Wednesday, June 26, 2019

Edith + Edith Again

The H. W. Wilson Company produced The Debaters
Handbook Series 
between 1910 and about 1950.

In 1907, a Minneapolis publishing executive named Halsey W. Wilson was looking for writers and researchers to work for his growing company.  Spurred by his wife, Justina, he asked a University of Minnesota professor to recommend several alumnae.  A young woman named Edith Phelps left her teaching job and came on board right away. 

In short order, Edith would become a supervisor and editor at the H. W. Wilson Company.  She wrote dozens of guides to such topics as the income tax, immigration, and the League of Nations.  

These became known as “debaters’ handbooks,” and were used by high school and college teams who sparred competitively about the social policies and laws of the rising century. 

But really, the handbooks had a larger significance.  They were particularly useful to people who lived in rural areas, with their reach extending well beyond debaters to men’s and women’s clubs, voting leagues, and adult education programs.  

In fact, making this literature widely available tied into the Progressive ideal of educating as many Americans as possible. 

Halsey W. Wilson
In 1913, when Halsey Wilson decided to move his company to New York City, Edith Phelps went with him.  For the next 40 years, she worked in the vanguard of what became known as information sciences.  In 1922, she became an officer of the company. 

Back to the other Edith.

Within several years of Edith Penney’s arrival in New York, she made her mark on one of the most innovative projects in the history of American education: The Eight-Year Study.  This experiment posed a challenge to the time-honored methods of evaluating college applicants long used by admissions officials. 

The study explored whether students’ performance in the college preparatory curriculum was the best indicator of college readiness and future success.  What would happen if students were to pursue an alternative high school curriculum in the humanities and social sciences?

That question lay at the heart of The Eight-Year Study, launched in 1930 by the Progressive Education Association.  That year, high school teachers and administrators started to collaborate with researchers and college professors to revise the traditional curriculum. 

Between 1933 and 1940, 29 public and private high schools and 200 colleges and universities participated in the experiment.

Along came more classes in the manual and fine arts, a shift from survey-style courses to electives that focused on a few texts or a historical era, and the elimination of material that students had regurgitated since elementary school.  There was a concerted effort to embrace unconventional opinions and interpretations.   

The outcomes were positive.  When it came to college the Eight-Year Study students turned out to be as successful as students who followed an established curriculum.  They also developed a wider range of interests outside the classroom.    

As a high school principal and member of two committees that directed the study, Edith Penney became committed to educational reforms that would have been unheard of during her Minnesota childhood.  

Radical as the work seemed during the 1930s, several of the ideas that emerged from The Eight-Year Study have endured.

 The Eight-Year Study was published
in 1942 in five volumes.
Professional development for teachers, testing methods that would provide more accurate and meaningful measures of students’ knowledge, and greater variety and student choice of courses were among the changes.  

High schools also began to push back against onerous college entrance requirements. 

Unfortunately, the results of The Eight-Year Study received little attention when they were published in 1942.  Some critics thought they were inconclusive while others feared change.  Regardless, by the time the war ended, school administrators were not in the mood to innovate.  Every so often, however, the study draws renewed attention.

Edith May Penney retired in 1948 and died at the age of 96 in 1974.

Edith May Phelps retired in 1948 and died at the age of 98 in 1980.

Continued from post June 5, 2019.

Friday, June 21, 2019

The Little House at Melrose

Wedged between two buildings at the Melrose station
along the Metro North line to North White Plains

I have traveled along this train route thousands of times and never noticed this little pink house.  It reminded me, of course, of the book called The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton, published in 1942.  

The Little House is a beloved children's classic.  The story goes that the house was built around 1900 far out in the countryside.  Over the years, however, the city encroached with roads, shops, and skyscrapers. 

By 1940, the house was stuck between two tall buildings and coated with soot.  One day, the great-great-granddaughter of the original owner of the house spotted it and decided to move it back where it came from. 

The house was loaded onto a flatbed and driven far from the city.  It ended up perched happily on a hill in the country.

Now, once more it was surrounded by grass and trees, with no noise except for the birds singing.  Once again, the little house could see the stars shining at night.

Who knows the story of the little house at the Melrose station?

Wednesday, June 5, 2019

Edith + Edith

Edith May Penney, passport photo, 1930s

Once there were two women named Edith May, and coincidentally both of their surnames started with a “P.”     

On top of such fortuity, both women were born in Minnesota and graduated from the University of Minnesota.  Each launched her career there; each in the field of education.  Both moved to New York and never returned to their native state.  But they did not know each other. 

