers responded not only to the substance of restrictions but to their duration. “The making or unmaking of value in a community,” wrote longtime Cleveland developer Alexander S. Taylor in 1916, “lies in proper restriction[s] of land, and the more rigid and fixed they are, the safer and surer is the land owner's investment.” Monchow concluded that “the more highly developed the subdivision, the longer the terms of the

restrictions.” »° ,

Marketing reflected this emphasis on duration. Restrictions on the lots in one Boston subdivision “will always keep them strictly first-class estates,” assured one ad in 1896. “A great opportunity to build in a permanent residential restricted neighborhood,” said another almost thirty years later. J. C.

Nichols, inverting C. E. Norton’s lament about the lack of old houses in , . America, explained that restricted subdivisions held the ancestral seats of the future. Nichols emphasized “the traditions that gather around a family where you know that their home is placed where it is going to be permanent in the history of that family. I often refer to how the old homes in England were the nuclei of strong family life.” As William C. Worley points out in his study of Nichols, resales were competition, so subdividers had a direct interest in these sentiments. Outside Cleveland, the Van Sweringen brothers de82

Selling Permanence veloped Shaker Heights in the teens and twenties, with restrictions running to the year 2026, more than a century. “No matter what changes time may bring around it,” said one of their advertisements, “no matter what waves of commercialism may beat upon its borders, Shaker Village is secure, its homes and gardens are in peaceful surroundings, serene and protected for all time.” °° Such ostentatiously long duration made no sense in terms of rational planning or economics, but developers looked beyond economic rationales to emotional appeal. They were selling something more than economic accordance between building and location; they were selling permanence.

P. ermanence was a new product for the real estate industry, which previously had thrived on change. But change had come so thoroughly and so rapidly in Boston and other cities that it created a market for a respite. Developers responded with private planning. In two generations, Americans effected a major modification of traditional property rights which was accepted by buyers and the courts only because the alternative had caused such deep dissatisfaction. New neighborhoods became more stable. But deed restrictions offered only prospective permanence, extending new parts of the city into the future. For unwanted change in the old city, Bostonians needed other solutions.

83

CHAPTER 4

Preservation

Why does Boston differ from Chicago? Why do we differ here from Cincinnati? . . . If in addition to the loss of the house where Benjamin Franklin was born, the old Hancock residence, and the Brattle Street Church, you shall add the Old State House, which has already been desecrated and half its

sanctity destroyed, the Old South, and Faneuil Hall, then what have you, Bostonians, left in any sense different from any city that has sprung up within the last twenty years?

—REV. WILLIAM H. H. MURRAY These monumental buildings are Boston’s ancestral jewels, held in trust by us, to be handed down to our posterity. ~ REV. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE

Even in the mid-nineteenth century, people found the disappearance of prominent old buildings disturbing because they believed, despite the culture of change, that at least some of them were supposed to be permanent.

Ideas about environmental permanence were tied up in attitudes about social and institutional stability, and instability was uncomfortable. Growing antiquarian sensibility allowed people to appreciate buildings and scenes of great age even while applauding the progress that was relegating them to _ memory. These conflicting ideas did not get sorted out, because they were seldom translated into action. Starting around the time of the Civil War, however, the combination of increasingly pervasive urban change together with an increasing awareness of history forced Americans to recognize these contradictions and to consider, at first tentatively and unsuccessfully, what to do with old but valued pieces of the urban environment.

84

Preservation

The Place of Old Buildings Nineteenth-century Americans’ earliest historical awareness had to do with people and events, which they associated only sometimes with places and seldom with actual remaining structures. Thus in 1826 Bostonians could propose demolishing their Old State House to erect a statue commemorat-

ing the events that had occurred in it. History in the environment meant not antiquities surviving from earlier periods, but monuments erected by the present generation. Perhaps the most conspicuous in the nation and one of the most admired was the Bunker Hill monument in Charlestown, a 221foot granite obelisk built between 1825 and 1843. Not until the end of the century did citizens begin to express regret that the monument’s construction had eflaced the revolutionary battle’s last remaining actual traces.’ As for the permanence of monuments and monumental buildings them-

selves, Bostonians’ thoughts throughout most of the nineteenth century were innocently simple and strangely contradictory. While they expected the city to change, they had high hopes for the durability of their institutions, and the structures that symbolized them should therefore endure. Samuel Adams, laying the cornerstone of the Massachusetts statehouse in 1795, hoped that it might “remain permanent as the everlasting mountains.” At the Second Baptist Church dedication in 1811, Rev. Thomas Baldwin said, “We placed no inscriptions under [the cornerstone]; our hopes were, that the building would stand, till the Arch-Angel’s trumpet shall demolish the universe.” The owner of a Trinity Church tomb in 1871 recalled of the bodies lying under the building that “when they were interred there, it was supposed they would not be removed until the general resurrection.” While the durability of institutions was loosely expected to ensure the permanence of the buildings they occupied, it did not necessarily follow that

protecting the buildings was a particularly high priority. When churches discovered conflicts between their roles as custodians of souls and as custodians of buildings, it seemed obvious that buildings would have to suffer. Governments, like churches, were custodians of public landmarks, and their future seemed assured by permanence of use. But like churches, government functions could move, and unlike most churches they could do so without directly consulting their constituencies. Even on the same site, permanence of use did not necessarily yield permanence of structure; by the 1860s the legislature was considering replacing the “everlasting” statehouse. Or the government might make a bad custodian, as for example when city workers sometime in the mid-nineteenth century rearranged headstones in the Granary and King’s Chapel burial grounds. Whether their purpose was symmetry of appearance or ease of maintenance, the effect, in Oliver Wen85

BosTon’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES” | dell Holmes'’s words, was that “nothing short of the Day of Judgement will tell whose dust lies beneath any of these records, meant by affection to mark _

one small spot as sacred to some cherished memory.” ’ | Boston had long held as permanent certain prominent features of the urban environment. The original city charter in.1822 specifically prohibited selling the Common or Faneuil Hall. These two places gave Boston's citizens prototypes for thinking about environmental permanence. When the city applied street numbers to Tremont Street and its graveyards in 1850, the Common was exempted from the system.* Even as Bostonians withdrew

things from prospective permanence, they were drawing the line somewhere. But enumeration of these two properties served to devalue all the others that were not on the list. This exclusion was nearly fatal to the Old State House, which the city treated as an income source, renting its rooms to businesses that disfigured its walls with advertising signs in what one modern preservationist has called “adaptive abuse.”° Its appearance was both an

, embarrassment and a puzzle: was it an historic shrine or a run-down com-

mercial building? a | ,

Even for the Common and Faneuil Hall, the policy of permanence was incoherent. They were fixed landmarks in that they would not be sold and presumably would not be destroyed, but neither of them was particularly well

cared for. Until well into the nineteenth century the Common wasa pasture and remained scrufly. Later it served as a dumping ground for snow cleared from the streets, with all the unsavory stuff cleared with it. Faneuil Hall had

been built as a combination market and meeting hall, and the municipal government treated it too as an economic asset, managed as an incomeproducing part of the marketplace complex. This ambivalent treatment was partly deliberate. There was simply no category for preserved things; pres-

ervation was not in itself a land use, so the existence of the Common and | Faneuil Hall depended on maintaining their functions. Many controversies about the Common, as we will see, grew out of the fact that it was not clear

exactly what its use was. | Bostonians’ ambivalence about the permanence of public buildings became especially evident as they moved their institutional occupants onto the new Back Bay. This district was conceived as a civic showpiece, a special

case. Many of the people steering institutions there felt they were heading for safety, to a place that would be immune from the rapid changes that had driven them from other localities. Even as church proprietors em- — braced the culture of change to explain and excuse their abandonment of beloved downtown structures, they erected extraordinarily elaborate buildings which were clearly not intended to be transitory. They, like the upperclass families who were their members, patrons, and neighbors, sought per86

Preservation manence. Rev. Phillips Brooks concluded his dedication prayer for the new Trinity Church, “And so make this church the Church of the Trinity forever,” and the structure was as much as possible adequate to the task. Even more than the ideal family home, public buildings like H. H. Richardson's Brattle Square and Trinity Churches were meant, in historian Alan Gowans’s words, “to stand for and from eternity.”° American cities could have prospective permanence, even if they could not have the visible retrospective permanence of the Old World. The New World had its own antiquities, including the spectacular pueblos of the Southwest and the enigmatic mounds of the Midwest, and Americans’ unsatisfied yearning for environmental antiquity led to their appreciation and exploration, and eventually their protection. Charles Eliot Norton and other Bostonians led in this movement by organizing the Archaeological Institute of America in 1879.’ These indigenous ruins helped satisfy a longing for ancient traces on this continent, but from the everyday environment of American cities they seemed even more foreign than European castles. In Europe, where old buildings were both more numerous and more ancient, a preservation movement had been growing from the beginning of the nineteenth century, and as the second half of the century began, a preservationist debate was raging there. European architects “restored” a tremendous number of surviving historic buildings, but restorers like Sir Gilbert Scott in England and Eugéne Viollet-le-Duc in France were not shy about improving on history. Scott’s alterations of medieval cathedrals involved such thorough reconstruction that they became essentially works not of preservation but of nineteenth-century revival architecture. Viollet-le-Duc advocated restoration to a hypothetical “condition of completeness which could never have existed at any given time.”® These men thought of historic structures as monuments, not artifacts, valuing them mainly as symbols rather than as objects surviving from the hands of original makers. Their restoration efforts were guided more by stylistic theories and beliefs about periods of significance in each building’s history than by actual evidence from the surviving fabric.

