Milwaukee Stories (Urban Life Series)

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Milwaukee Stories

Milwaukee Stories edited by

Thomas J. Jablonsky

Urban Life Series No. 2 Series Editor, Thomas Jablonsky

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Milwaukee stories / edited by Thomas J. Jablonsky. p. cm. — (Urban life series ; no. 2) Includes bibliographical references. ISBN-13: 978-0-87462-079-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-87462-079-1 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Milwaukee (Wis.)—History—Anecdotes. 2. Milwaukee (Wis.)—Social life and customs—Anecdotes. 3. City and town life—Wisconsin—Milwaukee— Anecdotes. 4. Milwaukee (Wis.)—Biography—Anecdotes. 5. Milwaukee (Wis.)—Social conditions—Anecdotes. I. Jablonsky, Thomas J. II. Series: Urban life series (Milwaukee, Wis.) ; no. 2. F589.M657M545 2005 977.5’95—dc22 2005024454

© 2005 Marquette University Press Milwaukee, Wisconsin 53201-3141 All rights reserved. www.marquette.edu/mupress/

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences— Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

Contents

Introduction Steven M. Avella ........................................................................ 9 1. Native American Milwaukee Introduction . ............................................................................ 13 by Daryl Webb Myths and Legends of Wisconsin Indians...................................... 17 by Jeremiah Curtin & Harry H. Andersen 2. Milwaukee’s Social and Cultural History Introduction by Christopher Miller............................................................ 57 Echoes from the Census............................................................... 61 by Richard Roesler Magical Borchert Field............................................................... 71 by Thomas J. Morgan & James R. Nitz Milwaukee and the Columbian Exposition of 1893...................... 85 by Frank A. Cassell Augie Kieckhefer: Milwaukee’s Billiards Professional................... 103 by Erwin W. Kieckhefer Milwaukee’s House Numbering System....................................... 113 by Christopher P. Thale 3. Service Institutions in Milwaukee Introduction............................................................................. 125 by Brigitte Charaus The Normal School on Wells Street............................................ 129 by Virginia A. Palmer African-American Catholicism in Milwaukee: St. Benedict the Moor Church and School............................... 139 by Steven M. Avella St. Mary’s, Wisconsin’s First Public Hospital............................... 157 by Msgr. Peter Leo Johnson

Milwaukee Stories

The Founding of Milwaukee Hospital–1863.............................. 163 by Henry C. Friend A Place of Great Beauty, Improved by Man: The Soldiers’ Home and Victorian Milwaukee......................... 169 by James Marten Olmsted’s Lake Park................................................................. 183 by Diane M. Buck 4. Race and Ethnicity Introduction............................................................................. 193 by Daryl Webb Precocious Reformers: Immigrants and Party Politics in Ante-Bellum Milwaukee.................................................... 197 by Kathleen Conzen Milwaukee German Immigrant Values: An Essay........................ 211 by Paul Woerhmann Milwaukee’s Poles, 1866-1918: The Rise and Fall of a Model Community.............................. 229 by Anthony J. Kuznlewski The Homebuilders: The Residential Landscape of Milwaukee’s Polonia, 1870-1920........................................... 243 by Judith T. Kenny Black Working Class, 1915-1925.............................................. 259 by Robert E. Weems, Jr. Northcott Neighborhood House................................................. 267 by Fielding Erich Utz 5. Labor and Industry Introduction......................................................................... 277 by John McCarthy The Lawyer and the Fur Trader: Morgan Martin and Solomon Juneau........................................ 283 by Barbara Whalen Foundations for Industrialization, 1835-1880........................... 303 by Roger D. Simon “Pick out Your Man—And Kill Him”: The Riots of 1886........... 327 by Bernhard C. Korn

Contents

Milwaukee and Its Baby Bonds.................................................337 by M. Raskin Milwaukee Labor after World War II.........................................347 by Darryl Holter 6. Political Milwaukee Introduction.............................................................................361 by John A. Degniz King and Booth: Milwaukee Editors and the Politics of Transition, 1850-54.........................................367 by Kevin J. Abing Wisconsin and the Re-Election of Lincoln in 1864: A Chapter of Civil War History..............................................381 by Frank L. Klement The Political Campaigns of Mayor David S. Rose.......................409 by Joseph A. Ranney Milwaukee’s Socialist Mayors: End of an Era and Its Beginning............................................427 by Frederick I. Olson Daniel W. Hoan and Municipal Reform in Milwaukee, 1910-1920....................................................435 by Robert C. Reinders Milwaukee County Voting: A Declaration of Independents..........451 by Sarah C. Ettenheim

Introduction by

Steven M. Avella

T

hree works frame the evolution of modern historical writing about Milwaukee. In 1948, historian Bayrd Still published Milwaukee,The History of a City, his mammoth 610 page tome comparing the city’s growth and development to the patterns of human life: birth, infancy, adolescence, maturity. Still managed to sweep the major developments of the city’s life under these broad categories, providing a solid and readable narrative that has stood the test of time. An interim work, Milwaukee at the Gathering of Waters penned by Harry Anderson and Frederick I. Olson appeared in 1981. This large coffee-table-sized book provided a readable survey of the city’s past and was handsomely illustrated. In 1999, a gifted writer with a love for the city and a tremendous feel for all facets of its life, John Gurda, wrote The Making of Milwaukee. Gurda’s text ably synthesized the growth and development of Milwaukee and he bolstered his account with scores of illustrations that brought the city to life for a new generation more attuned to the visual than the readers from Still’s days. Still and Gurda devoted themselves to the sweeping narrative. Other scholars such as Kathleen Neils Conzen, Anthony Orum, Roger Simon, and Gerd Korman also produced important works on Milwaukee, but concentrated on shorter chronological periods, ethnic and social class groups, or instances of larger city-building processes. A number of Masters theses and even doctoral dissertations have emerged from the work of students at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee (UWM) and Marquette University. Highly motivated non-professional historians and history buffs have knocked on the doors of local archives, conducted oral histories, and reconstructed bits and pieces of Milwaukee’s past that have helped the city understand its rich and diverse past.

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Both professional scholars and amateur historians have been able to come together under the auspices of the Milwaukee County Historical Society. Since 1935, this organization has become Milwaukee’s chief guardian of community memory. In addition to their excellent preservation and museum programs, the Society has sponsored a small quarterly Milwaukee History (originally the Historical Messenger) since 1941. With articles drawn from its excellent research library and archival collections, Milwaukee History has proven an important source of historical knowledge about the city and its environs. Perusing its pages and reading various articles is the first step for anyone serious about researching and writing about Milwaukee. This volume selects the best of those articles. Dr. James Marten, professor of history at Marquette University, and a member of the board of the County Historical Society, first suggested gathering the best of the Milwaukee History articles to five exceptional history graduate students: John McCarthy, Brigitte Charaus, John Degnitz, Christopher Miller and Daryl Webb, all writing doctoral dissertations on Milwaukee topics. Funding from Marquette’s Institute for Urban Life provided the institutional support for the publication of this work. Marquette’s interest in Milwaukee history has always been a natural. The campus occupies precious urban space in downtown Milwaukee and contributes its own considerable investment to the quality of life in the city. Scholars associated with Marquette have turned out histories of the city’s Jewish and Catholic communities and graduates of its schools of law, education, journalism, engineering, dentistry as well as its long-departed medical school left a mark on the city’s professional classes. A renaissance of interest in Milwaukee city history has arisen among the young scholars who were responsible for selecting the articles for this book. Each of these students has chosen for dissertation research a fascinating aspect of Milwaukee’s life and history: urban policy, suburbanization, Gilded Age politics, public health, and the fate of Milwaukee children in the Great Depression. Taking complete responsibility for the project, this talented group selected the topics under which the articles were to be grouped: politics, institutions, race and ethnicity, labor and economics, and society

Introduction

11

and culture. The rationale for their selections is discussed in the brief introductions they provide at the head of each section. Predictably, they turned up some of the names that made Milwaukee history great and respectable. Readers even remotely acquainted with Milwaukee History will quickly recognize the name and scholarship of Frederick I. Olson, a pillar of the historical society up to his death in 2003. The works of other nationally known scholars such as Anthony Kuzniewski, Frank Klement, and Kathleen Neils Conzen appear in this volume. Local talent includes UWM professor Judith Kenny and Marquette alumnus, Kevin Abing. They also had a keen eye for the superb research and writing of local historians such as Robert Roesler. Mindful as well of the demands of a history “from the bottom up” they have chosen articles that reflect the meridian of daily life such as pool playing and baseball. They note Milwaukee’s role at the fabled Columbian Exposition, the one in which the city’s Pabst Brewery received its trademark blue ribbon award. To the delight of their teachers, the process of topical identification and article selection provided a stimulating challenge to the young scholars, especially as they looked for materials relevant to the interests of urban and social historians today. But the search was not always easy. Two bellwethers of contemporary historical scholarship, gender and race, have only episodic treatment in Milwaukee History. Few, if any of the articles dealt with topics after World War II, the complex question of urban identity, or surburbanization. These gaps in existing published materials hopefully will serve as a challenge to researchers and writers elsewhere that there is much more to be told about Milwaukee’s past. Indeed, the city is ripe for re-interpretation, and new and hitherto untouched or unconsidered areas of research are still waiting the hand of the historian. Our five scholars have selected well. But their compilation makes us hungry for more. Steven M. Avella Associate Professor of History Marquette University

1. Native American Milwaukee Introduction Daryl Webb

W

hen Jesuit missionary Father Zenobius Membre arrived at the mouth of the Milwaukee River in 1679, he was not greeted by a virgin frontier but a Fox and Mascouten Native American village. The Fox and Mascouten, however, were not the founders of this community, only its most recent residents. In fact, the Paleo-Indians established the community over 12,000 years ago. They were followed by several other ancient peoples, including the Mound Builders who constructed burial and ceremonial mounds on what is now the city’s southside. Between 1100 and 1500, Milwaukee was continuously occupied by various native groups and, on the eve of European contact, the area was home to several tribes including the Ho-Chunk, Ojibwe, Sauk, and Potawatomi. These tribes often lived in tribally mixed communities like the Fox and Mascouten village visited by Fr. Membre in 1679.[1] In the years following Membre’s visit, Milwaukee flourished. By the beginning of the eighteenth century, it had grown to include nine villages with seven distinct tribes. The community’s diverse economy was based on hunting, fishing, and agriculture. A complex alliance system allowed the tribes to coexist peacefully. The late eighteenth century, however, signaled the last phase of American Indian dominance in the area. By that time, Milwaukee had emerged as a significant fur trading center and its people slowly became dependent upon European goods. The first decades of the nineteenth century brought a devastating small-pox epidemic and the beginnings of white settlement. By 1835, a wave of European immigrants poured into the area. Pressure from non-Indian settlement finally forced the city’s Native American residents to leave the community by the 1850s. This completed Milwaukee’s transition from Indian villages to white settlement.[2]

Milwaukee Stories

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These American Indian villages represent the opening chapters in the city’s history and, therefore, this anthology begins with a collection of Potawatomi, Fox, and Sauk stories. They were gathered by anthropologist Jeremiah Curtin and are included here with the original introduction by historian Harry Anderson. The stories emphasize the religious nature of the Potawatomi, Fox, and Sauk and their interactions with other tribes. They also demonstrate that the village Fr. Membre visited was just one stage in Milwaukee’s long evolution as a settlement.

Notes

[1] John Gurda, The Making of Milwaukee (Milwaukee, WI: Milwaukee County Historical Society, 1999), 2-7; Patty Loew, Indian Nations of Wisconsin: Histories of Endurance and Renewal (Madison, WI: Wisconsin Historical Society, 2001), 2-3,6; Stephen P. Servais, At the Trails Edge: American Indian Occupation of Milwaukee to 1850 (Master’s Thesis, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, 1998), 10-13. [2] Gurda, 9-12; Servais, 19-20, 3-35, 73-80.