For a long time I have juxtaposed them in my mind.  It’s not just the coincidences listed above, but also the allure of their American lives.  Neither married.  Both descended from English settlers.  Both were very serious people.  One of the women lived to the age of 98; the other, 96.            

These two could have been Victorians, but they cast off the demon.

Edith Penney was born in 1878, the daughter of Frederick Constant Penney and his wife, May.  The descendants of New England farmers, Frederick and May were swept into the great westward movement during the early 1870s when the Civil War was a fresh memory.  In a wagon they traveled to Minneapolis, whose population would soar from 13,000 in 1870 to 165,000 in 1890.
Soon after they arrived, Frederick zoomed into real estate.  He purchased land that would eventually be incorporated into the new city, and improved it by grading and paving the streets.  He made a lot of money, and then became a builder.

Although Frederick lived to the age of 108, he never again saw Canaan, Maine, nor his father, Uriah, and brothers and sisters Sylvanus, Almira, Arvesta, Isaac and Silas.   

However, Frederick and May would return east in 1925 when Edith, now an English teacher, was hired as high school principal in a village just outside New York City.  The family bought property in the town next door – far more affordable – and Frederick built a stone house that still stands, its back to the woods and a meandering creek. 

Edith Phelps was also an educator, but in a different way from Edith Penney.  

Born in 1881 in Beaver Falls, Minnesota, she too was the daughter of an East Coast transplant.  Her father, Charles Levi Phelps, had been a little boy when he and his family departed from New York before the Civil War.  Charles would meet and marry Alice, a Wisconsin native.  He worked in a sheet metal plant, as a grocer, and as a foreman in a flour mill.  The family moved around the city as his income dictated. 

Edith and Aura Phelps, center and right;
University of Minnesota yearbook

When the University of Minnesota beckoned to Edith and her younger sister, Aura Idella, the parents encouraged them to go.  Upon graduation in 1907, Edith and Aura became teachers.  Then an unusual opportunity came along.

University of Minnesota (1911)

For nearly 10 years, a Minneapolis entrepreneur named Halsey W. Wilson had capitalized on rising literacy among Americans.  He, too, was a graduate of the University of Minnesota, and owned a bookstore near campus.  As the twentieth century loomed on the horizon, Wilson noticed a trend.  His customers increasingly asked for specific articles, or for all articles on one particular topic.  He started reprinting these articles as a side business. 

H.W. Wilson Company Bookstore, circa 1900

But how did the readers learn about the articles they sought?

Only by word of mouth, Wilson realized.  There was no place to go look things up, no compendium that listed recently published material.  So he started to produce digests of articles and books, a book review index, informational handbooks, bibliographies, and, perhaps most famously, the weighty The Readers’ Guide to Periodical Literature, each volume of which required a crane to be lifted from a library shelf.*

These reference guides may sound dull as dishwater.  But they were extremely important to enthusiastic readers.  Schools, libraries, scholars and students – no one could get information fast enough. 

Now Wilson needed intelligent, motivated employees to make it happen at lightning speed. 

See post on June 26, 2019, for part 2.
*The H. W. Wilson Company is still in the information business, although today its products are largely digital.

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

The Newspaper Map

Some New York newsstands still use wooden blocks to keep
papers from blowing away.  The Sun ceased publication in 1950.

When I was growing up, my father’s job involved writing, editing, and a bit of public relations.  As a result, he often received promotional material that combined imaginative graphics with fun facts, and he would diligently pack these items into his leather briefcase and bring them home to my brother and me.

One of our treasures was a poster of the U.S. presidents that stopped at LBJ.  We would spread it out on the wood floor and pore over it, and to this day its configuration of the presidents is how I envision them: in rows on shiny pale blue paper, their portraits in black and white and framed by ovals.  They come to me in heavenly groups of seven (joke) – Washington to Van Buren, William Henry Harrison to Buchanan, Lincoln to Benjamin Harrison, and so on.  

William Henry Harrison framed by an oval

My father also brought home a map of the U.S. marked with all of the major daily newspapers.  The names of the papers were confounding and – because of their association with unfamiliar cities – rather exotic.  

Cleveland Plain Dealer
New Orleans Times-Picayune
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
Sacramento Bee
Jackson Clarion-Ledger
Des Moines Register
Hartford Courant
San Jose Mercury News

Most of these newspapers were founded well before the Civil War.  The Hartford Courant was founded in 1764.  Obviously, the names are vintage and contain words that are not in common usage today.