On the other side of the debate was English art critic and social theorist John Ruskin, who valued old structures for age itself. “I think a building cannot be considered as in its prime until four or five centuries have passed over it,” he wrote in The Seven Lamps of Architecture, published in 1849. Restoration, therefore, was “a Lie”: “You may make a model of a building as you may of a corpse, and your model may have the shell of the old walls within

it as your cast might have the skeleton, with what advantage I neither see nor care; but the old building is destroyed.”® Ruskin saw buildings mainly as artifacts. He valued them for their authenticity and thus found them ir87

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

replaceable even in the smallest part. Their symbolic significance was secondary, and in any case symbolism too was cumulative, so that the idea of restoring to an earlier period of greater significance was a contradiction in terms. Because the unarrested aging process would eventually destroy buildings, Ruskin’s views did not allow for literal permanence, but he aspired to a durable architecture that would undergo decay only at the scale of geologic time.”® For existing antiquities, Ruskin had simple advice. “Take care of your monuments,” he wrote, “and you will not need to restore them.” ” William Morris, a disciple of Ruskin, in 1877 founded the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings. The society, which Morris nicknamed the “anti-scrape” movement, aimed “to put Protection in place of Restoration.” Fifty years of restorers’ “knowledge and attention” to Britain’s old buildings, he said, “have done more for their destruction than all the foregoing cen-

, turies of revolution, violence and contempt.” '* What exactly did Morris aim to protect? “Anything which can be looked upon as artistic, picturesque, historical, antique or substantial: any work, in short, over which educated, artistic people would think it worth while to argue at all.” Or as one contemporary critic said of the group’s inclusive goals, it wanted “to preserve what is left of the past in the most indiscriminate way; whether good or bad, old

or new, preserve it all.” | Americans followed these European debates. “All over the country,” says Gwendolyn Wright, “people of every class, from the mechanic to the dowa-

ger, had become familiar with the aesthetic and social theories of John Ruskin.” His ideas informed building for permanence in the newly made city, such as the monumental buildings of the Back Bay. But Americans only slowly came to see Ruskin’s prescriptions for antiquities as having anything

to do with their own environment. European ideas formed an intellectual background, but only a distant one, as Americans recognized their historic

landmarks and worked out what to do with them.” | Before the Civil War, Americans began to develop their own sense of local

antiquity. Publishers offered more urban guidebooks as cities grew larger and as railroad extensions made it easier for strangers to visit them; most of these books included antiquarian notes among their descriptions. In 1851 two Boston guides appeared devoted to the city’s old landmarks: Nathaniel Dearborn’s Reminiscences of Boston and J. Smith Homans’ Sketches of Boston,

Past and Present. Three years later Samuel G. Drake published his History and Antiquities of Boston, the first in a popular series. Donald J. Olsen finds in London during the same years a similar growth in popular antiquarianism, which showed “a widespread eagerness to see behind the commonplace present to a romantic past.”» Bostonians’ antiquarian awareness included the homes of heroes, such as _

88

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ert RipeSea renee oteNR nite a er reD er RS =~—he Nee Gennes SO BE ee 22 eee Remon SE Re SONS — —r”s—“i—tirs—s—s—sSCS : separa = ——OOerti—_O_O__CisaSs SEA ee i ii-©6=— oe i -_s, ———r—i‘“‘OOO——S——L_is__[_/' SMO OS eT PSNR ESAS ayBueno SN ——,,—e siesta Rcrcmnonenan aaa Ss ot heis iaerenenne cheat —rr—e—seFSsé? At noon on Wednesday, June 14, Bostonians crammed the building for a mass meeting at which Wendell Phillips, according to one of his listeners, “spoke as if pleading for the life of one condemned unjustly.”** Now the issues were secular. Phillips invoked the national centennial and challenged the idea of monuments that had prevailed among Bostonians for generations: “The saving of this landmark is the best monument you can erect to the men of the Revolution. You spend $40,000 here, and $20,000 there, to put up a statue of some old hero. . . . But what is a statue of Cicero compared to standing where your voice echoes from pillar and wall that actually heard his philippics? . . . Shall we tear in pieces the roof that actually trembled to the words which made us a nation?”» The meeting appointed a committee, chaired by Governor Alexander Rice, to appeal for funds and negotiate the building’s preservation. The committee obtained a month’s extension on the structure's stay of execution and asked the Old South's standing committee for a lease on the underlying land and an agreement to sell it for a value to be fixed by appraisal, as in the offer to the historical society. The church's officers responded on the day before demolition was to resume. They withdrew the historical society offer; the price of the land was $420,000, to be paid in cash in two months. They expressed skepticism that the preservation committee would raise it and required that the committee agree in writing “that if at the expiration of the time above fixed .. . you are unable to purchase the property on the terms proposed, you will not ask us for any further extension of time.”** They pointed out that they had generously refrained from asking any rent for the building in the interim. “The society,” wrote the Commonwealth, “does not mean that two edifices bearing the name of ‘Old South’ shall stand at the same time in the city of Boston—one to be a continual reminder of the unpatriotic course of the controllers of the other!”*” Clearly the Old South Society was unwill100

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Pr . thetonschange and Parks Acts, this errva ,' when U arrier a 0 on "e : Brecontroversy proce’ astatewide b into ? , again transforming a B |pre y ~ on a wide priprotecti Vv e tons | ective measu ostonians clearly wground | 1 se . |B ns cle _the burial ev - DUrla. Sas permanent fiof th ner : eatures ;esting y. What was to be permanent a monumen figure . might :in beWw >there, creasingly but |it n to-,calsn e‘ol Oa O

when 4 | lie lk . rst time to ground g urin it deb 7 |

eenery in the city. “The dat Ww | an in 1879 _ hen

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Parks and the Permanent Landscape not disturb its visual qualities. “Very few persons” cared about the graves, he said, but his plan contemplated “leaving of course the front of the enclosure as it is at present,” and he showed that it could be accomplished “without destroying any trees.”*’ There was no controversy when the subway in 1895 relocated graves from the Central Burying Ground under the Common, not because the remains there were less aristocratic than those in King’s Chapel or the Granary—the plebeian South Burying Ground was successfully defended from further disruption starting in the 1880s—but because the disruption was subterranean; with or without graves, it would remain open space.

Wilderness and Scenic Preservation Some of the same eastern urbanites who fought to protect open spaces in cities also worked for the permanence of wilderness and scenic areas elsewhere in the country. Learning from the mistakes that required expensive re-creation of nature in urban parks, they urged saving natural wonders before they were violated. The movement began with Yosemite and Yellowstone, extraordinary places in the West, but it came back east to the Adiron-

dacks and Niagara Falls in New York, and then to urban regions, starting around Boston. No wild landscape anywhere in the world was set aside as a park before Yosemite. The federal government in 1864 ceded the land to California to create the first state park. Frederick Law Olmsted, then living near Yosemite

managing a mining company, was appointed president of the state park commission and wrote a plan articulating for the first time the idea of wilder-

ness reservations. Unique natural landscapes, Olmsted thought, rightfully

| belong to all the people and must be held in trust for future generations. The first priority in managing the park, therefore, was “preservation and maintenance as exactly as is possible of the natural scenery.” ** This philosophy soon produced the unprecedented innovation of national parks, but not through Olmsted’s report, because California declined to publish it. The idea continued to arise, as Olmsted put it, through “the workings of the national genius”;» it arose around a campfire in the Yellowstone Valley in the Wyoming Territory in 1870. An official exploration party, awestruck at the landscape, resolved when they reported to Congress to urge setting it aside for posterity. Yellowstone lay in no state, so Congress in 1872 made it the world’s first national park. Secretary of the Interior Lucius Q, C. Lamar a few years later called it one place that “shall stand while the rest of the world moves.” °°

Back in New York and working on parks in Buffalo, Olmsted by 1869 was 129

BOsTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

thinking about protecting nearby Niagara Falls from inappropriate develop-

ment. He outlined an international park around the falls, but the idea lay dormant for a decade. In 1879 he began working on the problem with the governments of New York State and the province of Ontario. Any Niagara park would have to be created not by reserving public lands but by taking private property, some of it developed and expensive, and some of its owners

hostile to the plan. Olmsted worked with Charles Eliot Norton orchestrating a national campaign that brought about establishment of the Niagara Falls state reservation on the New York side in 1885.7’ The same year, the New York legislature also set aside the Adirondack Forest Preserve, the other great eastern reservation of natural scenery. W. H. H. Murray, pastor of Boston’s Park Street Church and defender of the Old South, had publicized the Adirondack landscape in his Adventures in the Wilderness: or, Camp-Life in the Adirondacks, published in 1869. Once people valued

the mountains’ wildness, they sought to protect it. Indiscriminate logging threatened not only scenery but also watersheds and future timber supplies. Modern forestry was emerging at this time as both a science and a conservation movement. Olmsted helped Charles S. Sargent begin publishing Garden and Forest, a national forum for the new fields of forestry and landscape architecture. Olmsted and Sargent joined in the cause of preserving the Adirondacks. They sought to protect the forest not as a wilderness shrine but as a resource to be used, an economic resource as well as a visual and hydrological one. These early conservationists sought what would today be called sustainability: the Adirondacks were to be not a park but a “preserve” where logging would be managed responsibly, so that it could continue permanently and could be compatible with visual and recreational values. Much of the Adirondacks already belonged to New York State, so the preserve began like Yosemite and Yellowstone as a reservation from public property, a change not in ownership but in mission. Logging abuses and timber theft broke down that multiple-use mission, and the legislature in 1892 converted the reserve to a park. In 1894 the state constitutional convention unanimously adopted, and the voters approved, an amendment guaranteeing that __ the park “shall be forever kept as wild forest lands.” **