Native Americans with Solomon Juneau (Milwaukee Early Views file)

Myths and Legends of Wisconsin Indians collected by

Jeremiah Curtin edited and arranged by

Harry H. Anderson Historical Messenger, Spring 1972 “You must not think that because there were no books and writings that my parents and grandparents gave me nothing. They taught me many things and I have always kept them in my heart.” A Potawatomi Indian to Jeremiah Curtin

I

Introduction

n the summer of 1883, the Bureau of American Ethnology sent one of its staff from Washington to Indian Territory (now Oklahoma) to collect material on the language and legends of the Indian tribes of that region. This investigator was Jeremiah Curtin, the Harvard-educated linguist, diplomat and scholar whose boyhood years were spent on his family’s farm near Hales Comers in rural Milwaukee County. While on this assignment in Indian Territory for parts of two years, Curtin was able to collect several hundred myths, legends and traditions from the Indians he visited. This number included a number of stories of the Potawatomis and Sauk and Fox Indians, both former Wisconsin tribes that had been removed to the trans-Mississippi region in the 1830’s. (Coincidentally, only a year or so after this removal took place, Curtin’s family had purchased 160

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Milwaukee Stories

acres from the United States government of what had formerly been Potawatomi tribal lands in Greenfield Township.) In 1966, when a quantity of Curtin’s papers were given to the Milwaukee County Historical Society by his nephew, Jeremiah Curtin Cardell, it was discovered that they included some field notes of material collected by Curtin among the former Wisconsin tribes in Indian Territory in 1883-84. Although Curtin published a number of books of myths and legends collected on his numerous travels throughout the world, including one volume on the creation myths of the American Indian, none of this Potawatomi or Sauk and Fox material has appeared in print. According to his autobiography, Jeremiah Curtin had been interested in the study of mythology from his early youth. For him myths (the term is used here in its classical meaning, as traditional stories that served to illustrate the world view of a people, or explain a practice of belief ) “carry us back through untold centuries to that epoch when man made the earliest collective and constant explanation of this universe and its origins.” As early as 1879, he had delivered lectures in Wisconsin on this subject, and it was while working on his book of Russian myths and folk-tales in Washington in 1882 that he met Major John Wesley Powell, head of the Bureau of American Ethnology. This acquaintanceship led to Curtin’s employment by the Bureau in 1883, his first field assignment being the collection of linguistic and folk-lore material among the Seneca Indians in upstate New York. Curtin was subsequently adopted into the Seneca tribe and given the name Hiwesas, “seeker of knowledge.” Following his work with the Senecas, Curtin was ordered to Indian Territory, again to study the Indian languages and gather data on tribal mythology. He arrived at Muskogee, capital of the Creek nation, in mid-December 1883, and during the winter worked among the Creek, Yuchi and Modoc tribes. On April 18, 1884, he traveled to the Sauk and Fox Agency. It was at this time, working among these former Wisconsin Indians in a location where the nearest railroad was 60 miles away and Kansas City 160 miles distant by stage coach, that Curtin probably acquired much of the material that is being published here.[1]

1 • Native American Milwaukee

19

Curtin’s description of his stay among the Sauk and Foxes provides some ideas of the techniques he used, and also of the problems he faced. “The Sauk and Fox Indians are secretive. It is difficult to obtain any of their traditions. I learned their language and took down a vocabulary, and got a number of myths, but this required several weeks, for I had to gain the confidence of the tribe.” Mrs. Curtin accompanied her husband in this field work and frequently acted as his stenographer or secretary. This is evidenced by the fact that much of the material in the field notes are in her handwriting. Curtin’s informants were elderly Indians, who still retained a knowledge and understanding of the old ways of Indian life. More often than not these old people, both men and women, possessed considerable native intelligence but did not have a working command of the English language. An interpreter was, therefore, usually necessary, although Curtin’s remarkable linguistic ability was invaluable in quickly giving him a basic knowledge of the tribal language so as to check on the accuracy of his interpreter or, when the situation required, to do his own translating. Undoubtedly Curtin’s skill in gaining command of his informant’s native language to open some form of direct communication was very instrumental in successfully breaking down the natural reluctance of the older Indians to talk to a white man about the old and often sacred traditions and customs of their people. The Indians also seemed to appreciate Curtin’s genuine interest in preserving a record of the old way of life, for as one Potawatomi informant put it (the language is that of the interpreter, or Mrs. Curtin) : “His grandfather taught his son and his father taught him. Now the old man has only small children and after he is dead there will be no one to keep up the rules.” This old Potawatomi warrior, a descendant of the great tribal chiefs of the old days, was the source for most of the material that follows about that tribe. The field notes do not contain his Indian name (Mrs. Curtin evidently was unable to catch the phonetic rendering). As a young man he was called Shawequet, which means “young corn just budding out in silk and starting to fade.” Then, while on the warpath, he killed and scalped an enemy, and returned to his people to announce he had a new name (the one which Mrs. Curtin missed). Translated, it meant circle, for as the Potawatomi explained it “when they dance

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Milwaukee Stories

the war dance they dance in a ring.” At the time he worked with the Curtins, this Indian was blind and, from some of the personal data in his stories, must have been almost ninty years of age. The Curtin notes gives this description of him at one of their talks: “He stood up here, an old blue plaided shawl around his eyes, and grey hair, a spotted blue shirt tied around the waist with a yellow and red woolen tie, and blue leggings tied with a red string under the knee.” It was at this particular meeting with the Curtins that the old Potawatomi warrior gave a very eloquent explanation for his willingness to talk with them about the old, sacred ways of his people. “This is told from the good feeling in my heart. This is the way I understand the Great Spirit and the spirit of all the animals. It is well for me to relate these things, that they may be given to the rising generation. You must not think that because there were no books and writings that my parents and grandparents gave me nothing. They taught me many things and I have always kept them in my heart, and I feel that I am doing right in giving them to you. I think it is the will of all the spirits, and it is easy for me to relate them to you for they came to me easily. And it is not hard for me to relate them. “I never gambled in my life. It is a very mean thing and it would cause me much trouble and my mind would have become troubled. I never have had bad feelings now against my enemies, though I’ve always had some enemies and I don’t wish evil of them. I have been examining the world since I was middle-aged and I found it was wrong to go with the wicked. And I decided as I realized that but a short life remained to me, and it was best to do right. “I had been tempted to steal but I have never yielded to the desire. This is why I told you the other day that our lives are running low and we have to look to the Great Spirits to give us life. You may think that we red men are weak. We are, of course, ignorant. Therefore, it is the will of God that gives you wisdom and intelligence. We know that there are good and bad spirits, and that if we do good, it is well, and if we do wrong the bad spirits will shorten our lives. [Here he stood up, as if to emphasize his conclusion] ... It has been said by some white men that the red men came from brutes, that they knew nothing. They must not think so. It is wrong. And they will sometime find their mistakes.”


21

It now seems appropriate, when popular interest in the history and cultural life of the American Indian appears to be at an all-time high in the United States, that these myths and legends should find their way into print. Their publication at this time would help fulfill the objective of the old Potawatomi when he talked with Curtin about these matters—that non-Indians would “find their mistakes,” as he put it, and gain some insight and understanding of the Indian way of life and its philosophical and spiritual foundations. As Curtin wrote in one of his books: “the Indian tales reveal to us a whole system of religion, philosophy and social polity . . . the whole mental and social life of the race to which they belong is evident in them.” Moreover, Curtin’s material takes on added significance when one recognizes that its great age adds to the authenticity of its presentation of an Indian way of life as it was lived “in the old times.” Curtin recorded these stories nearly a century ago, from informants who first heard them from their elders during a childhood that dates from the last decade of the eighteenth century. While European civilization had already, by that time, begun to make its influence felt upon the traditional native American culture that existed prior to white contact, Curtin’s information would be less affected by these forces than material gathered by ethnologists working after Curtin did in the 19th century, or in the more recent years of the twentieth century. As noted earlier, Curtin’s field notebooks for his work in Indian Territory contained material from both Potawatomi and Sauk and Fox sources. The Potawatomi data actually pertains to a period in the very early history of that tribe, when it was part of a unified grouping with the Chippewa and Ottawa. Thus, the seven stories labeled as Potawatomi may also be considered a part of the cultural heritage of the Chippewa and Ottawa as well. The Sauk and Fox material is also very ancient, but it is not clear whether this information was actually Sauk or Fox in origin, or dated back to the very early times when, it is believed, the two tribes shared a common origin. Both the Sauk and Fox and the Potawatomi were Algonkian group (Algonkian being one of the three major linguistic divisions, or families, among the American Indians). The Potawatomis were related to the Ottawas and Chippewas in both dialect and social organization,

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Milwaukee Stories

while the Sauk and Fox were more closely connected to the Wisconsin Menominis. Historically, early French-Canadian records locate the Potawatomis in northeastern Wisconsin in the early seventeenth century, and by 1700 they ranged all along the western and southern shores of Lake Michigan into the Chicago area and southern Michigan. They had several village sites on or near the Milwaukee River, and were the principal tribe in the Milwaukee region until 1833, when they ceded all their lands in southeastern Wisconsin by the Treaty of Chicago. Tribal traditions state that their old homeland was somewhere north and east of the Western Great Lakes. This is apparently the setting for the story presented as No. 8 below, describing how the groups known as the Potawatomi, Chippewa, and Ottawa were unified as one tribe. Again according to tradition, they separated once more into these three divisions at or near Mackinac Island sometime late in the prehistoric period. As is noted further on, however, the three tribes continued to regard themselves as part of a loose confederation known as the “Three Fires” as late as in the first half of the nineteenth century. As has been indicated, the Sauk and Fox were intimately related, perhaps at one time, centuries ago, having been one people who subsequently separated into two tribes and finally were reunited during the late 18th century. The Foxes were first identified as Wisconsin Indians by the French missionaries who reported, about 1670, that they were living near the Wolf and Fox Rivers (the latter probably getting its name from their residence along its banks). In the early 1700’s the Fox tribe became bitter enemies of the French, and engaged in a series of bloody wars against the Canadians and their Indian allies (including some neighboring Wisconsin tribes). By the last quarter of the eighteenth century, the Foxes had suffered severely from this warfare and, nearly annihilated, they were reunited with their close relatives, the Sauks. Thereafter, the combined tribes were generally referred to as one group, the “Sauk and Foxes.” The Sauks appear to have lived in lower Michigan shortly before the French penetrated to the Western Great Lakes. Saginaw, Michigan is said to mean “place (country) of the Sauk.” By 1674, however, pressure from other tribes had forced them into Wisconsin and they were found by the French living at the head of Green Bay and along


23

the Fox River. The tribe was still residing near Green Bay as late as 1721. They were allied with the Foxes during the bitter French-Fox wars of the eighteenth century. At the conclusion of these conflicts the two tribes were unified and by 1775, the Sauk and Fox had all but abandoned their Wisconsin homes and had moved across the Mississippi River to Iowa. In preparing the Curtin material for publication, nine stories were selected for transcription (about one-third of the total content of the notebooks). These seemed to be the ones that presented the best insights into the Wisconsin Indian mythology and legend, without becoming too detailed or involved in specific subject matter that would not interest the general reader. The selection was arbitrary, and others might have made different choices. Editorially, for continuity and ease in reading, sentence structure was provided for the rough notes, along with other necessary paragraphing and punctuation. In some instances it was necessary to supply some minor additions where the original material was incomplete or unclear, and to make omissions where it was excessively repetitious; but this was done in keeping with what appeared to be Curtin’s practice in editing his field notes for publication. Basically an attempt has been made to provide a final product that is both interesting and informative, yet faithful to the original thoughts and statements of Curtin’s informants. The result, it is hoped, will be two-fold: to broaden the understanding and appreciation of non-Indians for the beliefs and practices of Native Americans, and help them, as the old Potawatomi put it, to “find their mistakes.” At the same time, perhaps the Indian people of Wisconsin will now have a readily available body of authentic information about the “old ways” that will assist their current efforts to preserve their Indian heritage and pass on its benefits to their children. Harry H. Andersen Almost every Indian tribe in North America possessed its own version of how the Great Spirit created the earth and its first inhabitants. Under close analysis these creation myths often provided clues to the ancient homeland of tribes, which by the time the narratives were recorded, had migrated far from their place of origin. The following Sauk and Fox myth of the world’s creation is typical of the Algonkian account of these

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Milwaukee Stories

beginnings, and illustrates quite vividly the important role played by the spirits, or manitous, in both tribal ceremonies and the individual life of the Native American. There also existed among most tribes a parallel group of stories which explained the growth and development of social-ceremonial systems. The second of Curtin’s Sauk and Fox myths deals with the origin of the great war medicine ceremony of that tribe. Throughout this material, the term “medicine” is used nearly always to refer to the mystical power, or spiritual force, that was believed to possess such great influence in all aspects of Indian life. Only infrequently, and when specifically noted does “medicine” relate to the science of healing disease.

1. Creation Story of the Sauk and Fox Indians.

The Sauk and Fox say that the Great Spirit first created a man. After this he began to study his work and thought perhaps it would be a good thing if he would create someone else to be with the man. And so the Great Spirit put the man to sleep. While he was asleep, he took a rib out of him and created a woman. And then he asked the man, “Who is this that is with you? Do you know this person?” The man said, “Yes. This is some of my own flesh.” And the Great Spirit said this was correct, and that he made her for his companion. The Great Spirit also said that he had taken yellow clay to make an Indian, and that he had made him in his own image. Then he had blown his breath into the Indian and had made the world for him to live in. The Great Spirit said, “And I have sown a seed that it may grow, and you may get your living from it. And I created all animals and you should have power over all animals, and you shall get your meat in this way. And I will also give you a weed to keep. This is Indian tobacco.” And he also said, “You will have a grandfather, Ickote, the fire, who will be with you all the days of your life and he will always be in front of you. When you have trouble and if you have anything to offer, you shall go to the grandfather and give it to him for me. Whatever you wish, let your grandfather know and he will let me know.” Then the Great Spirit told the man, “This is all I have to say to you at present. Now I am going to let your brothers know that you are living.” And then the Great Spirit went to work.