Cleveland Plain Dealer, circa World War I

A plain dealer was an honest broker.  Registers and ledgers referred to the endless lists of information, usually related to debt, travel and mail, which occupied many pages of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century newspapers.  Bee possibly meant a group of people working together, like a sewing bee.  But who knows?  Perhaps it referred to the insect bee which gathered and spread news as if it were pollen.

Mercury must have been derived from the Roman god Mercury, who was a messenger.  The picayune was a Spanish coin whose name came from the French word picaillon.  Courant, also from the French, means running.   

Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 1897

It’s nearly impossible to write about newspapers without bemoaning their slow death.  Yet despite hundreds of consolidations during the past several decades, many of the original names -- or vestiges of them -- remain.  The 1982 merger of the Atlanta Journal and the Atlanta Constitution resulted, for example, in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.  That’s pretty remarkable, considering our unsentimental penchant for tossing out the old. 

Returning to the sixties.

After my father brought the map home, it took a few days to memorize the names of the newspapers.  I remember walking home from school on a spring afternoon, announcing them inside my head as if it were 1941 and I was a big band leader, introducing the members of the rhythm section.   

 Jackson Clarion-Ledger
Jackson, Mississippi, 1912

Left-click on images to enlarge them.

Wednesday, April 24, 2019

Back to the Future: a century after the 1920 census

Census taker (lower right) with American Indians, 1910

An entire century will separate the 1920 and 2020 censuses, so one would think that the issues surrounding the two surveys are as different as night and day. But that is not the case. Immigration and political power were front and center 100 years ago, just as they are today.

The Trump Administration’s decision to add a question about citizenship to the 2020 census has created a national uproar and drawn federal lawsuits and appeals. Opponents argue that adding the question will discourage participation among non-citizens and even legal immigrants, causing an under-count of both of those groups. Using that faulty data, they claim, federal agencies then will apportion resources both inadequately and unevenly, hurting low-income and marginalized communities through the coming decade.

Adding questions to the census is hardly unprecedented.  Since the first census in 1790, the number and type of questions in the survey have been changed periodically. The 1920 census, for example, added several questions.

Woman census taker in Chinatown,
New York City, 1920

Like the proposed 2020 citizenship question, these were directed at immigrants: What was the respondent’s native language? What was the native language of the respondent’s parents?  When was the respondent naturalized? The questions came at a time when both parties urged greater restriction of immigration, especially from Southern and Eastern Europe, in response to the widespread post-World War I public backlash against immigrants. 

Some immigrants may have been scared off by concerns about their status. But the people who were really frightened by the prospect of that 1920 census were members of Congress.

What did these legislators fear? Just like today, it was the reapportionment of seats in the House of Representatives. Reapportionment is mandated by the Constitution to assure that representation reflects the distribution of the population. It occurs every ten years, based on census information.

In 1910, when the results of the census were made known, they revealed a total population of 92,228,496, with a rural population of 50,164,495 and an urban population of 42,064,001. Obviously, the next census would report a population greater than 100 million.

Far more significant would be the shift from rural to urban; the next census would show that – for the first time in American history – more people would reside in U.S. cities than on farms.

Alfred Stieglitz's iconic photograph of 
immigrants, The Steerage (1907)
(Permission of the Getty Trust)

Thus, following the 1920 census, the nation would face a major shift in political power. Reapportionment would dictate that less populous states would lose House seats and urban areas would gain them. That was why some rural House members publicly declared, as early as 1918, that the census had little value. Others urged that immigrants be eliminated from the count altogether.

Reapportionment brings a new political balance each decade, but it also can mark significant cultural and social change. Hence the Anti-Saloon League hustled politicians to rush through Prohibition before the House was reapportioned, for a constitutional amendment to ban liquor never would have passed if urban legislators were the majority in the House. 

The census became a metaphor, as in this compelling
1922 poem by the radical writer and activist James Rorty.

Just seven months after the enumerators – as they were called – set forth with their questionnaires, the government revealed the first results of the new census. Ten states would lose rural seats (Indiana, Iowa, Illinois, Kentucky, Missouri, Maine, Maryland, Nebraska, Vermont and Virginia) while ten states would gain urban seats (New York, California, Connecticut, Florida, Georgia, Michigan, Minnesota, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Texas).  

The prospect of such a drastic political realignment led the House Census Committee to violate its constitutional duty by repeatedly postponing and voting down reapportionment after the final census report. It became a perennial dance.

In their first attempt to avoid such drastic reapportionment, Congressional legislators proposed a measure that would have enlarged the House to 500 seats from 435 seats. It was voted down.

In 1922, President Harding said he’d had enough and insisted that reapportionment occur by March 1923. That vote was deferred. And so it went.