Back near Boston, continuing suburban growth threatened landscapes, and spurred preservation efforts, at ever-larger scales. The early push for metropolitan parks around Boston was satisfied for a time by annexations that brought some of the suburban landscape under municipal control. But as the metropolis grew and the likelihood of annexation receded, some of the same Massachusetts residents who worked for the permanence of landscapes around the country returned the parks movement to its original regional scope. 130

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:WeUeE a Oe ee aea oe efee Lv OD yiBae, OS esee ee eo oe Ce OE, Pag .ee SsRE8OU SeiLe # oe fa ry ‘i,ei i Se eee ee ee Og eees a -.,—rC SSC Coe eth vy ee oN Si aaea *= he eteas RE OS Ble fePr ee eeNN SBS es(ee Se TPfee ae Ae eeNa re a a ee ge 8 eeeeeesVN. ORS eeOW ee LORS hy aSe 4 ee geoeaea?yeog As Commissioner William Endicott Jr. asked, “Will a proper appreciation of Mr. Bulfinch require that the — building should be carried forward in pine wood and lathe [sic] and plaster

finish until it shall burn down? Is it not a truer loyalty to put the idea of Mr. Bulfinch into enduring materials and pass it down the centuries?”*° At a hearing before the legislature’s statehouse committee, Endicott explained that the commissioners’ plan would “preserve the structure in new material.” “To this Mr. Fay remarked, ‘I fail to see how you can preserve the building by substituting a new structure.’ ‘We desire to preserve the idea,’ answered

Mr. Endicott.” 7’ ,

Did Charles Bulfinch produce an “idea” or a particular tangible object? Was his statehouse a sort of Platonic ideal, a soul that might be reincarnated in a new body? A puzzled Commissioner Endicott attempted his own analysis of these questions. “The devotion of the architects to Mr. Bulfinch,” he

wrote, “simmered down, seems to be one of two considerations: it must be | either the dimensions and form of the wall or the bricks themselves.” He _ thought he had a solution: he wondered if architects would favor “a new structure, as proposed by the commissioners, of the same outlines and dimensions as the present one, provided the bricks of the present building

shall all be used in interior brickwork of the new. It would seem that this should satisfy them in both respects.” It did not satisfy them, but Endicott had hit upon a fundamental dichotomy between a visual concern for preserving “form” and an archaeological or art-historical interest in preserving “the bricks themselves.” Representative John E. Tuttle, a Boston real estate

144 |

From Monuments to Landmarks broker who had worked to protect the Common, saw only a visual issue and thus favored the commissioners’ plan: “I consider it a great tribute to the Bulfinch style of architecture that we should attempt at this day, a hundred years later, to... reproduce it.” Testifying before Tuttle, Francis A. Walker, president of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, argued the opposite view in terms directed at Endicott, a trustee (and soon president) of the Museum of Fine Arts. “Anybody can make a copy,” said Walker, but “it takes a master to make an original.” *® This new awareness of the city as a visual experience also led to the project of honoring the statehouse by clearing two blocks east of it to extend its park

setting. Far from enhancing the building, however, the demolitions carried out in 1894 gave new impetus to the idea of replacing it. “When the buildings on the east side were cleared away,” reported the American Architect, and people had a chance to see the east front, it was at once plain that things had, behind the high fence, arrived at a very dubious stage. Taken as it stands, the east front seems to suggest nothing so much as that it was the designer’s original intention to do away absolutely with the old building and to repeat at the south end the treatment employed at the north. Doubtless this may not have been the architect's real intention, for it could hardly have been known at the time the design was prepared that a park was to be made on the east side which would expose that part, instead of leaving it to the seclusion of a narrow street.”°

The painstakingly created views revealed “a building five hundred feet long with a dome at one end”; “a tender too large for the woodburning locomotive that was trying to pull it up hill’; an enormous tail for a “little dog.” *° The construction commissioners saw the problem and decided to get a bigger dog. The commissioners’ 1893 report had recommended that “the front should be rebuilt, preserving its present proportions,” but after the unfortunate proportions of the whole became apparent, they asked the next legislature to authorize a reproduction “with the proper increase of width and height.”*? “Bulfinch originally intended a wider front,” Long claimed, “and there is some reason to believe that he contemplated with it a higher dome accompanied by a colonnade.” The commissioners, he said, had no intention “of recommending any other change than the conservative one above suggested.” »” Although the legislature’s statehouse committee approved this plan, five of its eleven members dissented, including its chair. Their minority report admitted that the existing building needed work. But, they said, “the way to preserve the State House is to preserve it.” Only this promise had allowed the project to go ahead. “The annex was built to preserve the State House and to harmonize with it. We are told, now, that the State House must be 145

BOsTON’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

destroyed and rebuilt so that it may harmonize with the annex.” The commissioners proposed “to preserve the ‘idea’ of the State House by destroying the State House itself.” The minority offered instead a bill providing for “so thorough a repairing and fireproofing of the present structure that the question of its preservation will be permanently solved.” “The State House can thus be put into a condition almost unexampled among historic buildings for safety and solidity and we desire to repeat that this is the only kind of preservation that is worthy of the name. Reproduction of colonial architecture never can retain the quaintness and beauty of the original. If the State House is once destroyed it is destroyed forever, and putting up a new building of stone and iron does not put it back again.” Finally, the minority disagreed that building a new front would improve _ the appearance of the complex as a whole, and they argued that even on these grounds preserving the original was preferable, since “it willservetoemphasize the fact that the State House and annex are in reality two buildings, the former having been specially preserved for the people, and the union of the two will not be subject to the strict criticism to which one modern building would be exposed.”>* This discussion of the proper relationship between ~ new and old building fabric showed the sophistication of public discourse resulting from Boston's two decades of successful preservation efforts. If the statehouse was to be preserved, the scale of the project would raise daunting details of restoration, and public debate extended even to these details. As Alden Sampson said of the Bulfinch building, “Its very faults are not without interest.” For example, the facade’s columns, modeled on ancient Greek construction of stone, had been executed instead in wood, each one turned from a single tree trunk. Would not Bulfinch's intentions be best respected by making them of stone, as he presumably would have done had it been available? So argued architect and preservation advocate William G. _ Preston, echoing Viollet-le-Duc’s philosophy of restoration to “a condition of completeness which could never have existed at any given time.” Counterarguments followed the Ruskinian “anti-scrape” philosophy that favored not restoration but preservation as found. Even if Bulfinch would have preferred stone, which preservationists were by no means willing to concede, “he got the value out of wood,” said H. C. Wheelwright. “The things that he did have a value that nothing we do in the more complicated days of the present

can equal.” *»

The Bulfinch statehouse preservation campaign also brought an expansion of what, for Massachusetts, would be considered “historic.” The term had previously applied almost exclusively to the state’s heroic period, the Revolution. “There is nothing particularly historic about our present State House,” editorialized the Herald. “Most of the great events in our local his-

, 146

From Monuments to Landmarks

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tory took place before it was built.”°° Now history leaped forward, as the building's defenders found its significance in the comparatively recent Civil War and the administration of “the great war Governor,” John A. Andrew.” “We cannot know how precious everything connected with that War” will be, said Edward Robinson, secretary of the Boston Art Commission, “two hundred years from now.” Civil War veterans for years had claimed the mantle of history with monuments and reunions at their battle sites, and now the time horizon of historical significance encompassed living memory on the home front, too. Some preservationists even tried to transcend heroic and martial sensibilities with a more continuous view of history. The Old State House had seen only fifty years in the life of the colony, pointed out Henry Lee, but this one “witnessed the first hundred years of the history of the State. It is all the history there is.” 38 Finally, this building raised in yet another way the question of use. As at the Old State House, there were plenty of potential uses, but what was the purpose of preserving it, and what use would accomplish it? Former governor John D. Long, chairman of the construction commission, could accept preservation itself as a legitimate use for a building; he had been one of the

incorporators of the Old South Association in 1877 and was instrumental 147

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From Monuments to Landmarks in guiding that controversial incorporation through the legislature. He remained one of the association's directors even as he was trying to tear down the Bulfinch statehouse.*”? The Old South was a monument, and nothing else; for Long this took it out of any utilitarian calculus. He had difficulty seeing the statehouse in the same way, as when Fay, for the Boston Society of Archi-