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There are four other great spirits, one at the North, the South, and the East and West. He called these four and also those below them, to come to a council. After they all came to the council, the Great Spirit told them, “The reason I invited you to come was to tell you that I have created a man and woman.” And he told the spirits that he thought they were lonely and that he had made their lives too short. The Great Spirit said, “I have given men the weed, tobacco, and I have presented them their grandfather, fire, to be with them all their lives.” And he said, “Whenever these people think that they ought to offer a prayer, they shall take the weed along and offer to you spirits by sending it in your direction through their grandfather, fire. Whenever they do this, you must do what they wish.” The Great Spirit said, “Perhaps they will make sacrifices and ask for a long life. There also shall be wars between the people, and whenever they sacrifice and ask to conquer their enemies, you shall give them the victory. And if they offer their prayers to me, I will answer them also.” Then the Great Spirit said to the other spirits, “Now you can go back where you belong so that these people may know where you are.” This is the reason the Indians have many spirits to worship besides the Great Spirit. The whole world is full of spirits or Manitous. This man and woman created by the Great Spirit were the first humans, and all the Indian families sprang from them. The Great Spirit also gave them their grandfather, fire, and said whenever they wish anything they should take coal from the grandfather, blacken their faces and fast. After this the Indian taught their children that if they wish to know anything, or to make anything of themselves, they shall take up the coal from the fire and blacken their faces and fast. The young people who fast sometimes fast for two or three days off in the woods by themselves, and call on the Great Spirit. Some of them even fast for twenty days. Those who fast that long, at the end of ten days they make a soup in a wooden bowl and drink it, and they have nothing more till the end of ten more days. The soup is made out of corn. While they are fasting, the spirit tells them in a dream, “I heard your prayer. Now you can go home and eat.” And they go home after the dream.

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Some think their prayers have not been answered as they would like, and they go and fast again, until they dream again. Sometimes when they have these dreams, and the spirit tells them to go home and eat, the spirit shows them food in the bowl. If the food is meat it means that they will see and conquer their enemies. In these dreams the spirit sometimes shows them an otter skin, and they are then to wear the otter skin when they go against their enemies. The spirit that answers their prayers also shows them what they call “war medicine.” The war leader is to take a buffalo skull, the tail and the four legs down to the hoofs. These medicines were made by the first people who were creative. They were shown to the people in the dream and have been handed down ever since. The Indians understand that the Great Spirit has told the other spirits that whenever the people offer sacrifices, they are to answer their prayers. That is why they keep making offerings and asking things of different spirits. Whenever the Indians get up a feast they have about ten pots of different kinds of food. They call attention to a certain pot and offer tobacco to the great spirit first, and afterwards they name different spirits and offer the other pots of food to them. They throw the tobacco in the fire and name a spirit, and say they offer a certain part of the food to that spirit. They throw in the tobacco first and then name the spirit. As soon as the pots are on the fire, they begin piling up the tobacco, putting it in ten piles in front of each pot. And in the center is the pot for the great spirit and a second one for the grandfather. They offer a pot to a spirit and he is to tell the other spirits of their request. When the spirits gave these people the medicine ceremonies, they also taught them songs to sing at the feast. Every medicine ceremony has a different song and every song must go with its medicine, otherwise the medicine will have no effect. And there is always someone who has this medicine, who knows the songs that have been handed down from generation to generation and sings them. They say that it is the wish of the Great Spirit that they should learn these songs, and they have been handed down from the first people. And whenever they worship, the Great Spirit is always first.


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The people are taught that while they are fasting they should either ask for the life of their enemy or a long life for themselves, or riches. They must not ask for more than one of these at a time. The main spirits that are worshipped by the Indians are the Great Spirit and the other four, the North, East, West and South—five in all. They also have one spirit they call the ruler of war and another the spirit that looks after sickness. The thunders are spirits, and are ranked above the spirits who are under the ground. And there is a spirit under the ground that is greatest of all things that are under the ground and the sea. The thunder is the ruler of everything between the clouds and the heavens. The Great Spirit has placed four spirits above with him, and one under the earth and seas. There are also the spirit of wars and sickness, eight in all. The Great Spirit has the four, North, South, East and West, to help him to protect the earth and hold the earth and heavens up. The Great Spirit gave the thunders work to do to give rain and water to the world. And the spirit of war is to look after the wars. The Great Spirit has created things so that there will always be wars. And the spirit of sickness is to look after the health of the people, those who will die and those who will get well. The spirit under the ground has charge of the waters, springs, and rivers. All these spirits have others to help them, but they themselves are the ones that are subject to the Great Spirit. They have each their work to do. These eight spirits are next to the Great Spirit, but the trees and earth and animals and everything have a certain amount of power—some have a great deal of it. The Indian people worship many kinds of animals, except the deer, beaver and most fowls which nearly all, they say, have no power. The Sauk and Fox have five different kinds of war medicine. One they call the great medicine, and this is for the war leader to take. The second is the medicine for the wounded, and the other three are buffalo medicine. The three men who carry the buffalo medicine have it in the bag with their personal medicine symbols. Whenever they are ready to make a charge against the enemy, they put these things on their heads or arms for power. When the men of the buffalo medicine get wounded, they all go to the bird clan for healing medicine. Their personal medicine is for good luck. The medicine they take to

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cure themselves is not for ordinary sickness. It is only used for people wounded in war, and not for home illnesses. The sacred medicine is only for wounds in war, and to give victory in war.[2] Every clan has its own medicine and carries it wrapped up in buckskin. One man is selected to carry it on the warpath. The big war medicine is always carried by the war leader, or he appoints someone to walk behind him and carry it for him. Every man on the war party has his own bag and carries his personal medicine in it. Whenever the dream of the war leader is answered, the Great Spirit shows him five or ten pieces of meat in a bowl. This means that he shall kill that many men. When he starts out with his party and gets near the enemy, he calls his men together and tells them his dream. And then the four different medicine clans run to see who shall kill the first man. The war leader gets his glory, but the first who kills an enemy is also a hero. The war leader gets praise from all for leading out his men, and becomes a head man. If his party killed five men the men who have done the killing are regarded as important men. If the leader brings a scalp home, and a son has been killed from a family any time before, he brings the scalp and gives [it] to that family. When the party arrives home, they put the scalp on a pole and have a dance called the scalp dance. This is the chief dance of all dances. When the war leader gets home to his village, he goes once around the village. The man that kills the first enemy takes the lead from the battleground to the village, and he carries the scalp and walks around the village once. And then this war party dances for four days and nights. They put up a long post and dance around the post. Only members of the party and their women take part in the dancing. The other men of the village just look on. During the four nights of dancing the leader who went out with them gives a big feast and calls in all his clan, and the men who killed men have to stand up all night. They pick out a woman from each of these men’s clans to stand up with them, and the women do this to show they are proud of their men. The men who have done the killing paint with clay, and plait up grass and wear around their necks that night. Just at sunrise the dance ends, and the war leader tells his people to go home. The Chief of the village tells all the young men, “You see these men, see what they gained. If you


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wish to be like them, blacken your face and fast. And if you do well, the spirits will answer your wishes.” All the old men talk to the children and young men and tell them to fast if they wish to be great man. A great many men lose their lives by fasting and going to war, but they believe in this custom and were brought up to it. The young men who desire to be warriors go away off alone, make a house out of grass and fast. Perhaps some old man would go and see how they got on, or some of their fathers. Otherwise they were alone. And all they lived for was to be like the warriors of their tribe. The elders did not try to enlighten them in any other way. Fasting and warfare were the main objects in life. The only training they gave the young men would be to always tell their young men to get on the right side of the enemy when the enemy was running away. They could use bow and arrow better from right side. On the warpath, each man has a fawn skin and in this way kept their medicine. When they are going to charge an enemy, they take out a root from the medicine bag and fasten it between the teeth.[3]

2. Origin of the Sauk and Fox War Medicine

The great medicine of the Sauk tribe was given first to a warrior whose name is no longer remembered. He fasted and received it in a dream. When he was a young man, his father and mother told him to take up the fire, blacken his face and fast, and the spirits would take mercy upon him. He was afraid and would not do it. His father never gave up, and always kept telling him he must do it, but the young man said he wanted to eat and would not do it. Finally, he ran off and went to some of his kinfolk and they told him he must fast. He left there and went to others, and they told him the same thing. He went around to all his kinfolk and all told him the same thing. Then he left all his kin and went to other people, but they also told him that he must take up the fire and fast. After he found that all of his tribe gave him the same advice, he left his own people and went to another tribe where he could speak and understand the language, but they were telling their boys and young men that they must fast, and they also told him the same thing.

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Now he gave it up, and concluded that he never could find a place where they could always eat without fasting. And so he went back to his father. He had been gone three or four years. His father and mother loved him, and his father told his mother to make some hominy for his breakfast, as they knew he was fond of eating that dish. They were glad to see him, and he them. And he threw himself down to sleep. Next morning his mother brought him the hominy, but he paid no attention to it. He lay right where he was and did not eat the food. The father laughed because his son would not eat the breakfast they had prepared for him. He did not know how his son’s feelings had changed. For ten days the son remained where he had first lain down, not eating a thing. After ten days, he ate a little soup. Then after another ten days he ate a little more. Then his father began to think that his son was going to amount to something after all, and he ordered a fasting house to be built for him a little way out from the village. The father was head chief of the village. The young man was willing and anxious to go to this place that was fixed for him. His father arranged everything around the house, and even had a guard set up so nobody would disturb him. The young man stayed at this house fasting for four years, every ten days eating a little pounded corn made into a soup. The village remained as headquarters of the tribe. They went out to hunt in summer but returned in winter. And the place where the fasting house of the chief ’s son was watched all the time to see that no one went near it, especially women. At the end of four years two young women, great friends were talking, and one said to the other, “Do you remember that boy who was so afraid to fast? He has been out there now four years. I wish we could see him.” They decided to go, and they found the house. The door was made of buckskin. They went up and both looked in through the hole where the deer had been shot. And as the young man saw them, he fell over and fainted or died, and the girls, frightened, ran home and never told anyone what they had done. Next day, when his father went to see him as he did every day, he found his son lying there as if he were dead. He looked as though he had been dead a day, and the old man went back to the village and said that his son was dead. The people gathered around him and asked what was the matter, and he told them he did not know what had


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killed him. Then the people wanted to go and see for themselves, but the head men said, “He had fasted a great many years, and he must be very powerful. Perhaps he would come to life if left alone.” And the father was instructed to go and see his son alone again. When he got there he found him sitting up and he told his son, “I came to visit you the other day and you were dead.” The son said, “Yes, I died. Two young girls came and looked at me. That was what killed me.” He said, “Father, these people of yours want to see me badly. They shall see me tomorrow by noon. You go home. There is a swamp near the village. Go there, and at the east end have two white dogs killed, and placed there. And on the south side, put two black dogs, and on the west side, two yellow dogs, and on the north, two spotted ones. After you do this bring all your people, young and old, and carry those who are too old to walk and have all stand outside these dogs. And each shall have tobacco in their hand. After all are there and ready, come and tell me and you shall learn who those two young women were who came to see me.” The Chief got everything arranged as his son ordered, and told him so. He then told his father, “Go on, and after you get to where the people are, I will start.” After the father got back, the young man started and when he came into sight he saw a great many people. And he went between the people and the dogs. He went to the east first, and when he got to where the dogs were, he stamped his feet on the ground. He went around to the south and then to the west, and every time he got to the dogs, he stamped his feet. When he got to the north, he stopped. When he stopped, right in the center of the swamp the grass and saplings and other things all began to move a little, and the water began to spread. It rose till it came clear up to the dogs forming a lake. When it got to be a lake, a great elk was seen standing alive on top of the water. The people saw this and began to throw their tobacco into the lake. As they all threw it into the water and worshipped this animal, the elk went down again and sank out of sight. After the elk went under the water, the two girls who had looked through the hole at the young man were raised off the ground from among the people. They moved over the water till they came to the