President Warren G. Harding

In 1924, the census committee announced that it would drop reapportionment because “adoption of the 1920 census would seriously affect agriculture and farming sections.”

In 1926, the House again rejected apportionment, claiming that it was not mandatory. Despite public anger and editorial outrage, the House again refused to move on reapportionment in 1928.

Finally, after the results of the 1930 census were announced, the House acted. But the damage had been done.   

If Congress had performed its duty, the Immigration Act of 1924 would not have been enacted. That xenophobic law set severe quotas for Eastern European immigrants and completely excluded most Asians, Indians, and Arabs. And Prohibition likely would have been repealed far earlier than 1933, due to overwhelming opposition among urban residents. 

This 1911 book was one in a series about
boys' adventures in various professions. 

Yesterday the Supreme Court heard arguments about the Trump Administration’s move to add a citizenship question to the 2020 Census. The decision will dramatically affect reapportionment.

However the Court rules, it is remarkable to behold how closely the issues surrounding the 2020 census echo the past. Again we face a major shift in political power – 100 years ago it was toward the cities; in 2020, if the question is included, it may be away from the cities.

Just as significantly, the decision has the potential to stave off the future. When Congress refused to act on the 1920 census for ten years, it put off major changes in American life related to mass culture and the growing presence of minorities. In 2020, if the question is included and influence tilts back toward rural states, we too may be merely postponing a social transformation.

*Thanks to Mark Olmsted for the title.

Left-click on images to enlarge them.

Wednesday, April 3, 2019

Young Man of Nebraska: Alexander J. Stoddard

Nebraska State Normal School at Peru, circa 1900
In Peru, Nebraska, the local news channel used a drone to show where the Missouri River had broken through the levee.  The disastrous flood has destroyed fields, roads, and homes during the past month.

I thought immediately of Alexander J. Stoddard, son of a Scottish farmer who immigrated to the U.S. in 1848 at the age of two.  The family settled in southeastern Nebraska, preceding the homesteaders.  The father married twice and fathered nine children. 

Several of his children grew up to become teachers, including young Alexander.  But it looks like Alexander was the only one who left Nebraska.  He went on to pursue a brilliant career in public education that carried him east and west across 35 years.  

The drama of the Plains – the floods, the droughts, the farming life – that’s what he set out to leave behind.

Alexander J. Stoddard
Nebraska State Normal School at Peru
191o yearbook  

He started on that path at the Nebraska State Normal School at Peru, a teacher training school.  Normal schools proliferated in the U.S. after the Civil War.  By 1909, when 20-year old Alexander arrived at the hilltop campus, the demand for teachers had been rising steeply since the turn of the century.  Anywhere that you could point to in the country was in need of educators. 

At Peru, Alexander became president of his class.  (He also learned to play tennis on the lawn courts.)  After two years, he headed off to the University of Nebraska at Lincoln where he received a B.A.  In 1917, while skirmishing with the Nebraska draft examiners, he married his childhood sweetheart, Sadie Gillan.  They would have two children.

Southeastern Nebraska
Stoddard was born and grew up in Auburn; attended
normal school in Peru; taught school in Beatrice while
in school at Peru; and received his B.A. from the University
of Nebraska at Lincoln. The dotted blue line at the right
marks the Missouri River.

As Alexander continued his education, the family headed east where he earned a Master’s degree in educational administration at Teachers College, Columbia University.

Then he soared; advancing from superintendent of schools in the suburban village of Bronxville, N. Y., to Schenectady, Providence, Denver, Philadelphia, and, finally, Los Angeles.  He also led several prestigious national educational organizations. 

Alexander spent 65 of his 76 years in the twentieth century.  The sweep of his life calls for an exclamation, or at least a smile:  the same man who traveled by horseback from Peru State College to the city of Beatrice, Nebraska, where he taught school to help put himself through school, also fiercely advocated educational television when it came on the scene during the 1950s.

He was a modern man. 

Alexander J. Stoddard, 1946

Nevertheless, nineteenth-century realities influenced his life.  The floods that have devastated Peru and other towns in southeast Nebraska echo the vagaries of the weather that would have tormented his father.  Not to mention the Panic of 1893.

Inevitably, Alexander and many of his peers left the Plains. They did not want to live the farmer’s life, and the lure of the city was hard to fend off. Perhaps there are numbers in a book somewhere, but I will guess that hundreds of them became very fine teachers.    

In this spring of 2019, Peru State College still overlooks the Missouri River, its campus scattered with oak trees and old brick buildings.  A four-year college with an online extension program, it nods to its earlier incarnation with a School of Education.  