tects, pictured it becoming “not an office or administration building full of busy offices, but rather a show building, an historical relic, ... not... to be used as a beehive of industry, but as an impressive entrance to a building that may be put up behind it or on each side.” “The whole nutshell lies just here,” replied Long. “We had supposed that the scope of our duty was to regard this as a building, the main purpose of which was utility as a State House.” If that was the purpose, he said, “it is a great deal better to tear it down.” *° Each year the statehouse committee agreed with Long, and each year the full legislature granted the building a reprieve. By 1896, with the annex awaiting connection and the old building more or less damaged by the work behind it, some action was becoming imperative. After a series of public hearings dominated by preservationists, the statehouse committee nonetheless voted again 6 to 5 in favor of demolition and reconstruction, bringing this story to its crisis. Preservationists and architects made the “Bulfinch front” a nationwide cause and a statewide political fight. State representative Alfred Seelye Roe of Worcester addressed mass meetings at Faneuil Hall and the Old South meetinghouse, establishing a rhetorical equivalence among the three monuments. The building’s opponents in the legislature complained, to Roe’s evident glee, about organized campaigns by which their constituents bombarded them with letters and petitions.” The campaign extended beyond Massachusetts’ borders to include agitation around the country, especially in Chicago. Chicagoans proposed buying the building and reerecting it in Illinois. Their earlier threats to move the Old State House there had seemed mere braggadocio but looked more serious now because in the meantime, Chicagoans had scoured the country for historic buildings they could bring to the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, including an unsuccessful attempt to snatch Hawthorne's birthplace from nearby Salem. Their efforts stimulated preservation in the East in the same way that American raids on European historical patrimony catalyzed preservation there.*” Preservationists won in the full legislature in the last days of the session, when it approved a bill submitted by Roe, providing for preservation of the statehouse and ensuring the necessary sensitivity to artifact by taking the FIGURE 6.6 The Bulfinch front and the completed statehouse annex after demolition of structures to the east, 1903. Courtesy Bostonian Society, Old State House 149

BostTon’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

restoration out of the commissioners’ hands. It would be supervised instead by Governor Roger Wolcott, together with the president of the Senate and the speaker of the House, “friends” of the Bulfinch building, said Roe, and

calculated to outrank the eminent commissioners. These three consolidated the victory by selecting as architects Charles A. Cummings, Robert D. Andrews, and Arthur G. Everett, each of whom had been active in the pres-

ervation campaign. Work was finished in time for the centennial of the building's original opening, “fresh from the hand of the rehabilitator, old yet new,” said Roe at its rededication. “The results surround us. Esto perpetua.” **

Brimstone Corner The Bulfinch statehouse brought together two strains of preservation: one venerated historical significance and had saved the Old South and the Old State House; the other valued broader visual, functional, and sentimental significance and had prevented encroachments on burial grounds and the Common. At the statehouse, preservation was more about architecture than history, and it was about architecture evaluated not so much in an academic framework as for its contribution to the cityscape. Across the short side of the Common, next to the Granary burial ground, was Park Street Church, subject of a controversy that flared and then fizzled during two years beginning late in 1902, following close upon the Bulfinch statehouse campaign and further extending the directions it set. Preservationists who focused on Bulfinch’s architecture were confident that the statehouse was also of the greatest historical and symbolic significance, a monument in every sense of the word. The Park Street structure, on the other hand, was still more recent and of what even its defenders admitted was limited historical value, but it was a familiar and beautiful building at the most prominent corner in the city.? It was a landmark, not a monument. Park Street Church produced the best articulation yet of an aesthetic basis for preservation, and of a philosophical kinship between preservation and the parks movement. _ The Park Street Church debate was prefigured in different ways by two episodes, each of which was resolved before it could become a real controversy. The first had happened twenty years earlier, when Back Bay residents in 1881 campaigned to preserve the new Brattle Square Church on Commonwealth Avenue, or at least its spire, as the defunct congregation's assets were liquidated. When an auction of the property was announced, J. Montgomery Sears led other Back Bay residents in organizing to save the H. H. Richardson building, then just nine years old. They did not want to see, in the Evening Transcript’s words, “our most magnificent avenue . . . bereft of its most conspicuous ornament.” The appeal quickly brought pledges of $30,000, but the 150

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organizers expected the building to sell for $150,000, and so they abandoned

the effort. Sears attended the auction out of curiosity, and when bidding ran to only half the anticipated sum, he stepped in and bought the property himself for $81,000, with “a vague idea of utilizing it as a public hall or music hall, or in some other way preserving it.” *° He offered it at cost to any religious body, or at a slight advance to anyone else who would preserve at least the tower. Lest potential allies think this his own private philanthropy, he threatened five weeks after he bought it to demolish the whole thing if a purchaser did not come forward within two months, and two months after this deadline passed he advertised for removal of the building as salvage. George B. Chase, a member of the Old South Preservation Committee, organized a campaign to save the tower alone. He had obtained pledges for most

of the money, and assurances that the city would fit up and maintain the steeple as a clock tower, when the First Baptist Church bought the building and thus ended the question.*’ This six months of sporadic effort was significant for what it reveals about contemporary attitudes toward preservation.

Some of the Brattle Church neighbors drew from the Old South and Old State House campaigns the same lesson they took from their successful Back

Bay deed restrictions: that they need not accept change in any part of the environment they valued, whether or not it had already achieved the semblance of permanence through longevity. The Brattle Church tower took its value not from history but from its place in a larger scheme of urban design. The second episode involved St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, and it started immediately before the Park Street Church controversy and in just the same 151

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES” . |

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Institutionalized Preservation older cousin and good friend Alice Longfellow (the poet’s daughter) served the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association as vice regent for Massachusetts. One of his uncles nearly bought the Hancock House, and did in fact salvage its staircase for his country house. Appleton must have been conscious even as a child of the building’s site down the street from 39 Beacon.” Appleton studied at Harvard with Charles Eliot Norton, the Ruskin disciple who had recently written his article bemoaning the lack of old houses in America. After he graduated, he set up in business as a real estate broker for three years until this career was cut short by what he described as a “nervous breakdown.”** Appleton’s father died in 1903, leaving his inheritance in a trust that would provide a comfortable income for life without allowing him to touch the principal. Appleton tried managing the family farm. He toyed with becoming a mining engineer in the West. He lived at his club and catalogued his father’s coin collection.

Appleton came to the Revere House effort through the Massachusetts Sons of the Revolution. His considerable work for the Memorial Association —as its secretary, he took on most of its organizational chores, and one newspaper credited him as the “architect” of the campaign *° —seems to have been motivated by the house’s patriotic associations. He bought a camera and began touring and photographing the towns of eastern Massachusetts, paying special attention to their oldest structures. He became active in the Bostonian Society. When the transit commissioners in 1905 proposed expanding the subway station in the Old State House, the society’s directors at first acquiesced; it was Appleton who organized protests from around the state, proposed alternative solutions, and led a committee that lobbied the governor and the mayor until they relented. On a tour of Europe in 1909, he took note of preservation and restoration efforts. When Appleton returned, he pursued this interest by attempting, as state vice president of the Sons of the Revolution, to intercede in the impending alteration of Lexington’s Jonathan Harrington House, the owner of which

found it ill suited for modern living. Harrington, shot in the battle on April 19, 1775, made it back across the Common to die at his wife's feet on his own doorstep. “This story had always made a strong appeal to me,” Appleton recalled later, “and it seemed as though a house having such associations should be safeguarded against all alterations.” While Appleton’s interest, like earlier preservation efforts, stemmed from patriotic associations, the threat that motivated him here as at the Old State House was an architectural one—not demolition but renovation. He was frustrated to find himself powerless to protect the house in any way. “From that moment on my life’s work seemed to be cut out for me.” * He was “ripe” for such a discovery, says a recent biographer: “Sumner Appleton was thirty-six years old, 221

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

midway in life. He had felt like a failure. He had no occupation, no wife, ~ no child. What he did have was a trust fund which freed his energies. He © had some real estate experience, a little formal coursework in architecture,

in public speaking, in publication. He had been in society on the hill which , spread out to include Harvard—his acquaintance stretched through a vast and well-placed family into an erudite, if occasionally precious, world.” » _ Appleton putall this background to work as he set out on his new mission. He prepared a charter for a “Society for the Preservation of New England

Antiquities” (SPNEA) and “fixed it up” with connections in the legislature to exempt from taxes the society's as-yet-hypothetical properties.* He enlisted Charles Knowles Bolton, the Athenaeum’ librarian, as president and chose for himself the position of “corresponding secretary.” He rounded up a board of directors chosen, according to Charles Hosmer, “more for the connections of its members than for their antiquarian knowledge,” and in April 1910 they | held the new society's first meeting.’* In May, Appleton publicly launched the group’s membership-building phase by publishing the first issue of its