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spot where the elk had stood, and then they also disappeared in the water. Before this all the young women had been questioned and asked if they were the ones that had peeked in at the young man. All had denied doing it. Now the young man went with his father back to the house in the woods, and told his father to have his young men go hunting the next day and bring in a buck. Ten young men were sent out to hunt. At that very time, other parties were coming in to attack this tribe, and they sent out a scout to see how the village was defended. And the ten hunters came upon him and killed him and brought his scalp back to the village. This was the buck the young man meant, an enemy. And his father went and informed him that they had brought in a buck. He told his father to have the skin of the buck’s head well-preserved. And the next day he instructed his father to send out twenty men to a certain place, and to bring in two bucks, one with peculiar horns. When the twenty reached the place, they lay there in hiding. Soon they saw two men coming, and killed them. After they got back to the village the father went and told him that the young men had got two bucks. He told him as before to have the scalps well dressed. And he said to his father, “Send out as many of your young men as want to go tomorrow to the same place.” All the village went, both young men and old. He had told his father they were to kill three bucks. As the party got to the place, three men came and they killed them. His father returned and told the son and he said, “Send them tomorrow to bring in four bucks. This will be the last trip.” The whole village went. Four men came, and they killed them. His father told his son, “They have brought in four bucks,” and he told the father to take good care of them. Now said he, “We will make a feast. What the great spirits have given me, I am going to fix up. Be here tomorrow before noon and I will have things ready. And you will fix them up for me.” The father went the next day to the son’s house, and when he got there he saw two live otters. He did not see how they got there, and after he looked at them awhile and then looked again he saw there was nothing but the skins of the otters. And he dressed the skins so they would dry. The father did not know when the flesh was taken out of


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the otters. When he first came, they were alive. As he stood there and looked again, the flesh was gone. Then the young man said, “We are through now. You have gained four victories already. Now go home and have a feast. Have your house fixed and in front of your house have a road made, with all the ground loosened up where I shall come in and bring the otters.” After the father had his house fixed up and the pots were on, then the young man started for the house. After the fourth time that he sent out the warriors he came home with the otter skins, had a feast and this was origin of the scalp dance. When a war party comes back to their village they close their otter skins and at the end of the four days and nights of dancing they open them and then close them and put them away. The Sauks say that this young man was the most powerful in all the Sauk nation, and did more for his people by founding this great war medicine. The reason that he had the dogs placed at the four points was to mark the boundary of the lake. After the water rose they disappeared in it.[4]

II

There was considerable emphasis in the life of an Indian on warfare, and the individual’s role as a warrior. Social standing and personal prestige often, depended upon a man’s achievements in this area. However, the marked tendency of many non-Indians to view (and to write about) Indian warfare, military organization and discipline as being similar to white practices is grossly in error. Individuality played a much greater role in the Indian scheme of things, and a vital force in any warrior’s life was his relationship to his personal spirits or manitous. Following are five “warrior stories” illustrating a number of aspects of this spirit-human relationship, ranging from the preparation and training of a great war leader (Waoniska), through the various ways the spirits assisted in Indian warfare, to the tale of a great warrior who thought himself powerful enough to challenge one of the spirits.

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3. Waoniska: The Making of a Great Warrior (Potawatomi)

There was a man, a Potawatomi, who had a large family of children, and one day he decided his boy, Waoniska was old enough to fast. He said to the boy, “Why don’t you fast?” But the boy refused to fast, and he wandered away off and went around with other boys. And whenever night overtook them he stayed where he was. He was afraid to go home for fear his father would make him fast. And Waoniska got up and went off. And wherever he stopped, he heard something about fasting and he would then always start for some new place. And at last he had traveled from one house to another, and from one settlement to another; but everywhere, he heard about the fasting. At last he left the settlements and roamed far off to a distant village. He stayed there all night in a house, and next morning those people told their children they must fast. And so it was at every house in this settlement. Then he went off to another tribe far away, stayed till he understood the language and then they told him he must fast. He traveled all over the land, but it was always the same. And again, he would wander off. Then he got lost, had no friends, no clothes, and he was now no longer a boy, but a young man. Then he thought and studied and at last after much wandering, he got back to his own tribe and there he saw all the young boys fasting. But none would associate with him because it was known he had refused to fast. When he returned to his home village, his tribe was planning to go on its fall hunt with all the villages in the neighborhood. They all started off hunting and he was left alone. Everybody hated him and would have nothing to do with him. He remained after they left, and picked up old leggings, moccasins, and things thrown away, and he dressed in these. Sometimes he would find a few ears of corn from the field and he tried to live on them. At last one night feeling very sad, alone, and without food, he thought he would go to his father and mother and be obedient to them. The next morning he began to fast and started back to his parents. As he was on the way he heard a dog barking, and as he came near the house his father sent out one of his little brothers to see who was coming. The boy ran back and said, “Waoniska is coming.” And as


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Waoniska opened the door and went in, his father said, “Well, who told you to fast? I see by the mark on your face you are fasting. All our people fast but you have always refused. Has any spirit come to tell you to fast?” Then his father was silent. In the morning, when he woke up, he was to eat and the night before he had determined not to eat. When food was placed by him the next morning, he had blackened his face and ate nothing. At noon they gave him a little soup. Next morning he fasted again and every morning thereafter he fasted. Then one morning he took his father’s bow and arrow and started off. His father said, “Don’t carry them off,” but he paid no attention. He traveled on all day without eating. At night he came home bringing a willow stick, just as tall as he was and hung it up. The father said, “What are you going to do with that stick?” Waoniska did not respond. Next morning he put the stick in the fire and burned it until it got black. Then he took it out of the fire and put it to one side. He took his father’s bow and arrow again and his father said, “Don’t take those.” But the mother said, “Why do you stop him? He has come to his senses now. He will do right,” and she went to work and she made her son a pair of moccasins. The father did not interfere again, but let his son take his own course. From that time on, Waoniska fasted regularly. Every time he went to fast, he would take a piece of the burnt willow and blacken his face. And he used a little every day, till the willow was used up. Then he went out and brought in some deer meat. This went on for a year. His parents saw he was doing right in every way. Three or four years later, a party that had been on the warpath returned, crying, and came to him asking him to go with them and lead them. They believed he knew how to find and capture the enemy. He told his father and his father said, “No. You shall not go. You cannot lead a war party, but you can go with them. When you have killed one or two of the enemies, then you can take the lead.” The war party started again. Waoniska took no weapon with him, not even a knife. He had nothing but his blanket. As they went along, camping and killing buffalos, he took one of the buffalo bladders, filled it with air, and hung it up on a tree. Next morning he took the bladder down, softened it, stretched it and painted it red. Then he tied it on

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his head. The others said, “Well, Waoniska, what are we going to do to conquer our enemies. Where are your weapons?” He said nothing, but took one of their knives and carved up a piece of dogwood. It took a good while for it had a knob on it. He made himself a war club out from this, fixed it up and practiced throwing it. And his friends saw him and asked, “What are you doing. [sic] What are you going to do with it?” And he answered, “I know what I am doing. I do not trouble you with questions. You ask so often what I am doing. I am making a war club to kill our enemies.” And the older people in the war party told the others not to annoy him with any more questions. They said, “When this man was a boy he was poor and wandered long, and after he came back he fasted many years. Perhaps some powerful spirit is guiding him. He must be left alone.” After many days they came to a large encampment of their enemy. They camped nearby and their leader saw the village was large and its warriors would outnumber them. And he told his war party that it would be better for them to go back, and not attack the place. When they heard this, some wanted to go back, and others to remain. The leader said, “We shall be killed to the last one if we attack.” Then Waoniska said, “Let me get up,” and he painted his buffalo bladder red, and his war club red, and he said to his party, “I was not to take the lead but to follow. Some of you now [want] to go back, and others to attack. If our leader is afraid, I will take his place and make the attack.” Some of the party said, “What is the use? Waoniska has been a bad man; how can he have strength to lead?” But some of the old ones told them to stop this talk and not abuse him. They said that perhaps some spirit had given him strength when he fasted. Some objected to Waoniska leading them, and some favored it. At last those who objected said, “Why don’t you tell us your experiences so we may have confidence in you.” Waoniska said, “I am willing to tell you. I have fasted many years and I have the power given me by the spirit. And if you obey me, I will not make an attack, but I will go by myself right through this settlement and I’ll cause all these people to be senseless. Then you can march in and capture the place.”


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All agreed. Waoniska said, “Tomorrow I will start.” Next morning he said, “We will get close to the settlement. But they will not hear us, so they will know nothing of our movements.” Next morning he painted his body red, threw his clothes away and told his band to follow his example. All stripped and painted red, and started. As they marched toward the enemy village, Waoniska called on the names of the spirits that helped him. He told his people to form in a line and to follow him, and not look in any direction but straight at him, as he would change into different forms. “And as we start, you must do as I do and make the same noise.” As they started, Waoniska made a deep noise like a “Yaw, Yaw.” This noise frightened the people in the settlement and they ran out to see what it was, and they dropped to the ground and could not move. And Waoniska went through the village and then took his war club and said, “This is what the spirit gives me the power to do.” And he killed the first man and then he said to his people, “Now kill all our enemies,’’ and they killed them all. The Western spirit was the one who gave him this power. They took the whole settlement prisoner and then Waoniska told the older leader to lead the war party back home. But he said, “No. I’ll take your medicine bag back on my back, but you shall be leader.” And Waoniska consented.[5]

4. Wamenmat: The Power of a Dreamer (Potawatomi)

A young couple, a Potawatomi man and his wife, started off on a journey alone. The man’s name was Wamenmat. This person knew a great deal; he dreamed strange dreams that always came true. And he could also do powerful things. One day he told his wife that he had a dream that they were going to have trouble and probably there would be war. He said, “There will be no one around us, and I will go off alone. A strange man will come, this man, or others with him, will capture you. When they capture you, now and then, as you travel along, you must remember me and call me by my name and say, “Why is it that you do not come and rescue me? You used to say you were a powerful man.”

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The man went off on a hunt, but his mind began to be troubled and he hurried home. When he got back he found his house burning and still smoking. He knew that the enemy had taken his wife captive, and he looked up to where his war club and medicine bag were hung in a tree. He found they were still there. The enemy had not seen them. He took them and started, and soon got on their trail. He saw them ahead, and turned off into a ravine to get beyond them. After getting in front of the party, he opened his medicine bag and took out his war clothes and red paint and fixed himself up as a warrior. And as they got near, he heard his wife say, “Why doesn’t Wamenmat come? He used to tell me he was brave and strong. Why don’t you save me?” He sprang out of hiding and said, “I am here.” And as he came up he took out an otter hide and ran a stick in the hide, and he took out his medicine and sang his war song. “Let them be so frightened they won’t be able to move,” he said. And he looked at the enemy and saw them begin to stagger and fall. And he kept singing his song, and at last all fell to the ground as though dead. His wife looked at him and she knew him. And he said, “I thought you said you loved me. Take one of their clubs and club them.” And she took the club and knocked the enemy unconscious. Then they bound them. They took their captives and started off towards a Potawatomi settlement where they knew these men were going. As they got near the village they heard someone, a woman, whoop, and it sounded far off ahead. This was the woman, Wamenmat’s wife, who sent her voice ahead to announce their coming. All the people of the village gathered together, as the man and woman came up with their prisoners. And the people knew him. They were the couple who had left long years ago. The prisoners were of another people, and the Potawatomis took fire and put [it] under their arms, and wrapped them in reeds and threw them in the fire. That was their custom. The people of the village were Potawatomis who had formerly lived in the East, but they came on the warpath towards the West. And it was the spirit of the otter that so frightened the warriors who captured Wamenmat’s wife.