Now it’s back in business as the flood waters recede, although irreparable damage has been inflicted on the homes, farms, and roads of southeastern Nebraska.

*Left-click on images for greater detail.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Last of the Washington Square Millionaires

Sleighing in New York by Thomas Benecke, 1855
(Print Collection, New York Public Library; bequest of Amos F. Eno)

In 1915 when Amos F. Eno died, he was recalled as an eighteenth-century millionaire philanthropist struggling to hold onto the vestiges of the antebellum city in which he came of age. 

The Great War had begun one year earlier and suffragists regularly picketed the White House.  As a creature of the past, Eno didn’t like it.  He was so out of date that it was hard to imagine that once upon a time the old man’s name perched on the tip of everyone’s tongue.  

A “peculiar expression of static citizenry,” as the New York Times described him, he objected to progress and advancement.  What a perverse outlook in light of the fact that he and his father, Amos R. Eno, contributed mightily to the modernization of Manhattan.

The Enos were real estate developers who owned property all over town, including large swaths of what would become the Flatiron and Financial Districts. They constructed dozens of houses, hotels, and apartment buildings that altered the streetscape of the city. 

Born in 1834, Amos F. Eno joined New York’s Seventh Infantry Regiment as a private in 1862.  He returned from the war a colonel, moved in with his father, and resumed his bachelor’s existence.  The two men inhabited an early nineteenth-century brownstone mansion at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street. 

Amos F. Eno and his father lived in this brownstone mansion
at 32 Fifth Avenue, designed by Detlef Lienau in 1834.*

Amos F. liked to walk around Washington Square, three blocks south of his home, where he met vagrants and bestowed upon them money, food, and clothing. His philosophy was to give charity only when not asked.

At the other side of the economic spectrum, his neighbors included the so-called Washington Square millionaires – men like Robert de Forest, a descendant of French Huguenots, esteemed legal counsel to railroads and utilities, president of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Amos F. Eno (1834-1915)

As society moved uptown to ever more expansive and ornate mansions, the denizens of Washington Square stayed put, as if trapped in a painting by John Singer Sargent.  Inevitably, they would have to head north to restaurants, libraries, and clubs. 

When he died at the age of 81, Amos F. left much of his vast fortune to Columbia University and the General Society for Mechanics and Tradesmen.**  New York University, the American Museum of Natural History, and the Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor also received bequests.  Evidently none of these institutions had ever tapped on his shoulder and asked for money. 

Members of the Eno family angrily contested the will.  Their lawyers argued that Amos F. loathed Columbia University President Nicholas Murray Butler and never would have left the school well over $10 million. Furthermore, suspicious circumstances surrounded the drafting of the most recent will.  Nonetheless, a panel of judges ruled against the family in 1922.  Fortunately, everyone survived even though they had portrayed themselves as destitute.

New York Supreme Court
In the Matter of Amos F. Eno 

A rather private man, Amos F. would have abhorred the detailed descriptions of his comings and goings that appeared in the court transcripts – 156 pages of friends’, family’s, and servants’ candid testimony about his bad temper, bad leg, and bad manners.  Miss Polly Morgan recounted her week-long visit to his home in 1914.

She drove downtown with him one day when he remained at his office an hour and a half. He spoke to her about his business. He told her that he wished he had no business to do; that he would like to simplify his affairs; that the men in his office were good for nothing . . .

Miss Morgan testified that with respect to dropping his food, and with respect to the condition of his clothing, Mr. Eno “did not look as elegant as he had in previous years.”

Miss Morgan undertook to joke with Mr. Eno. She asked him about his friends, the Democrats, and said “How is your Mr. Bryan getting on, Uncle Mo? And how do you like him?” He said, “Bryan is no good. He is the leader of the suffragettes.”

Amos F. may have been a mean old man, but at least he claimed one great passion.  That was his collection of early American prints, many exceedingly rare and valuable.  To the New York Public Library he left 192 framed and 138 unframed images – a major gift.  Some speculated that the prints had appreciated at a greater rate than his real estate holdings. 

The prints resonated deep inside of Amos F.  He liked the way that they evoked landscapes and streetscapes long passed into history.  They took him back to a place of memory and happiness. 

“He was very much an old New Yorker,” an admirer said.

New York from Brooklyn Heights by A. W. Graham, 1834
(Print Collection, New York Public Library; bequest of Amos F. Eno)

*Courtesy of 
**The size of Eno’s fortune has been estimated between $10 million and $30 million.

Left-click on images to enlarge them.