— Bulletin. | |

, The first Bulletin was a manifesto, a well-thought-out preservation program of unprecedented ambition. Its cover featured a photograph of the John Hancock House. “Built 1737 by Thomas Hancock. Destroyed 1863,”

said the terse caption. “The fate of this house has become a classic in the annals of vandalism.” The next two pages presented more encouraging illustrations: four houses preserved in towns around Boston, including the Whipple House in Ipswich. “Our New England antiquities are fast disappearing,” began the text, “because no society has made their preservation its exclusive object. That is the reason for the formation of this Society.” Appleton reflected on ad hoc efforts such as his own Paul Revere House campaign. “This is splendid as far as it goes, but since the mechanism is elaborate it is seldom used, and it is wasteful because without much more elaboration it

can be used to cover the whole field.” ” |

The whole field, to Appleton, meant all six New England states. Nowhere in the United States had preservationists attempted such a regional orga- _

nization. The closest prototype was the Association for the Preservation of __ Virginia Antiquities, which Appleton had joined in 1907 and on which he

modeled the society’s name, but he was not interested in copying APVAs _ decentralized structure of local chapters. Even more than the Bostonian ~ Society, the APVA valued commemoration over preservation. For the 1907 Jamestown Tercentenary it approved a fanciful reconstruction of the settle“Appleton himself admitted that he had coined an unfortunate mouthful, and his succes-

sors are not offended if it is pronounced “spih-NEE-uh.” | 222

| BULLETIN OF

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THE SOCIETY PRESERVATIONOF OF : [HE SOCIETY FOR FOR THETHE PRESERVATION NEW ENGLAND ANTIQUITIES

VOLUME I BOSTON, MAY, 1910 NUMBER 4

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Me sas ER Pee rs RNa cee nr neue eer ETE i THE HOME OF JOHN HANCOCK, BEACON STREET, BOSTON

Bull i737 by Thomas Hancock, Destroyed 1863, ‘Tite fate of this heise

nas become a classic In the annals of vandalism. Governor Hancock is |

sak to have intended to bequeath his home to the Commonwealth, but | he died without giving effect to this intention by will, in 1859 4 strong effort was made to have the Commonwealth purchase the house at a low :

| valiiation. This effort failed, and later the heirs offered the houge with Some of its contents to the city as a free gift, ihe house to be moved to

; another site, This plat also failed, and i 1863 the house was destroved. | |

FIGURE 9.4 Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities Bulletin cover, vol. 1, no. 1. Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities

Boston’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES” : } ment’s church, built of bricks taken from two genuine colonial buildings that were demolished expressly for the purpose."® The Trustees of Reservations , and the American Scenic and Historic Preservation Society were geographi-

cally ambitious, but both put their energies into landscapes, which didnot concern Appleton. Charles Eliot had conceived the Trustees of Reservations

as a model for public action, and after the metropolitan parks were begun and Eliot died, the trustees slipped into decades of dormancy without saving

any buildings. American Scenic among its many efforts did save buildings in New York State, but it acted mainly through the slow and uncertain process of lobbying the legislature.!? What Appleton had in mind was. a sort of | institutional deus ex machina: “The situation requires aggressive action by a large and strong society, which shall cover the whole field and act instantly

wherever needed to lead in the preservation of noteworthy buildings and historic sites. That is exactly what this Society has been formed todo.”

-_He went on to enumerate the sorts of “noteworthy buildings and historic sites” he had in mind: “blockhouses and garrison houses, of which but few are left; the oldest settlers’ houses”; “Georgian” houses and “town houses”; —

battlefields and taverns. “We may also include Indian names, old trails, roadside watering places and other objects of note.” Conspicuously absent from the list were public buildings of any sort, even churches. Nowhere did Appleton mention Faneuil Hall, either statehouse, or the Old South, which - Eliot had invoked as an inspiration for the Trustees of Reservations. The only Boston antiquities he discussed were the Hancock and Revere Houses

and the Old Feather Store, three buildings of domestic scale. The society’s — program embraced only such modest structures. “It is proposed to preserve the most interesting of these buildings by obtaining control of them through

gift, purchase, or otherwise, and then to restore them, and finally to let them

to tenants under wise restrictions.” ** , At the end of a year the society had more than three hundred members in

twenty states, with local officers in all six New England states and a treasury | of more than $3,000—but as yet no antiquities. Three months later SPNEA ‘bought the 1670 Ilsley House in Newbury, Massachusetts, which “put the Society immediately in the long hoped for position of having actually done.

something,” a position that Appleton knew was necessary for sustaining. interest and continuing to build membership. By the end of the society's second year, it owned two houses and was undertaking a fund drive through

which it would soon buy a third.” , | | :

_ SPNEA had already established the patterns of operation it would follow, oe with only tactical adjustments, for decades to come. Appleton discussed them in his second annual report as he reviewed the year’s ten “completed _ transactions.” In addition to the two houses purchased—one as a rental in-

224

Institutionalized Preservation

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vestment and the other subject to a life occupancy which substantially reduced its price —he listed one house promised to the society as a gift, two for

which other groups were found as agents of preservation, three that made their way into sympathetic private ownership, and one that was dismantled for later reerection. In only one case had the society’s efforts utterly failed. “What it seems to show is this: the mere existence of this Society is a safeguard for all our finest old houses. When one such is in danger of destruction the possibility of our intervening seems to occur more and more frequently to those whom ties of residence or family bind to the old building.” »

The society would never be able to acquire all the properties that came to its attention each year, and Appleton tried to maximize its effectiveness by husbanding resources of both money and energy. He sought local groups to undertake preservation campaigns, organizing new ones where necessary, in order to leave SPNEA as a purchaser of last resort. Even then, the society used its funds only as a catalyst for raising money from townspeople or descendants of a building’s occupants. It would soon begin making small grants-in-aid to other groups’ preservation efforts and increasingly assisted them not with money but by lending SPNEAs regional fundraising abilities. SPNEAs third acquisition was the 1657 Cooper-Austin House in Cambridge, but otherwise the society was not especially active in Boston’s immediate area for several years. For both the Shirley-Eustis Mansion in Rox-

bury and the Cary House in Chelsea, it spawned separate societies that undertook fundraising on their own. Appleton’s main Boston venture was his search for a headquarters; the society was housed first in a shared rented 225

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

office and then in two rooms of the New England Historic Genealogical Society. In 1913 he tried to find a donor to present SPNEA with the ParkerInches-Emery House at 40 Beacon Street, the twin of his boyhood home. The house instead became the headquarters of the Women’s City Club; Appleton grudgingly approved and continued his search for “a suitable building somewhere on Beacon Hill.”** In 1916 he found it, just off the hill on Cambridge Street, where the society with the assistance of fifteen wealthy donors bought Bulfinch's first Harrison Gray Otis House of 1795. With this single purchase half the organization's assets were suddenly in Boston real estate.

The Otis House was SPNEAs fifth acquisition. Ten years after it was founded, and despite the war and recession, the society owned seven properties in three states, and when Appleton died in 1947 it owned fifty-one.?>

| Theory William Sumner Appleton saved a lot of buildings—probably more than anyone else in the country before John D. Rockefeller Jr. in the late 1920s set out to restore Virginia’s colonial capital of Williamsburg—and in the process reshaped both the practice and the theory of preservation. Appleton developed methods that became a model for much of what preservationists did during the next fifty years (about which more below). Even more fundamental, however, was his contribution to the philosophy of preservation. Appleton made systematic an activity that had been entirely ad hoc, and his system helped steer the movement in a new direction. __ Preservation is inherently reactive. It seeks to protect buildings and sites from a variety of human and natural threats, and so its tactics must respond to the nature and timing of those threats. Throughout the nineteenth century not only the tactics but the objects of preservation were decided by reaction, whether to a threat, as at the Old South, or an opportunity, as in Reynolds's purchase of the Paul Revere House. The objects fit for preservation were simply those buildings or places that aroused movements in their defense. The list was compiled empirically: Park Street Church was worth fighting for; but if St. Paul’s congregation had decided to sell, would Bosto- — nians have fought for that one instead? Would they have fought for both?

SPNEA like earlier ad hoc efforts necessarily responded to immediate threats, but from the beginning it did so within an intellectual framework postulating a comprehensive and consistent standard of value. Appleton meant to substitute system for sentiment. Architect Thomas A. Fox offered _ an early glimpse of this idea at the 1896 Bulfinch statehouse hearings: “I do not think that the laity in the United States quite understand what constitutes a historical monument. The phrase ‘historical monument’ means a 226

Institutionalized Preservation building which is a creditable piece of architecture, which represents [a] certain period of architecture, and which has been made valuable by historical associations.” *° Appleton’s system was more flexible; a building might be

worthy of preservation for history, architecture, or even age alone. Appleton viewed the built environment as an expression of material culture and assigned value mainly according to an art-historical or archaeological approach. He saw buildings not as unique landmarks but as exemplars of types. Each could be ranked relative to others of the same kind according to its ad- __ herence to type, or the significance of its departures, and the result further calibrated according to the importance of the type itself and the rarity of surviving examples.?’ He valued buildings that could be read as “documents,” displaying either a cross-section of material culture at a particular time or a longitudinal view of its evolution through time. He did not ignore historical significance—the loci of events unrelated to the evolution of material culture —but in his descriptions of buildings these associational values usually supplemented their inherent value as artifacts. A systematic approach to value in the environment meant that objects worthy of preservation could be identified before they were threatened. Appleton’s first Bulletin began such a process with its list of building types. He soon referred to at least a hypothetical list of particular buildings: “There are in New England several score of houses of supreme interest historically, architecturally, or both, the future of which is wholly problematic.” These systematic priorities were meant to govern preservation activity; he closed an article on one building saved in Salem with a list of other candidates that he called “the minimum at which Salem should aim.” SPNEAs first purchase,

ironically, would not have been on Appleton’s inventory if he had actually compiled one. He had inspected the house and reported that it “lacked sufficient historic association and architectural merit to justify the Trustees in making a purchase,” but an offer of substantial financial assistance, together with the trustees’ impatience to “make a beginning with some house” led the ever-pragmatic Appleton to relax his standards.” Even such compromises he soon reduced to a system: “It must be our policy to pick out the very best houses of each type as the ones for the preservation of which we are to work. Various factors will appear to modify this rule slightly. The very best may be in no danger today, whereas the second best may be doomed unless instantly protected; or perhaps the third best may be offered on such exceptionally good terms as to make it wise to postpone the others for the moment. Such circumstances will not alter the rule; they will be merely the exceptions to prove it.” He was often delivering the bittersweet verdict that “these are so good that they warrant local effort to save them, but they are not of sufficient importance to interest our Society.” 227