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5. How the Spirits Aided a Warrior (Potawatomi)

Some people wild like ghosts can never be seen when they are out hunting. You could hear them call and when he was out and heard them he saw lots of game. The spirits were hunting, and they helped the Indians in hunting. And they lived in the world before this and when this world was made, they were brought here and scattered around. They live everywhere. They are like spirits, can never be seen, but they call out and they hunt. When people go to war there is a great excitement. Once, when two tribes were at war, one party was being chased by another, and the leading men said, “We won’t stop to eat. We will go on or they will overtake us.” Later, they would stop and cook their meat and sometime eat on the way, when out of sight of the enemy. Then, after the enemies would overtake them, they would be strong and the enemies weak, and the enemy would be defeated and run away. Then the people would pursue them and the enemy would scatter. One of the warriors got shot. This fellow dropped and lay there, the blood running out of his wound. His friends scattered and left him. This man lay in a hollow, and when the enemy came back they scalped all but this man, and went off without seeing him. Soon he came to, looked around, saw all his friends dead and said to himself, “I might as well follow on and die, too.” He took some leaves, put them on his wound and started. When he started to hunt the remainder of his party he soon saw a couple of men coming towards him. They called to him, “Hello. You still alive?” “Yes.” “Come on and let us dress your wound.” He went up to them, and they dressed his wound. And then they gave him food to eat and told him to sit down and rest. He sat down, laying his bow and arrow by his side. At that moment, the two men turned to foxes. One snatched the bow and arrow and started off on the run. And the man called out, “Father. Bring back my arrow. Give me my bow and arrow.” As soon as he said, “Father,” the fox who had his bow and arrow dropped them. And the man picked them up and went on. He had gone but a short distance when two other men came up, and called

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out as they approached, “Hello. You still alive? Come and let us bind up your wound.” He let them. They gave him food. And as he laid down his bow and arrow to eat, they turned into two bears, and ran off with his weapons. He called to them and begged them to come back. He called them “kin” and “cousin” and “brother,” but they paid no heed until he said, “Father,” and then they dropped his bow and arrow. He went on and soon saw eight persons coming toward him, whooping and screaming. And when they got near, he saw the first four were painted black and the second four were painted white. They said, “Hello. Are you still alive?” “Yes.” “You are badly wounded.” “Yes.”’ “Let us dress your wound.” The eight persons talked to him. They said, “We are sent to conduct you home. You are lost. You don’t know where you are going. But we had mercy on you and came to take care of you. But we will get you food first.” They went out a little ways and soon brought back plenty of game, built a fire and roasted it. Then said, after he ate, “Now, get ready. We will conduct you home.” They said, “Follow us, and make your steps in ours, for others will follow and find you if you don’t. But if you step in our steps, they will not find you.” He did so. At mid-day, they would stop and hunt and give him food. In this way they traveled on for eight days. Then they told him, “Now make your home here. We are not human beings, but we are animals. But we pitied you and we have done all we could to help you. And if you go to fight again, we will help you and make you strong. And, we beasts, deer, wolves, and so on, will give ourselves up to you for food when you are hungry in order to give you health.” The eight persons had a long talk with him that night and gave him advice. They told him he should not rub his face anymore with charcoal or fast. “You must not fast, but ask our spirits for help and we will come to you.” Next morning the eight persons said, “We will leave you and go to our place; but we will put up a stake. When you get to that, look far


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off and you will see a second stake, and when you get to that, look far off and you will see another. And when you get to the third, you will see a trail and that is your road home.” When the eight got ready to go away, they were all in the form of a person. The man watched them get ready, and they bade him goodbye and told him not to forget what they had told him. Then, as they started off, they began to holler and he saw the four that were painted black turn into black wolves and the other four turn into gray wolves, and they ran off fast. He saw the stake and then found all three in turn as they had said. And at the third one, he came to the trail which he recognized as the one he had traveled on before. He could hardly believe it. As he traveled on, he recalled that the wolves had told him he would get home and find his mother still alive. He got to her place and found her, and said, “Mother. I have come back.” And she said, “No, my son has been dead for years.” And he said, “Yes, I am your son,” and he began to tell her the names of all his kin. And she believed him, and then he called to all the people and told them of all his experiences. He told them what the wolves had advised him to do, and he said, “The Creeks and Cherokees have killed many of us. Now we must go and take revenge, for I have strength and help from the wolves and can kill them.’” They went and killed many of their enemies. And all were afraid of him for he was so strong because he was helped by those eight persons, the wolves. And the other tribes were afraid of him, too, and the war feeling began to die down. He lived to be very old, and he had a great influence over the Indians. The Great Spirit had given him much power. After a long time, when he had become very old, he died—He was one of the Potawatomi tribe, but his name is no longer remembered.

6. Wegicgomet: A Spirit War Leader (Potawatomi)

A Potawatomi party started from the East to war against the Osages. Their leader was named Wegicgomet. He came from above and was sent by spirits. He delighted in warfare, and came down to earth for

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that purpose. When he got down he found it was very cold and a great deal of snow, and he traveled a long time before he reached the Potawatomis. And the people heard of him and they wanted to know where his house and his country was. The Potawatomi thought, when they saw him, that he must live near the Osage Indians. They were frightened when they saw him, and at first held a council to make ready to fight him. Then he told them he had found his own people, and the Potawatomi asked this man to lead them against their enemies, the Osages, who had left their village to go out on a hunt. He agreed, and they came to a high bank, a hundred feet high, with a low swamp on the other side, and over there the Osages were camped. As the Potawatomi approached the camp they heard shooting. It was an Osage out hunting, and Wegicgomet said, “I will kill that person.” In an instant, Wegicgomet got behind the Osage, and with one blow killed him. Then there was war. Wegicgomet also took the leadership of a band of Ottawas that was with the Potawatomis and they fought together against the Osages. The Osage tribe had one warrior who was helped by the spirits, and he was as powerful as Wegicgomet who came from above. And they had a very hard struggle. One Ottawa woman and one Potawatomi woman had accompanied the war party to the scene of the fight. The women were told to go back and keep in the rear, and as they did so they passed an Osage hidden in the bushes. Wegicgomet heard the women shout that there was someone hiding who did not belong to their tribe. He went to investigate; and as the women gave the alarm to the other Potawatomis, they all turned back and suddenly saw that the Osage who was in hiding had killed the leader that came from heaven. Then one of the warriors who was with Wegicgomet killed the Osage who had shot him. The Potawatomis did not follow the Osages very far, but went to where the Osage had camped and camped there. Then some of the Wegicgomet band went out and killed a bear. They skinned it and stretched it, and then rolled Wegicgomet up in the bear skin. Then they started on their return journey, carrying Wegicgomet along. He was shot through and through the body. And all that winter, as they moved from one camp to the other, they carried Wegicgomet with them. At last they got back to their own country and Wegicgomet was well as ever.


7. The Warrior Who Challenged the Great Western Spirit (Potawatomi)

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Once there was a Potawatomi warrior whose name is no longer remembered. He is simply referred to as a great warrior. He took his braves and went out to make war, and every night they praised the different spirits. Once when they had camped for the night, one of the braves got up and said, “I am a great man. I am very strong. I am afraid of nothing, not even that spirit out in the West, that great red man. I am not afraid of him. I could kill him.” Again they traveled, and some of the party were talking of the matter, thinking that the warrior had not done right to speak so of the great red man. And when they camped and praised the spirits again, they said, “You have not done well to speak so of this great red man. He is the one who helped us in war, he is very powerful.” But others spoke up and said, “No. Our warrior has said the truth. He is a great man, and can do as he says.” Next night they camped and praised the spirits. But again some of the party said, “The warrior has not done right to abuse our guide, the great Western spirit.” But others said, “No. Our brave is powerful. He can destroy the Western spirit. He is more powerful.” The next day they camped and again praised the spirits, and again the warrior boasted that he could kill any spirit that came. And the others said, “You know that all our strength comes from spirits.” His friends stood up for him. When all the discussion was over and they lay down to sleep, they heard the red man coming, roaring. And in each hand he had a cane, and as he approached one cane struck the ground with a heavy thump and then the other cane came down with a terrible thump. And he circled around the fire and grunted heavily. And some called out, “Grandfather, don’t kill us. Spare us, grandfather.” The leader of the war party cried out to the men to stir up the fire. And all were terribly frightened. The warrior who had boasted took his club and struck around trying to kill the spirit, but all at once he became motionless and fell to the ground. The red man went around the camp fire four times. It was a long fire and each time he went around it he roared terribly. The last time he listened to the good men

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who were burning tobacco and giving offerings to him, and then he went off and disappeared. And then they said to the friends of the boasting warrior, “Why didn’t you pitch in and kill the red man? Why didn’t your friend kill him? You were powerless. The red man is a great spirit and hereafter we must never abuse him, but always praise him, for it is he who gives us strength.” Then they went on and when they came upon their enemy the boaster was the first man who was killed and one by one, all his friends who were on his side against the red man were killed. But all the friends of the red man escaped and returned home.

III

The two final Potawatomi stories are both the semi-historical in nature, although the account of how the Potawatomis, Ottawas and Chippewas became one tribe refers to a period in time far earlier than the date of any traditional historical sources. In fact, the earliest written references to these people occur after they had once again separated into three individual tribal groups. There is much evidence, nevertheless, that the association described in this story did take place at some distant time in the past. As late as the Treaty of Chicago in 1833, tribal spokesmen referred to the “brother-relationship” between the Potawatomis, Chippewas and Ottawas. The last of the Curtin narratives is much more recent, and in fact, could probably be regarded as a “historical” document. It appears to refer to events in the wars of the mid-eighteenth century between the Wisconsin Algonkian tribes and their neighbors to the South, the great Illinois confederation. The old, blind Potawatomi warrior, after relating this story, told Curtin that as a boy he had seen captive women and children of the Peoria tribe who had been taken as prisoners by his people, evidently during the last stages of these conflicts.

8. How the Chippewas, Potawatomis and Ottawas Became One People

In old times three tribes, the Chippewas, Potawatomis and Ottawas were enemies and used to war a great deal against each other for a very long time. One Chippewa had ten children, all boys, and he used to go with the warriors, and at last all his ten sons were killed. And also an Ottawa went with the warriors, and he had ten children, and they


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all got killed. And a Potawatomi had ten children and all his sons were killed. So, the three fathers were left without children. The Chippewa mourned so for his sons that he wept long, and, at last, determined to wander far off away from all his kin and tribe, and die by himself. The Ottawa felt the same way. He wandered off and hunted a place to die. And the Potawatomi did the same. The Chippewa, when he left his home, traveled until he was completely exhausted. As he came to a resting place in this exhausted condition, he saw a tree standing. He came from the East and was going toward the West, and the tree had a root which ran to the East. It was at least the length of the tallest tree, a hundred feet or more, and very large around. And when he came to this root he laid down and rested awhile, and then looked towards the South. There he saw a root running towards the South and it was just the length of the East root. And he went to the West and there was another, and to the North and there was another. The grass between these roots was as green and as light as feathers. He followed the roots around and came to the East root again, and then followed it till he came to the tree. It was a very beautiful tree, and he thought that it would be a nice place to lie down and die. And as he stood at the tree, he looked at the roots and saw that, from the tree, the four roots ran directly to the four points. As he stood there, he looked up at the top of the tree, and he saw there were four great branches, going one to the East, one to the West, one to the South and one to the North. On the branches were beautiful leaves, and there were only these four branches, and they extended out as far as the roots, right above them and high in the air. And as he stood examining the tree he saw that a great root ran down straight into the earth. While he looked up into the air he saw that the tree sent up a great branch from the center, and there were no leaves on it till at the very top, and there only a few. And all around the tree was the blue sky, and it was perfectly still, with no wind. And the Chippewa man walked around and felt happy, forgetting all his troubles and sorrow and no longer remembered the past. He sat down and saw how lovely this place was and thought how, in all his many travels, he had never seen so beautiful a place. While he sat there, he heard a noise, like the cry of a human being. He looked

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around, but could see no one although he still heard the cry. At last he saw a person coming and this man was weeping and mourning as he came, in the same way as the Chippewa had approached the country. Then he saw the new-comer was an old man, as old as he was, and he approached from the South and came to the South root. And as he came to this spot, he saw how blue and lovely the grass was, and he stopped mourning and looked around at the root and grass. The first man was sitting at the base of the tree and watched the second man. And as he watched, the man approached wiping his eyes and looking happier. As he got to the tree he noticed the center root. Then he looked up and saw the branch extending to the sky, as the first man had done. The second man then noticed the first man, and the first asked why he was mourning. The second person was the Ottawa. And the Ottawa asked the Chippewa why he had come. And the Chippewa said, “I will tell you. I had ten children and I lost them all in war. And so I decided to die and I wandered till I came to this beautiful place.” And the Ottawa said, “I did the same as you. I had ten children and they were all killed and I did not wish to live. And I wandered off to die and came to this place.” They talked over the past, and while talking they forgot their sorrow and felt happy and in good cheer. While they talked, they heard a noise and listened, and heard a person crying. And far off they saw a man approaching, mourning and crying. It was some time before the man came into sight after they first heard the crying. It was an old man, apparently about the age of the other two, and as he walked along wearily, he mourned and cried. They watched him as he came from the West and approached the West root. There he stopped and examined the root, and noticed how lovely the place was. They saw him wipe away his tears. As he came up to the tree, the Chippewa and Ottawa asked him who he was, why he was mourning. He answered that he was a Potawatomi and he mourned because in war he had lost his ten sons and not wishing to live longer, he had wandered off to die. He had come with a sad heart till he came to the wonderful root. The Chippewa then told the Potawatomi that he had come in the same way, mourning, and the Ottawa said that he had come that way, too. “Now we are all together, and all childless.”