Boston’s “CHANGEFUL TIMES” | Preservationists before then had not addressed the abstract question of defining everything in the environment worth saving. Extrapolating from the variety of their efforts—for the Park Street Church and Brattle Church tower, the trees and malls of the Common, the Athenaeum and all the graveyards—

by implication they would have selected much more of it than Appleton, and done so without such internal consistency. This variegated list would have included more failures than Appleton was willing to accept. He rejected

such an ad hoc approach because it was “wasteful,” not only of organizational effort but of buildings themselves; the movement's fragmented efforts saved too little of what was most worthwhile. He was impatient with local historical societies, spending their efforts on whichever house happened to be threatened at the moment and then, overwhelmed, neglecting more valu-

able structures.*°

The logical extension of systematic preservation was an actual inventory of worthwhile buildings. Architectural historians within the national American Institute of Architects during the teens and twenties pushed for such inventories, preferably in conjunction with a program of graphic recording. In 1914, SPNEA began cooperating with the Boston Society of Architects in listing houses to be measured and drawn by volunteers. Appleton was ambivalent, however, about making public the inventory he carried in his head, since he conceived it mainly as a list of potential acquisitions and found that divulging his priorities could make negotiations difficult. When the national inventory was finally begun in the 1930s as the Historic American Buildings Survey, Appleton was able, quickly though reluctantly, to provide lists

of eligible structures throughout New England! ; | Appleton’s systematic standards steered preservation effort away from

some directions but significantly broadened it in others. Turning from heroic and patriotic traditions to the study of material culture embraced a more inclusive view of history. While Appleton’s aristocratic background sometimes made him an elitist in dealings with his contemporaries, he was staunchly

egalitarian. toward generations that were safely dead. Raising funds for a , seventeenth-century house in Saugus he believed had housed some of Cromwell’s Scottish prisoners of war, he urged that “it should become a memorial

to the humble beginnings of many Scotchmen.” Perhaps not surprisingly,

this chord did not prove resonant.” | , Preservationists’ purview was also broadened by the shift from a visual to

an archaeological orientation. This produced strange results in the case of Boston's 1679 Province House, the colonial governors’ residence, gutted in a nineteenth-century fire and its ruins converted into a minstrel hall. Preservationists had long counted the Province House as one of Boston's losses. But Appleton the archaeologist took a new interest in its fragmentary remains. © 228

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Institutionalized Preservation “not very old” and to the 1755 extension of another as “containing absolutely nothing of interest.” But he also helped move forward the chronological threshold of buildings that could be considered eligible for preservation. The society’s second acquisition was a house built in 1809, and he found it “gratifying” when a local historical society for the first time preserved a house in the comparatively recent Greek Revival style. In 1920 he examined an 1854 building near Boston that he thought “would make an ideal period house for the display of mid-Victorian black walnut,” but he regretted that “the present is probably fifty years too early for anything of the kind.” *° System in setting priorities for buildings naturally extended to system in setting value on different parts of each building’s fabric; and it was here that Appleton’s archaeological approach showed most clearly. When he was criticized for restoring to the Otis House a porch that, though accurate, looked too small even to him, he responded, “It would have been very easy to have

designed a larger and more imposing porch which would have given the house more distinction, but, after all, what is the object of a restoration? ... To ignore the evidence and make what may be more beautiful . . . [would be] telling an archaeological falsehood.” *’

Except where recent alterations were entirely inappropriate, he felt that buildings should display the visible record of change over time. He cautioned the Lexington Historical Society against bringing its Buckman Tavern back to a static historical moment: “The 19th of April, 1775 is the tavern’s historic day but a great part of the interior finish is more recent, and the house is emphatically one to be preserved about as found, in order to show the evolution of various periods and styles.” He promoted “the Society's thoroughly conservative rule that what is left today can be changed tomorrow, whereas what is removed today can perhaps never be put back.” In this, SPNEA followed the “anti-scrape” gospel of England’s Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings. “The spirit of the work of the two societies is almost identical,” said Appleton. As James M. Lindgren has shown, SPNEA and its architects did in fact scrape, where aesthetic or ideological preferences favored earlier periods, but Appleton may indeed have been the most conservative restorer

in the United States at the time, and his long and reflective stewardship helped frame these issues for others. His conservatism extended beyond ma-

terials themselves to the information embodied in buildings; to the extent possible, he made his interventions evident and therefore reversible, and he experimented with methods of marking replacement parts, without which restored buildings would lose “any documentary value.” *° Systematic preservation as practiced by SPNEA reversed preservationists’ earlier trend toward increasingly general concern with the city. Such a reversal was inherent in any consistent approach to assigning value in the en231

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

vironment, because it replaced subjective reactions that came from experiencing the city as a topographic whole. But Appleton’s particular approach refocused attention even more sharply. Appleton saw buildings not as parts of the environment but as objects complete in themselves; his view of material culture did not encompass the city as an artifact. When he thought about any scale other than that of buildings, it was usually the smaller scale of furnishings and structural components, not the larger scale of sites and relationships among buildings. Sites were background; he sought additional land around many SPNEA proper-

ties so that each could exist as an island apart from the town around it. Critic Robert Campbell calls Appleton’s approach “the architectural embodiment of an elitist withdrawal from a pluralist city.”°’ The scale of Appleton’s concerns became further evident in his attitudes toward moving buildings. While he urged preservation in situ whenever possible, he did not argue like Joseph Chandler that every old building “is connected with the history of the

neighborhood and should remain where it is,” nor was he concerned with the archaeological value of the site. He simply wanted to avoid the damage done to buildings in transit, especially the destruction of original chimney cores. The seventeenth-century Becket House in Salem, located “near coal wharves and tenement houses,” had already lost its chimney, so he felt that “its removal to a more suitable neighborhood is unquestionably a gain for all concerned.”*° Similarly, he did not see graveyards as parts of the urban landscape, nor did he view them sentimentally: he described ancestral remains as “a thin layer of slime” with “a few metal buttons.” With his concern for material culture, it was the gravestones that were of “permanent value,” which he thought could best be protected by moving them into museums.*!

SPNEAs regionwide scope further undermined any concern with the urban environment. If Appleton had been inclined to preserve larger pieces of the city, this geographical range would have been impossible. Acquiring buildings one by one was relatively simple compared with the expense of acquiring groups of buildings or the complexity of dealing with planning issues. Appleton judged buildings in Boston by the same standards as those in towns throughout New England: intrinsic archaeological interest, inde-

pendent of their contribution to the townscape. _ Only Beacon Hill was an exception, where Appleton’s own subjective attachments were reinforced by finding enough buildings of value to begin viewing them as an ensemble. In his campaign for the Parker-Inches-Emery House, he argued that “the integrity of this house is absolutely essential to the preservation of the stately old-time appearance of Beacon Street as we know it. The best portion of the street is from No. 39 [his boyhood-home] to No. 45.” Even so, he listed the building's interior as the most important rea232

Institutionalized Preservation son for saving it. Also on Beacon Hill, Appleton took uncharacteristic interest in a major public building and made a rare attempt to influence public action in the 1914-17 expansion of the Bulfinch statehouse. The legislature, overruling its architects, specified white marble cladding for the wings, and preservationists worried that this would lead to placing the same material on the Bulfinch front itself. SPNEA withdrew from this fight, and Appleton said that “when a direct attack is made on the old work of Bulfinch there will be ample time to rally to its support”;* Bulfinch’s bricks ended up painted to match the marble. Appleton’s interest was in artifactual integrity, not environmental aesthetics. Appleton’s interests mattered because his comprehensive organization prevented the emergence of competing institutions. The chairman of the American Institute of Architects’ preservation committee, surveying architects’ preservation efforts nationwide in 1915, noted that in New England no AIA chapters had mobilized for preservation. “It is claimed,” he said, “that the necessity is met by the existence of the Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities.” * Unlike the architects, Appleton was willing to give up on most of the city. In a recent study of SPNEA, James M. Lindgren attributes this to his reluctance to offend the business interests he hoped would support the society.** From Appleton’s perspective, with private purchases or gifts as his only tools for preservation, he was simply facing reality. After the Province House was gone he wrote: It may well be asked how the destruction of such a house could be tolerated and why was its preservation not taken in hand and carried through to success... . There is no question but that the saving of what was left would have been undertaken except for the prohibitive cost involved. The house stood on some of the most valuable land in Boston, the entire lot, including much that could have been dispensed with, being assessed for $1,800,000 and worth considerably more. The building was doomed from the moment the contract for the new building was signed.*°

But the Province House stood across the street from the Old South Church, and Appleton could have chosen that instead of the Hancock House as his urban object lesson. His abandonment of antiquities in the city must be seen at least in part as his own choice.