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The Chippewa said, “Probably it is the will of the Great Spirit that we all meet here together.” And they all believed this. They began to examine the place together, looking up at the top of the tree and they saw that the air was very still and not a leaf moved. And it seemed to them that every word they spoke would enter into all the spirits and would be heard by them. It was so still. It was near mid-day, and they all seemed to feel alike. Their spirits seemed to be alike, and as if the three were in mind but one. They said, “Probably the spirits have sent us here to council. There has been much fighting in our lives and perhaps they think we have been too cruel.” And the Chippewa said, “I think I had better go back to my people.” And the Ottawa said, “Yes. I think it has been wrong for us to fight all the time. We have suffered much by it, neglecting our children. It is best for us to go home.” The Potawatomi also said, “This is true. I think it is wrong to kill our women and children in this way. I think it best for us to go home, and stop war and live in peace.” They lit their pipes and smoked, and passed them to one another. And how long they talked they did not know. Perhaps they slept there. As they smoked and talked and planned, the Chippewa having been the first to get to the tree, thought he had a right to speak first. “Now I will be the eldest brother. And the Ottawa will be our second brother. And you, Potawatomi, will be the youngest brother. And we will unite as one.”[6] After the Chippewa was through talking, they consented to his plan. And the Chippewa said, “Now my brothers, I will make a pipe and then I will make a stem. I will put tobacco in the pipe and then I will make an offering of food, and when I get home I will present it to my people. I will say to them that I had ten children and they were killed in war; but I will wash that away, and I will take this pipe stem and paint it blue, as the sky is blue, and this pipe will be used when we make peace with other nations.” And the Ottawa said, “It is good. I will also do the same. I will remind my people of my sons, and I will have them quit war.”

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The Potawatomi said, “I am in favor of this. I will make [a] pipe of peace and furnish provisions. And I will call a council of our people and tell them of our resolution, and explain the folly of causing our old people and women and children to suffer and be killed.” The Chippewa said again, “It is good. Our spirits have brought us together at this point, and influenced us to all agree and think the same.” The Ottawa and Potawatomi left it to the Chippewa and said, “As you will, we will do. We will follow your rules and your laws.” The Chippewa said, “It is well.” The first thing I will do is to make a pipe, get provisions, tobacco and call my people together. And say to them, “This is the pipe of peace. We will smoke it and give up fighting and live in quiet and happiness.” The Chippewa said, “I will put tobacco in the pipe and I will offer it to the Chief of the tribe, and say, smoke it and save your women, children and old people.” When he got home the Chippewa took tobacco and put it in his pipe. And he told all his people to make peace. “Save our people and believe in what I say. And we will let this be known through all the spirits that are in the East and in the South and all in the West and North. And through all the spirits that are living in the world, we will let this agreement be known.” And he told all the head chiefs of different tribes to take the pipe, and to tell, from one generation to another, the story he had told them that this pipe was to be used in friendship. “When you draw the puff of smoke from the pipe, let it go down through your throat. This will purify your heart, so there will be only good feelings in it for other tribes, and it will take revenge out of your heart.” The Chippewa had told the other brothers to furnish sweet corn and other food to put before their people, and to let them eat and all feel good to others, and then smoke the pipe. Then the Chippewa had said, “When you go to other people and smoke the pipe of peace, you must tell them that corn, squashes, pumpkins and all come from the Great Spirit. We are old people and have to die, but we must teach this to the young people who will, in turn, teach it to their descendants.”


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The three had joined hands and agreed to this. The Chippewa said, “We will bring our people here. We will make three fires, one for each tribe. And in the middle fire, we will cook corn and pumpkins and squash. And this blue grass that grows here will be our mat to sit on. After we gather around on this mat, we will lay tobacco in front of them and they will smoke. Then they will put meat in a bowl and these bowls will represent the world and we will all eat out of it, as if all the world ate together. And we will place the bowls in front of our people and we will tell them to make wooden ladles to eat out of the bowls with. They must always use these ladles and tell all people and tribes about it, and never be without them.” And the three brothers, now acting as one, agreed in all the Chippewa, the elder brother, had said. “This tree is beautiful. I came to the East root,” said the Chippewa “and you to the South root, Ottawa, and you to the West one, Potawatomi. Now let my chief go to the East root as long as our tribe lasts. And your chiefs will hold to the South and West ones, and let the spirits that live in the air and heaven hear our agreement. You see this lone tree, how it has but four branches but it makes a nice shade. Now through all the days of the Chippewa tribe the East branch shall shade over them, and all the days of the Ottawa and Potawatomi tribes, the South and West branches shall shade over those tribes.” And the Potawatomi and Ottawa said all this is very good. “All our kindred and tribe shall be under the shade of the branches of this beautiful tree. Now, I will go home to my own people,” the Ottawa said, “I will go and I will tell all this to my people,” They agreed that in ten days they would all meet and bring their tribes to the roots, and at these roots their tribes would live. And they did as they said, took pipe, tobacco and provisions. The Chippewa was not a chief, only an old man. He took the pipe to the Chief and told him that it was the pipe of peace, and to take the pipe and smoke it. And the Chief smoked. As they parted from the tree, the Chippewa had left first and the Ottawa next, and then the Potawatomi, just as they had arrived. And each old man told his tribe of the things they had agreed upon, all agreed to follow his teaching. And they brought their people to the roots of the beautiful tree. As they all got there one struck his camp

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on one root, and another on another. The Chippewa Chief brought a chunk of wood and the Ottawa a chunk and the Potawatomi another, and they put them together. And with punk and a fire drill, they started a common fire. After this the Chippewa, Ottawa, and Potawatomi brought their provisions together to cook in one fire. And they began cooking, and they took tobacco and lit the pipe of the Chippewa from a still-burning punk. They were going to offer it to their Chiefs, but thought that they must offer it first to the Great Spirit. And they pointed the pipe stem straight up in the air by the tree Then they pointed the stem to the East and offered it to the Wiskee spirit. Then they pointed to the South to Cawatessi, and then to the West and offered it to Thunder, Teiknie, and then to the North offering it to Pondesse. Then they turned the stem down towards the central root offering it to the spirit that holds the earth up from sinking in the water, Mapne. After this they offered it to the Chippewa Chief and he smoked it, and passed it to the braves and warriors and they all smoked. And the Ottawa tribe did the same, and the Potawatomis also did the same. Then they all agreed to appoint runners or messengers. After that they all lived as one people, and selected the spirit of the swan for their messenger. And they took the wing of the turkey to sweep their seats on the grass clean and also to fan away all bad odors. And they appointed the spirits of gray and black wolves to care for the property of the Chiefs, just the spirits, not the wolves themselves. Then they said, “This fire we shall use as one, representing one fire in the world and we will put our food there. And we will all eat at this fire as one people on earth. And then we will all eat out of this bowl, representing the world. This water will be for all women to use. And all that has been given by the spirits will be for us together to use.” And the three old men made rules, and represented them as a path that their people must follow. They must keep it clean and sweep it with the turkey feather, and they must all go on this path in peace and all be as true brothers and visit each other. They must live always in peace and friendship after meeting together at this lone tree. And from this time they kept their rules and the tree tribes lived in peace and intermarried and came to be almost as one people.


9. The Three Tribes War against the Peorias

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Some years after the pipe of peace was smoked, there was one tribe which made war against their neighbors. They were the Kickapoos.[7] And as they were getting whipped, they ran to the Chippewas, Ottawas and Potawatomis for protection. They were guided by the spirit of the beaver to the Chippewa village. The tribe that was pursuing them was the Peorias.[8] When the Kickapoos reached the village of the Chippewas, Ottawas and Potawatomis, the spirit of the beaver told them they must not enter the houses of the warriors. If they did they would all be killed. Instead, they must go to the Chief ’s house, and smoke the pipe of peace he would present to them. The Kickapoos did as the spirit directed and told the Chippewa Chief that they had come for protection. And the Chippewa asked the Kickapoo Chief who it was that pursued [them] , and he told him it was the Peorias. The Chief of the three tribes told the Kickapoos that his people would have mercy and protect them, and take them as a child and hide them under their wing. Their enemies would have to kill the Chippewas before they would get the Kickapoos from under their wing. After awhile, the enemy came following the Kickapoos. The Peorias came to the house of the Chippewa Chief and inquired about the Kickapoo tribe. They said, “Where are the wicked people who made war on us? They are bad and we wish to kill them all.” The Chippewa said, “No. I am protecting them. They have told us how they have been abused.” The Peorias became annoyed and started to quarrel with the Chippewas because they would not give up the Kickapoos, and four times the Chippewas refused. The fourth time the Chippewa Chief said, “You must be after something else, and whatever it is, you will get it.” And the Peorias went off and left them. The Chippewa Chief then went to his warriors and told them all the Kickapoos had wanted, and the warriors went to the Peorias and said, “Do you want to kill off all these poor Kickapoos?” “Yes.” “Well, remember, when you have killed this little band of Kickapoos, you will have to meet us and we will not leave one of your people alive.”

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The Peorias considered the matter and decided it was best not to meddle, and they agreed to leave the country in peace. At that time the Peorias were very numerous. When they got home, they planned that whenever the three tribes were out on a hunt they would follow them in secret and fall upon and kill them all. And so the Peorias watched them, and four times they killed Chippewa, Ottawa and Potawatomi hunting parties. The warriors of the three tribes held a council, and the Chiefs left it to their warriors to make a decision. The warriors decided there was no way but to go to war against these people. They advanced to the Peoria land and the Peorias retreated. The Potawatomis, Ottawas and Chippewas followed, and the Kickapoos were assisting them. They followed the Peorias as far as the Mississippi River, and struck their camps near where St. Louis now is. And there was great fighting there. The Peorias retreated again, this time in a different direction and were driven to where Chicago now is—the three tribes call the Chicago River Nemway, which is their name of the Peoria tribe. The Peorias came to a large rock on the river—a great rock like a hill or mountain—and being hard pressed they went up on this rock to protect themselves. The three tribes surrounded the rock and watched. They could see people letting down buckets from the top to get water. Some of the warriors took hold of the rope and jerked it, and pulled a man off the rock into the river. He fell from the high rock and went down in the water, but probably he was helped by some spirit, for he rose to the surface, got to the bank and escaped. A Peoria woman was sitting on the east side of that high rock, wrapped in her blanket, and her grandchild was in her arms. And for a long time they took no notice of the woman, and she sat there a long time. At last, when they went to her, they found that she was turned to rock. She was nothing but rock. There was a stretch of ground running from the land below up to the top of the rock, and the Peorias got stones and set them around the edge. As the Chippewas, Ottawas, and Potawatomis tried to get up the hill and make an attack, the Peorias pushed the rocks down on to them and killed many warriors. The Potawatomis, Ottawas, and Chippewas then decided to wait and starve them out.


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There was a spirit that helped the Peorias, and it was with the aid of the spirit of thunder that they planned to escape from the top of the rock. One night it rained very hard, with heavy thunder and lightning. In the confusion, the Potawatomis, Ottawas, and Chippewas neglected their watch, and the Peorias got down from the rock. But a child screamed, and the three tribes found the Peorias had descended and were escaping. The Chippewas, Potawatomis, and Ottawas followed and killed many, and then the Chippewa Chief said, “It is enough. Now, my warriors, it is wrong to make any more war. We must not go to war again until we are abused and driven to it, and fight only to defend ourselves.” They never forgot this. However, there was always enmity between the three tribes and the Peorias, and for years after they would occasionally kill one another.

Notes

[1] After Curtin’s stay among the Sac and Fox, he spent some time with the Kickapoo tribe at Kickapoo Station, Indian Territory. His field notes indicate that this is where he obtained his Potawatomi material, the informant being an old man of that tribe who was living with the Kickapoos. For more details on this phase of his career see his autobiography, The Memoirs of Jeremiah Curtin (Madison, 1940) and the Annual Reports of the Bureau of American Ethnology for the period of Curtin’s association with the Bureau. Curtin’s views on the importance of the myths and legends of the American Indian are summarized in the introduction to his Creative Myths of Primitive America (Boston 1898). [2] Curtin’s field notes contained the following statement about the Indian practice of “medicine” in its traditional meaning of curing illness: “The spirits of sickness and of war lived up north and near each other. The spirit of sickness had great power given to him by the Great Spirit. When he thinks a man has lived long enough, the spirit of sickness goes into the man. If a certain disease comes to a village, it is this spirit that has entered the whole village. He has the power to go away and let the sick man get well, and if he wishes him to die, then the man dies. The doctors do not claim, that they have the power to drive the spirit away. The Great Spirit has sent his spirit of sickness down here to do his work, and no one can have power over him but the Great Spirit. In old times, there used to be good doctors and they asked the Great Spirit to drive away sickness, and they prayed to the Spirit to take away the spirit of sickness. Some doctors, in those days, claimed to have a good deal of power themselves. They would blow on the sick and pretend to drive the spirit off, but in most cases it stayed. One human being did not have any power to save another. The old people did not believe in a man’s power. But in older times, there were those who tried to make people believe that they had great power over sickness.”

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[3] In another portion of his Sauk and Fox notes, Curtin recorded some additional information about tribal war customs. “In olden times they always detailed one or two men to scout around and see where the enemy was. And these men painted their hand and put it over their mouth and this [was] meant to signify that the man was a scout. Young men, who were not warriors, never paint a hand on anything. If you paint a hand on a blanket or horse or anything it means you have killed men. And according to the number you kill, you have a right to paint so many hands on your blanket, clothing, horse or anywhere you wish. The war party leader demands the head [scalp] and whoever gets the head [scalp] took it to the leader who stayed with the otter skin. Sometimes they ran onto the enemy at night, and a warrior may claim he has killed a man, but if he has not anything to prove it, it was not believed. “In the old times, a man went on the warpath, and if he kills a man he colors the white part of his feather red. And whenever you see a man wearing a red eagle feather, it indicates he has killed a man. If he has killed two men, he wears two red feathers, but not more than two feathers. If he killed a greater number, he would make marks on his blanket or on his head. If a man takes a prisoner alive, then he can wear a rope around his neck, and that shows he has taken a man alive. The bear claw necklace means nothing. It is just dress.” [4] Curtin’s informants provided him with the following additional information on the use of dogs in religious ceremonies: “In the olden times they used to offer dogs for sacrifice. They would kill them, and lay them on the ground or hang up the body on a tree and that meant that they offered it to the Great Spirit. And if they offered it to the spirit in the North they set the dog’s face towards the North. And so to all the four spirits, always facing the dog toward the one they sacrificed to. It does not matter what color the dog is. It must be, though, that the young man offered the dogs to the four great spirits, though he did not say. [5] A successful leader of a war party returned to his village with great honor, but the standards for success were quite high, as is indicated by the following from Curtin’s notes: “In some cases it [the war leader’s vision] come true, and the number of pieces of meat the leader has seen is really the number of the enemy his party has killed. If his dream comes true, he is a great man; but, for instance, if his party killed twenty and loses even one man, he gains nothing, no glory. The men who did the fighting and killed the enemy are considered brave, but the leader loses all honor. Often when they fail, the leader fasts and mourns for those he loses, and sometimes he does the same victory without losing a man.” [6] This arrangement of the three tribes, from oldest to youngest, was well established even into historic times. In 1833, at the Treaty of Chicago, a Chippewa chief stated: “The Ottawas and Potawatomies are our younger brothers and have chosen me to speak their words on this occasion.” Later, in the same council, another chief said: “My Father. I am an Ottawa. Listen to me. I can never go contrary to what my older brothers the Chippeway and younger brothers the Potawattomies may do. There is no difference of opinion amongst us.” [7] The Kickapoos are an Algonkian tribe, closely linked to the Sauk and Fox by both language and culture. In the late seventeenth century they were reported by French missionaries to be living near the portage between the Fox and Wisconsin Rivers. After the destruction of the Illinois confederation about 1770, the Kickapoos moved South and occupied portions of what later became the State of Illinois.


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[8] The Peoria tribe was a major group within the Illinois confederation. In the late 1760’s the great Ottawa chief, Pontiac, was killed by an Illinois Indian, and the northern tribes, including the Ottawa, Potawatomi, Sauk and Fox and Kickapoos, retaliated in a bloody war of extermination. The Illinois groups, including the Peorias, suffered severely during this conflict. Their population was greatly reduced and their lands occupied by some of the Wisconsin tribes. The omission of any reference to Pontiac in this account obtained by Curtin suggests that it belongs to an earlier phase of the long, drawn-out wars between the Wisconsin and Illinois Indians.

2. Milwaukee’s Social & Cultural History Introduction Christopher Miller

M

ilwaukee is more than just a name or a dot on the map—it is a unique place that has both generated its own history and been influenced by national and international events. Social historians, concerned with the everyday lives of people, have employed census manuscripts, birth and death records, journals, diaries, and oral histories to reconstruct how people actually lived their lives. Cultural historians have followed this path by investigating how ideas and concepts once thought to be universal truths are so often products of their time and place. These historians of memory have also examined the ways in which cultural icons or symbols—things or places that represent the larger values of a community—have been created. Each article in this section brings to the fore a unique characteristic of Milwaukee while highlighting twin themes of Milwaukee as a distinct physical place and as a symbol that resides in the minds of its residents. The first selection in this section, “Echoes From the Census” by Robert Roesler, is written from the perspective of ordinary people, and uses manuscript census records from the rural Town of Greenfield to recapture the stories of individuals. The focus on Greenfield alludes to the fact that most of Milwaukee County was rural and agricultural well into the twentieth century and reminds us that one important cultural icon of the ninteeth century in Milwaukee was the grain elevator. Grain production and shipping remained a leading local industry until the end of the nineteenth century. Interestingly, as (urban) factories began to spring up, agricultural areas became more dependent on for-profit production because rural cottage industries were decimated by this new competition. In fact, Roesler suggests that industrialization actually increased the proportion of the population

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in rural areas devoted to agriculture, although it likely decreased the actual population of those areas. Built in the late 1880s, Borchert Field served as the home of a variety of minor league teams until the construction of County Stadium in the early 1950s. It became the focus of collective sporting memory for several generations of Milwaukeeans. In “Magical Borchert Field,” Thomas Morgan and James Nitz revisit the features of the field that made it a unique place to watch baseball, and highlight the differences between a minor league, neighborhood park, and the major league County Stadium that replaced it in 1953. Written before the construction of Miller Park, home of the Milwaukee Brewers since 2001, this article points out how our conception of “the good old days” alters our perceptions of the past. The loss of a physical location such as Borchert Field is tied to a loss of closeness to the players themselves, and this in turn, becomes emblematic of societal changes. In a sense, then, this article highlights the relativity of memory and is an example of how social myths are constructed. A touchstone for cultural historians, the Columbian exposition of 1893 was held in Chicago. In Milwaukee, plans were executed to pipe water from Waukesha’s well-known springs to the fairgrounds, ninety miles to the south. Special trains and ticket packages were made available to allow Milwaukee residents to attend. The Milwaukee area, served as a resource for the fair, but its citizens and businesses also sent representations of themselves to be displayed to fairgoers. “Milwaukee and the Columbian Exposition of 1893,” by Frank Cassell, details the contributions of Milwaukee to the fair. Significantly, Milwaukeeans planned exhibits that highlighted brewing and heavy industrial production, two pursuits long associated with Milwaukee. These selections point to a time when modern-day stereotypes were not stereotypes, but rather accurate representations of Milwaukee’s economic structure. Acting individually, many corporations sent displays to the fair: Milwaukee firms such as E.P. Allis, Vogel and Pfister, and Pabst Brewing all had prominent displays. But behind the industrial giants were the offerings of individual Milwaukeeans—artists, painters, playwrights—who were responsible for the flowering of German-American culture that earned Milwaukee the nickname of Deutsch-Athen, or German Athens. So was Milwaukee a city of beer

2 • Milwaukee’s Social & Cultural History

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and heavy industry? Or was it the Deutsch-Athen? This article is one of many that raises such questions. Erwin Kieckhefer’s article about Milwaukee billiards player Augie Keickhefer highlights an important leisure activity at the turn of the century: billiards and what came to be known as “pool halls.” These halls were often havens for young men with free time, and were seen by “respectable” citizens as places to be avoided because of their association with gambling, vice, and crime. While focusing on the tale of Augie Keickhefer’s rise to national fame as a billiards player, the author also discusses what might loosely be called the “pool scene” in Milwaukee, naming and describing popular places where the game was played. He also describes how the game has changed over time, recapturing several popular, typically working or lower class, leisure activities. While many symbols of a city are physical locations or abstract ideas, it is also true that the names of places are symbolic. One everyday difficulty for the historian or genealogist of Milwaukee is the problem of old street addresses that simply do not exist anymore, or appear to have shifted locations. The complete history of the Milwaukee area’s street numbering systems is recounted in “Milwaukee’s House Numbering Systems,” by Christopher Thale. Thale makes clear just how much of what we take for granted had to be created; What Milwaukeean would think twice about the judgment that 27th St was 2700 West? Yet these ways of understanding the physical layout of the city are not, to use a loaded word, “natural”—they are deliberately created by humans operating in a specific context. This article helps to explain exactly how each part of any modern-day address came to be what it is. Teasing out just how Milwaukeeans (and outsiders) have understood or envisioned their city is a difficult task. Issues of memory, place, and symbolism are extremely difficult to quantify or even base on historical research primarily because they are subject to personal interpretation. The inclusion of each of these articles is an attempt to explain what has made Milwaukee a unique place in the minds of its residents and how certain places or icons have served as the symbol of that uniqueness.

Layton House (Hotel file Layton House)

Echoes from the Census by

Robert Roesler Milwaukee History Winter 1991

E

ach decade the taking of a new census is the occasion of much excitement, both in its gathering of statistical data, and in its results, particularly when they indicate a change in Congressional districting. Of greater excitement to historians, archivists, and genealogists, however, is an event which follows the close of census taking by some months: the release of the details of census records from seventy years earlier, a delayed process which speaks not of government tardiness, but of a need to maintain personal privacy in life, if not post mortem. Thus we are only now about to gain access to a set of particulars which focus on a point in United States history which lay between the end of the Great War and the initiation of the Roaring Twenties. The 1920 census will be only the eighth decennial federal census available to people interested in Wisconsin state and local history; the results of the Territorial census of 1840, as well as those taken in the state between 1850 and 1920 (excepting the 1890 census records, which were incinerated in a fire) may be examined locally at the Milwaukee County Historical Society and at the Central Milwaukee Public Library. Obscure details about the departed have uses which go well beyond the needs of those reconstructing the structure of family trees or delving into historical biography. When census results for an area are placed in aggregate, they show patterns which often validate, but sometimes seem to run counter to, our notions of what was happening at the time. Thus they furnish new insights into social and economic history. As a case in point, we will look at the census results from the years 1840, 1860, and 1880, for a nine square mile area which like many

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other bits of our nation, was transformed from rural hinterland to urban center during the nineteen and twentieth centuries. Originally a part of the Town of Greenfield (which had at first, from 1839-1841, been named “Town of Kinnickinnic”), this three-by-three mile square is today bordered by Oklahoma Avenue to the north and Grange Avenue to the south, and South Twenty-seventh Street to the east and South Seventy-sixth Street to the west. Though it now encompasses the urban southwest side of the City of Milwaukee, a major portion of the City of Greenfield and a bit of the Village of Greendale, it was a rural expanse of fields and woods during the nineteenth century. Fertile soils in most of the area yielded grain and garden crops for personal consumption and for the urban markets, as well as supporting livestock. Two diagonal thoroughfares were built through the tract commencing in 1849, linking it with the City of Milwaukee to the northeast and Waukesha County to the southwest: Janesville Plank Road (today Forest Home Avenue) and Windlake Road (now Loomis Road). The initial success of the Watertown Plank Road to the north had created fervent speculation that similar bonanzas could be duplicated elsewhere. “Technological obsolence”[sic] may be a recent term, but it is a longstanding phenomenon. No match for the railways, the ill-maintained plank roads, their fares resented by local farmers, were has-beens within two decades. In his 1881 History of Milwaukee, John G. Gregory wrote of the still-functioning Janesville Plank Road in the past tense, noting that some sections had rotted within four years, and stating that its effective use had ended in 1871. Nonetheless, the roads attracted settlement and business in their early years. Even today their paved successors reflect their echoes. The Greenfield Historical Society has in its collections a portion of a plank from the Janesville Plank Road which was unearthed when Forest Home Avenue was widened in 1960 and also a millstone from Henry Pusher’s mill (constructed in 1867 and demolished in 1914) which was recovered during road widening at the intersection of Howard Avenue and Loomis Road in 1984. The Potawotami who had inhabited the area were, like many other Native Americans, displaced during Andrew Jackson’s second administration and moved briefly to Muskego before further sojourns to the west and north. The United States government initiated land sales


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in 1839. We might expect that as the tide of Westward settlement, foreign immigration, and urbanization poured into the area, the result would be a rapid geometric increase in population from 1840 to 1880. Such was not the case. While determining the exact location of each residence is not possible (census takers did not record rural residents by section number), comparison of lists of residents’ names with property maps and real estate and tax information enables us to identify rather exact population levels, give or take a few residents not counted, or a few renting property the exact location of which cannot be pinpointed. The result from the 1840 census totals only forty-two people, in contrast with the more than twenty thousand residing presently. A geometric increase then followed: residents in 1860 approximated 635, the result of dividing earlier larger tracts and of a high birth rate. We might suppose next that the total would have easily surpassed a thousand by 1880, as the nation’s population grew and the urban center crept closer. Instead, the total number of residents declined to approximately 587. Of each large brood of children born to the first generation of settlers, only one or two stayed on the farm or married nearby; the others headed for the lights and factories of the city or followed Horace Greeley’s advice to move West. Also, some of the successful farmers bought up neighboring tracts abandoned by the less productive. We forget, in contrasting our aging demographics of the 1990s (our median age is now thirty-three-plus) with the “youth culture” of the 1960s, that the nineteenth century was a time of startlingly young populations, the result not only of the high birth rate, but also of lack of treatment of diseases of the aged, ending in a manner more unpleasant than counting another birthday. None of the forty-two residents in 1840, whose median age was twenty, had attained fifty years of age, and only one of the 635 residents in 1860, John Kaiser, a lone nonagenarian, had reached seventy. The median age dipped to eighteen on the 1860 census before returning to twenty in 1880, although the portion of the population which was fifty years of age or older reached 19 percent by 1880. The ethnic composition of this population reinforces criticisms of simplistic “melting pot” scenarios, as it was, in essence, a German stew. The 1840 census did not inquire as to birthplace, but the 1860