This choice reflects a cultural cleavage in early-twentieth-century America, a potential rift in preservationist ranks, brought about by growing numbers of “medievalists,” who valued the most primitive rather than the most accomplished architecture. They found medieval virtue in the simple structures of the early colonial period; they equated with Renaissance arti233

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

ficiality the later Georgian and Federal classical buildings that most urban preservationists valued. Medievalists were one group of what historian T. J. Jackson Lears calls “antimodernists.” Through the Arts and Crafts Movement, Gothic Revival architecture, and preservation of folk culture and vernacular building, they reversed the earlier dictum and now declared that what was new was corrupt.” Appleton’s sympathies lay with the medievalists. Preservationists of the older urbanist tradition thought the society concentrated too much of its resources on what one called “ ‘those little wooden houses’ in the country.” Even SPNEAs second acquisition, the 1809 Fowler House, shared the severe simplicity of earlier buildings, and Appleton acknowledged opposition from members who were “disappointed that it is not ornate.” Appleton was most interested in structures like Salem’s Old Bakery, which he described as “almost brutal in its simplicity. . .. The whole work is essentially medieval, and the decorative motives are of Gothic extraction.” As he elaborated on the theme in private correspondence regarding another building, “To my mind the 17th century is the more strictly New England type, or I might say Anglo-Saxon type. The other [Georgian] is after all but an importation from the Latin countries, bringing with it the flavor of Greek and Roman civilization, with which our ancestral lines are not particularly connected.” *” The earliest preservationists responded primarily to threats of physical change, but by the early twentieth century, social change seemed more overwhelming. Just as deed restrictions, first developed to shape physical form, were increasingly put to use solidifying social geography, so preservation increasingly became part of a matrix of class and ethnic definition. The audience for patriotic education shifted from “us” to “them.” The first guardians of the Old South and the Old State House expected these monuments to convey shared values to their own progeny. By the early twentieth century the second editor of SPNEAs Bulletin, George F. Dow, would describe one of preservation’s missions as “informing foreigners and less enlightened natives

as to American traditions and values.” The earliest preservation controversies were largely among upper-class Anglo-Saxons. By the twentieth century, conflicts often pitted Brahmins against other groups. As the Irish and newer immigrants became economically and politically ascendant, white AngloSaxon Protestants awakened to a group identity of which they had not been so acutely aware, and they asserted it through the formation of genealogical and patriotic societies. SPNEA was part of this organizational constellation and at one point stretched its definition of antiquities to take up the issue of “persons changing their family names . . . for the purpose of assuming an old New England name of long and good standing.”*® After Brahmins lost power in Boston to an Irish-dominated political machine, they gradu234

Institutionalized Preservation ally disengaged from the political life of the city. Many turned their minds instead to more satisfactory bygone days, and to the still comfortably AngloSaxon countryside, their residences and preservation attention following. Thus while SPNEAs direction came from Appleton, its popularity and success—and the fact that no competing organization emerged to complement its deficiencies—resulted from a constituency concentrating on its own ancestral rather than public past. This new concern with a smaller scale of building changed the nature of preservation conflicts: instead of confronting governments or quasi-public institutions, preservationists found themselves dealing with individual prop-

erty owners; in the oldest, often run-down parts of Boston and smaller towns, those individuals were increasingly likely to be Italians, Jews, Poles, or other eastern Europeans. William Sumner Appleton often faced “the difficulties involved in trying to do business with a foreigner, whom fortune had made for the moment the custodian of a really interesting New England antiquity,” and he was by both background and inclination unprepared for the task. At the Saugus House he told a correspondent, “Our neighbors are callabrian Italians who are not famous for their good behavior.” *” Appleton’s approach to managing properties in ethnic neighborhoods, says Lindgren, “bordered upon a siege mentality,” but he had to deal with real vandalism and saw one seventeenth-century house purchased by a family association only to be destroyed by arson.*° Whatever his attitudes, his actions can be explained by sincere concern for the physical protection of SPNEAs properties. Other preservationists worried about less tangible threats. Mary Desha, one of the founders of the national Daughters of the American Revolution, called upon that organization in 1898 to keep historic buildings from “passing into the hands of improper people.””* The link between preservation and nativism should not be overdrawn. A resurgent xenophobia was part of America’s cultural mainstream at the turn of the century; it did not produce the preservation movement but merely tugged at it with its current. Indeed, when SPNEA is considered in the context of other traditionalist groups, its significance is that it so steadfastly concentrated on buildings and objects, making little concession to patriotic cant. Curtis Guild Jr., lieutenant governor of Massachusetts and president of the Paul Revere Memorial Association, tempered nativist excess by reminding donors that “Paul Revere, like the children who now play around his venerable home, was himself the son of an immigrant.” The house could help teach those children American ways, but it could teach nativists too, “as a reminder to the Commonwealth of the services rendered by new citizens and by their children.” Appleton could work with non-WASP institutions—the First African Methodist Episcopal Church in Boston, the Cercle 235

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES” | Social Franco-American in Rhode Island—when that would help preserve a

building.* | Most important, broadening the preservation movement to include the ordinary life of earlier generations eventually worked against nativism. Even

if it was conceived by some adherents as an affirmation of Anglo-Saxon precedence, it defined a powerfully inclusive subject matter which, as preser-

vationists’ chronological frontier moved forward through the nineteenth century, would embrace the very groups it had earlier excluded and allow later preservationists to take an interest in workaday parts of the environ-

ment their predecessors sought to escape. _ | As the field of preservation grew more active in the teens and twenties, it became ripe for organizing ideas, and Appleton’s had particular force because of his unique national position. Not only did he run the largest, most ambitious, and most rigorous preservation organization of the time, but his Bulletin was the only American periodical devoted exclusively to the subject. An indefatigable correspondent, he advised countless individuals and groups all over the country, making SPNEA a national clearinghouse for preservation information and helping to provide a philosophical frame of reference for activists who were often otherwise isolated from one another. They sought his advice because SPNEA’s methods worked.

Practice | Appleton’s contributions to preservation’s methods, like those to its philosophy, were to make them systematic, effectively professionalizing the field. Appleton himself remained literally an amateur, never drawing a salary, but

this paradoxically contributed to his professionalization. Appleton’s trust fund figured decisively in SPNEAs tactical success, serving as a de facto endowment. It gave him the luxury and the responsibility of planning for the long term, thinking through not only his philosophy of preservation but also how he should go about it, knowing that his full-time status was secure. Systematic priorities brought increased reliance on experts able to evalu-

ate them. SPNEA was aided by, and itself assisted, the emergence of restoration architecture as a distinct profession, following principles that had more to do with archaeology than with design. The society was a continuing source of commissions for established practitioners such as Joseph E. Chandler of Boston and Norman M. Isham of Providence, as well as for newer entrants to the field. Even more important, it served as a sort of

continuing, informal professional seminar. “Practically every architectural | scholar in New England,” says Charles Hosmer, “toured with Appleton at some time.” ** He insisted on a rigorous regimen of investigation and record-

236

Institutionalized Preservation

ing in the restoration process, laying the basis of a cumulative body of professional knowledge. He made SPNEA an essential institution for the profession, acting as depository for a massive archive of the documentation necessary to support comparative study. Appleton also elaborated the preservation movement's techniques of private intervention. He honed adaptive use as a preservation tool, in his program to restore buildings and then “let them to tenants under wise restrictions.” The idea that restored buildings could continue in the life of their community was a powerful one, though Appleton meant it more as an expedient to husband SPNEAs funds not for house museums but for saving more buildings. He was innovative in his means of getting control of properties, seeking gifts and bequests, buying houses subject to life occupancy, and financing restorations in return for reversion of property on the owners’ deaths. He originated the now familiar “revolving fund,” in effect an organized approach to crisis response. The Helen F. Kimball Emergency Fund was established in 1912, $1,500 on hand that could be used quickly without approval by the trustees but had to be paid back in full before the fund could be tapped again. This allowed Appleton to raise money for the particular building he was saving as well as for the fund itself as a tool for meeting the next crisis.**

Appleton’s most significant contribution to preservation technique was to recognize preservation as an ongoing rather than a finite action, an issue not of permanence but of control. A choice of phrase is revealing: when a Federal mansion in Providence was bought by an individual intent on saving it, Appleton wrote, “We may well hope that preservation of this splendid example of New England town architecture may be continued.” Continuing preservation required financial endurance. Appleton noted that “the financial weakness of the holding organization” for the Shirley-Eustis Mansion “had for a long time endangered the permanence” of the preservation effort. The 1773 West Roxbury meetinghouse, “saved” by an ad hoc committee including Edward Everett Hale, was destroyed in 1913 after SPNEA refused to accept it with a mortgage. Appleton was even prepared to decline properties offered to the society unmortgaged but without endowments. “The safety of some houses might be jeopardized by this policy, but the security of the Society as a whole would be much increased.” ” The security of the society was central to Appleton’s vision of preservation. He was deeply skeptical of any scheme other than ownership by some institutional guardian, preferably SPNEA. He was almost insulting in his dismissal of preservation by individuals, no matter who: “The two president's [sic] houses in Quincy, although now occupied respectively by the Quincy Historical Society and the Adams Chapter, D.R., cannot with certainty be 237

BosTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES”

counted among buildings permanently preserved, since they are still in the hands of the Adams family, and the most casual knowledge of the fate of old buildings shows the uncertainty of such private tenure.” It was “essential” that historic buildings “be placed in the hands of permanent corporations.” *° William Sumner Appleton transformed the preservation movement into one that was better organized and more effective but with more restricted aims than before. He institutionalized preservation by creating “an enormous operation,” says Charles Hosmer, “that maintained many important buildings in a form of historical cold storage. The number of houses lost in New England was remarkably small between 1910 and 1947.”°” He honed a single existing tool for preservation: ownership by a private group, usually through purchase. It was the most thorough solution where it could be used, but it could not be used often. Appleton did not see any need to transcend the limitations of this system, and he did not pick up any of the tools for public intervention that others had been forging.

Preservation as Public Policy No government body anywhere in the country took on preservation in any systematic way comparable to SPNEA%s private program. Cities, states, and the federal government preserved some buildings that they already owned. In rare instances they bought buildings or sites specifically to preserve them, starting with New York State’s purchase of the Hasbrouck House in 1850. Half a century later this governmental role still remained embryonic; it did not come to Massachusetts until 1913, when the Lexington town meeting voted to help purchase the Buckman Tavern.”* In each case public action resulted from the same sort.of expediency that led Bostonians to ask city and state help in saving the Hancock House, the Old South, and Park Street Church. Governments provided funds or served as permanent custodians; they were seldom called upon to do anything that private groups could not in theory undertake. And in Massachusetts, landmarks that started out as private property either were saved by private action or were lost. The state government pioneered in landscape preservation, but public policy toward

landmark structures was incoherent and ineffective. : One reason well-to-do Bostonians did not look to government for preservation was their distrust of the ascendant immigrant political leadership. They saw their suspicions amply confirmed by the city’s treatment of its environmental heritage. At the apex of Brahmin demonology was James Michael —

Curley, mayor from 1914 to 1917, and then off and on again until 1949; he and his lieutenants, wrote SPNEA president Charles Knowles Bolton in his journal, were “surely ridiculous rulers of a million people anywhere but 238

Institutionalized Preservation in a democracy run mad.” Curley returned the compliment by proposing to sell the Public Garden to finance neighborhood parks, using the environment to tweak his Brahmin opponents. He expanded a confrontational brand of urban politics begun in 1905 by Boston's second Irish mayor, John “Honey Fitz” Fitzgerald, who proposed selling building lots blocking water views from aristocratic Beacon Street.*? Curley appointed as building commissioner Patrick O’Hearn, a tenement builder who threatened to tear down the colonial Shirley-Eustis Mansion for building-code violations. Preservationists appealed to the legislature, which specifically exempted it from the city’s code.®° When Henry Statler hesitated to build a hotel in Boston in 1923, Curley helped lure him by raising the city’s height limit from 125 to 155 feet

and announced that if this was not tall enough he would try 200 feet. Later he attempted to remove the special height restrictions on Commonwealth Avenue.®' Aristocratic Bostonians could not feel comfortable putting environmental stability in the hands of government while the government was in hands like Curley’s. William Sumner Appleton epitomized this Brahmin ambivalence. Government action for preservation was difficult to accomplish, he wrote in 1918, and for some reasons not to be desired. That part of the public capable of appreciating a handsome building for the sake of its artistic merit, is small indeed, and the chance of obtaining support from the public treasury is too negligible to notice, except in the case of public buildings of historic interest, like Faneuil Hall in Boston, and Independence Hall, Philadelphia. On the other hand, even if this were not the case, our political system, with its almost total lack of responsibility, as well as its widespread tendency to the spoils system, makes public action extremely dangerous.”

On the whole, Appleton tried to avoid government and politics. When he wanted some government action, he “fixed it up” quietly if he could. He did not organize SPNEA for the sort of lobbying he had used against the subway at the Old State House. He addressed his fundraising to the wealthy, not mass campaigns like Mount Vernon and the Old South that built political along with financial support. But Appleton was too much a pragmatist not to look longingly at the tremendous resources of governments. A logical first step in tapping government resources was safeguarding historic properties that were already publicly owned. The federal government

had begun protecting prehistoric sites under the Antiquities Act of 1906, which historian Ronald F Lee called “the first national historic preservation policy for the United States.” Appleton was interested in Maine’s frontier fortifications, abandoned and decaying but still in War Department ownership,

and in 1912 he wrote Smithsonian Institution secretary Charles D. Walcott 239

BOSTON’S “CHANGEFUL TIMES” | to ask whether the Antiquities Act could be used to preserve them. In law, the answer was yes: the act allowed the president to designate as “national “monuments” any “historic landmarks, historic and prehistoric structures, -and other objects of historic or scientific interest” located on any federal lands. Despite its inclusive language, the act had been conceived and until then used only for sites of archaeological or geological interest, all of them in the West.* Walcott gave Appleton a taste of his own medicine when he suggested that Maine's blockhouses possessed “a local rather than a National | interest or importance.” Appleton tried to invoke a national scope by point- _ ing out that “there must be many more such properties scattered all over the country,” but the prospect of endless, piecemeal involvement with local preservation concerns may not have been the best way to woo Washington offi-. cials. Appleton eventually found private methods to save the blockhouses.

The Antiquities Act was not used for any historic—as opposed to prehis- , — toric—landmark until 1924, and then it was applied with a view to supreme national significance, though not necessarily great antiquity; among the first of these historic landmarks was the Statue of Liberty.* The kind of smallscale preservation of surplus properties that Appleton had in mind was not begun by the federal government until 1944."

: Without government assistance, preservation’s basic limitation was a lack of available resources. Private subscription and purchase accomplished more _ in eastern Massachusetts than anywhere else in the country, yet it was clearly inadequate in urban areas. The Park Street preservation committee, despite its effectiveness at soliciting pledges, had to turn to the legislature if it was to save the building by purchase. William Sumner Appleton was unwilling

to seek government involvement, so his goals in city centers had to be very modest. John D. Rockefeller Jr. at Williamsburg and Henry Ford at Greenfield Village, Michigan, each spent over $25 million on preservation, and _ Appleton tried unsuccessfully to interest one of them or their financial peers —

in endowing preservation elsewhere. Without a fund of such magnitude, __

private preservation would inevitably remain fragmentary. , Preservation by purchase operated through the market, so it did not fun-

| damentally challenge real estate interests. It exempted a few places from , developers’ rules, but it did not change the rules. Many developers could see the appeal of the buildings they were destroying, and they saw no contradiction in participating in the preservation movement at the same time. John Phillips Reynolds Jr. was buying the Paul Revere House even as he tried to tear down Park Street Church. Similarly, Alexander S. Porter, a president of the Boston Real Estate Exchange, offered the Old South for sale and redevelopment and put together the syndicate that would have razed St.

240 © ,

Institutionalized Preservation Paul's Church, yet he took a sympathetic interest even in the buildings he tore down, lecturing on them and amassing an important collection of antiquarian photographs.®’ Porter led in organizing the Committee to Preserve Park Street Church and joined SPNEA shortly after it was founded. He evidently felt that tearing down St. Paul’s would have been a reasonable way to make a profit, and preserving Park Street Church across the street a reasonable way to spend it; market-based preservation allowed individuals to make their own decisions where to draw the line against change. Other developers were happy to cooperate with SPNEA in recording structures or offering them to be moved, secure in the knowledge that their fundamental right to clear sites went unquestioned.°® Preservationists from the earliest days of the movement had argued that historic buildings were an economic benefit to their communities, and by the early twentieth century the argument was well accepted by businesspeople. The Providence Board of Trade published a laudatory article on SPNEA in May 1914 and later that year noted that “Boston, by playing up its historic attractions for several generations, has vastly profited in a commercial way.” The Boston Chamber of Commerce agreed: “Preservation . . . pays as an investment.”°?

An audience this diverse helped institutionalize preservation in another sense; it came to be assumed in decision-making about the built environment, although not always in the methodical way Appleton advocated. George G. Crocker headed the Boston Transit Commission, potentially among the city’s most powerful engines of environmental change, but he ran it according to his own preservationist views that earlier made him defend the Common and the Old South. Now he sat on the Old South Association Board of Managers, and even Appleton thought that the transit commission plan “amply safeguards the Old South Meeting House.” Crocker felt he was

doing the same at the Old State House, where he wanted to use existing doorways as a subway entrance, making no changes to the building's exterior

except to add historical plaques. He argued that Appleton’s alternative of new station kiosks would ruin views of the building. Appleton admitted that if the station really needed more of the Old State House, “it would be hard to devise a less objectionable plan.” He fought it in part because he feared that the station would prove inadequate and then Crocker’s plan would be replaced by a worse one. The whole battleground had shifted toward preservation: this time no one suggested tearing the building down.” A similar example is the Custom House Tower, proposed by architect Robert S. Peabody in 1909 and constructed from 1911 to 1915. Critics found much about its design impractical and expensive, but few questioned the extraordinary 241

Tr

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