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census reveals that 52 percent were foreign-born, a figure which receded to 40 percent as of 1880. Of the balance., only a few were Yankees, the vast bulk being children of these recent immigrants. Eighty-five percent of the foreign-born hailed from the various German states. Not surprisingly, Prussia, the largest and in the north of Germany, led with over 30 percent of the German immigrants. Little Wurttemberg, Hanover, and Mecklenburg each furnished approximately 10 percent of the 1860 residents, followed by Bavaria, Hesse-Darmstadt, Baden, Saxe-Weimar, and Pomerania, with between 8 percent and 5 percent. By 1880 a new wave of immigration from the Baltic area had resulted in 27 percent of the German-born originating in either Mecklenburg or Pomerania. Milwaukee’s South Side saw the influx of a large number of Polish immigrants as evidenced in the building of St. Stanislaus Church (1872) and the creation of Polish neighborhoods such as the one still reflected in the interesting set of cream brick buildings surrounding St. Hyacinth’s Congregation which had Polish architects, builders, and residents during the 1880s and 1890s. This Polish Diaspora did not, however, extend into the Greenfield area. Because of the late eighteenthcentury partitions, ethnic Poles were generally listed as being of either Russian, Austrian, Prussian, or Pomeranian origin. A sole exception was Albertina Wollenzien, the wife of John, a Mecklenburger, whose birthplace is listed on the 1880 census as “Poland,” probably referring to the Russian province. The only family having Russian birthplaces was Danish in origin. No Austrian nationals were present. The large numbers of Pomeranians and Prussians, who were virtually all Protestant except for a few born in Rhenish Prussia, included at the most a handful of Germanized Poles. The lone surname which was possibly of Polish origin on the 1860 census belonged to the six-member George Balinka family from Pomerania, none of whom bore a characteristically Polish first name. Balinka, a transient landless laborer, soon moved elsewhere. Except for the aforementioned Albertina Wollenzien, the only names on the 1880 census suggesting ethnic Polish status are those of two hired men of Pomeranian origin, August Hetke and August Generosky (spelled Generotzke on his gravestone). The 15 percent of the foreign-born who were non-German were not a particularly polyglot group. Several large Irish families in the


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west of the area were a part of a settlement which continued westward to Hales Corners. Individuals or one or two families identified England, Switzerland, Canada, Norway, the Tyrol, Alsace, Denmark, Russia, Luxembourg, Belgium, or the Netherlands as their place of origin. Several individuals were born on the Atlantic Ocean. About 5 percent of residents were born in a state other than Wisconsin, most of them children of Germans who had earlier migrated to New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois, or even the Carolinas. The occupational statuses listed in the 1860 and 1880 censuses confirm some of our preconceptions, as well as provide a surprise. In keeping with the Victorian “Cult of True Womanhood,” females are listed as wife, widow, or domestic in a handful of cases, seamstress in one instance, or simply have no occupation listed on the 1860 census, the only brave exception being widow Fredericka Dietz, a Saxon immigrant who had “farming” appended to her widow’s occupation, and listed “farmhand” following the names of her unmarried daughters Mary and Fredericka. In 1880 the term keeping house was used ubiquitously, excepting four instances of servant and one school teacher. (A further instance of male-dominant attitudes may be noted in the fact that the 1860 census, which lists financial assets of households, shows them belonging exclusively to males, excepting cases of some widows and a handful of remarried women.) Male occupations, as we might expect, are dominated by farmer, farmhand, gardener, or hired man by the age of sixteen or earlier, since one-room rural schoolhouses provided terminal education for almost everyone, many attended them sporadically, if at all, as the word “school” is omitted behind the names of many seven- to fifteen-year-olds in the 1880 census. Excepting the wives and widows aforementioned, 62 percent of occupations listed in 1860 were farm ones. Our quick assumption that this percentage declined by 1880, is not, however, borne out by the facts, for “farmer” climbs to 67 percent of the total by that date. The increase is due not simply to the presence of more farmers; it also reflects a reduction in other occupations as workers in cottage industries could not compete with the efficiency of factory production. While six shoemakers are listed in 1860, only one appears as of 1880. Actually, the most common occupation in 1880, other than varieties of farmer and laborer was that of saloon keeper, as

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the enterprising sought to tap the resources of thirsty travelers along thoroughfares such as the Janesville Plank Road. Thirteen designations of “laborer” appear on the 1860 census, and eight in 1880, all but a few of them being landless renters living in closer proximity to the City of Milwaukee. Also appearing on the 1860 and 1880 censuses are: carpenter (6), blacksmith (5), clerk (3), mason (3), wagon maker (3), teacher (3), sailor (2), tailor (2), cattle dealer (2), milkman (2), clergyman (2), rope maker (2), physician, potter, lawyer, machinist, contractor, butcher, drover, pipe maker, supervisor, brewing, pump maker, miller, storekeeper, teamster, and factory worker. We should not permit our contemporary devotion to occupational specialties to deceive us. Enterprising people in the nineteenth century functioned as jacks-of-all-trades, and many of those labeled as “farmer” possessed other wage-earning skills, while most tradesmen cultivated gardens and orchards or raised meat for table or market. The first names of this collection of humanity born between 1791 and 1880 show little originality or surprise. Old Testament appellations are lacking, and the tried and true New Testament names present also in European monarchies of the time were in vogue. The female names Mary (36), Catherine (16) and Margaret (12) led among Protestants and Catholics alike. Only a handful sound quaint to our ears such as Marjant, Donas, Almena, Attela, Polka, Walbecker, Appalonia, and Menah, some of which may be the product of the census takers- misspellings as much as of parents- ingenuity. There was even less variety among males, with John (38), Henry (28), Frederick (27), and William (17) leading the way, and Baltus, Pius, Elija, Phineas, and Rambolt representing the extremes of originalty [sic] . The monotony of given names is more than compensated for the confusing variety of versions of surnames, particularly of the dominant Germans. The rudimentary spelling skills of some record keepers, their lack of comprehension of German pronunciation, limited English communications skills on the part of many recent German immigrants, and the fact that many individuals and families themselves altered the spelling of their family name over a period of time, have in some cases produced five or six varying spellings of the same last name applied to a combination of census records (quite often inaccurate), tax assess-


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ment records (also rather inaccurate), and maps, real estate records, and cemetery monuments (more uniform and accurate), although in some instances a family’s surname is spelled differently within the same family plot. While some transformations are the result of Anglicization (Freitag-Fryday; Montag-Mondag-Monday), fully 20 per cent of spellings were never used by the family thus misidentified: Hegglemeire for Hegelmeyer; Harmire for Harmeyer; Wanch for Wunsch; De Burske for De Buscchen; Titchen for Tietgen; Baugh for Bach; Radich for Raedisch; Strodeman for Strothman; Rich for Ruesch, to cite some of the more flagrant liberties of pen and tongue. Our inclinations to believe that old farmhouses held spacious quarters for odd Aunt Wilmas and Cousin Wilmers notwithstanding, the inhabitants of rural Greenfield essentially lived in nuclear families of two generations. The 1880 census includes a designation of family relationships. Of 122 households, 95 fit the prior description; of the other 27, 12 contained hired men or servants, not relatives; in the case of the remaining 15, 9 included a grandparent or grandchild. The birthrates were fully as staggering as we would imagine. High infant and child mortality precluded many from being listed on the census, and early marriage or moving away from home removed the names of others from household lists. Nevertheless, sixteen of the 1860 households and fifteen of those in 1880 contained six or more siblings present. The duration from the birth of the eldest to the youngest child frequently spanned a generation. Few women bore children while in their teens, but the fifty-eight married women entered on the 1860 and 1880 censuses who were from forty-three to fifty-nine years of age had a total of thirty-five children listed who were born after the women were forty. Short life expectancies resulted in many second marriages. Only in one case is a female listed with a husband a decade or more younger, but older, and indeed, elderly males seemed to have had no compunctions about robbing the cradle, not only to have a robust housekeeper, nurse, and childcare specialist, but also to often produce a second brood. Thus, William Strothman, 75 in 1880, had children who were older than this 35-year-old wife Rosa, but had no progeny with her; Rudolph Wiedman, 53, saw to it that second wife Johanna, 36, was busy “keeping house” for his children Clara 23, Agnes, 21, Emma 19,

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Ottila 17, Rosa 15, Rudolph 12, Gustave 11, Emil 8, Lilly 6, Huldah 3, and Herbert 1; Julius Raedisch 60, had second wife Jennie keeping house for nine; John Kneser, 49, had wife Mary, 24, similarly employed with six children aged 14 to 1; Francis Ward, 49 had preceded them in 1860 by keeping wife Ann, 30, busy with a list of eleven ranging from Bridget, 20, to year-old infants Rosa and Catherine. No wonder that someone had insisted, in the case of Ward’s neighbor, Edward Collins, that the entry behind Collins’ wife Catherine, aged 40, with nine children ages 17 to 1, read “Wife-and a good one!” Lest we be too critical of these long-in-the-tooth Lotharios, it should be borne in mind that an established farmer on a fertile holding of eighty or more acres was a good catch for the times, domestic drudgery or not. The replacement models, often foreign-born, were evidently sometimes of the mail-order variety, obtainable for the cost of a postage stamp and letter sent back to the old country, and the resulting one-way ticket, whether first class or steerage. One unintended humor emerges with the frequency in which the ages of individuals present in both the 1860 and 1880 censuses do not correlate. The extent to which this was due to census takers’ silent guesses, the absentmindedness of interviewees, or sheer vanity, is impossible to determine. Sometimes the aging process was to excess, as when Henry and Elizabeth Montag, 56 and 42 in 1860, were 78 and 68 in 1880, or Engelbert and Sophia De Buesccher, 52 and 60 in 1860, attained ages 78 and 83 by 1880, or Elizabeth Cure, 35 in 1860, climbed to 65 in 1880. On occasion dead men-and women-do tell tales. Still legible monuments in Old Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church Cemetery, on West Howard Avenue between Sixtieth Street and Forest Home Avenue, indicate that the 1860 date was correct for the De Buescchers, but perversely, the birth date on Elizabeth Cure’s stone is 1817, rendering both census figures inaccurate. In other instances, youth lingered: two unmarried Collins daughters, who had been 13 and 11 in 1860, were only 30 and 26 two decades later; Christine Schmitz, 17 in 1860 was 33 and married to a 34-year-old man in 1880. This brief perusal of the 1860 and 1880 censuses has revealed that there was a dynamically changing population. Our notions of bucolic extended families maintaining close relationships do not measure up to


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the facts, especially considering that most of the residents were people who had chosen to leave their relatives behind in Europe. Then, as now, the large numbers of young residents were geographically mobile; ethnic minorities increasingly became the dominant strain; and occupational status changed with economic and social conditions. Despite their entry to the “melting pot,” most of the early immigrants remained insular, selecting spouses and neighbors from the same province or region. Women’s lot was a hard one, in many instances making our modern stereotypes of the nineteenth century seem mild in comparison with realities. Notwithstanding such shortcomings, it was a hardy ferment. Whatever their foibles, the prolific and energetic respondents to these nineteenth century censuses deserve our admiration and respect. They toiled vigorously and, in many cases, prospered, helping to lay the grounds for a great metropolis as their legacy.

Borchert Field (Baseball—Borchert Field file)

Magical Borchert Field by

Thomas J. Morgan and James R. Nitz Milwaukee History, Winter 1992

I

n recent years, the Milwaukee community has witnessed considerable discussion over plans to construct a new baseball park as the successor to County Stadium, present home of the American League Brewers. Proposals for a new stadium have generated a renewed interest in some of the city’s earlier baseball fields, including the colorful Borchert Field. Known affectionately as “Borchert’s Orchard,” it lives on in the memories of many local fans as the home of popcorn and peanuts, pop-ups and put-outs, for more than six decades of primarily minor league baseball competition. Unlike most modern-day stadiums, Borchert Field gave fans a sense of participation. Because of its limited size, all spectators were seated near the field and to the players, many of whom they idolized. Former Milwaukee Mayor Frank Zeidler has observed that Borchert Field was “a ballpark of human dimension.” Originally known as Athletic Park, the field was constructed in 1888 for a reported $40,000. It occupied just one city block bounded by North Seventh and Eighth Streets, and West Burleigh and Chambers Streets on Milwaukee’s North Side. Over 6,000 fans witnessed the first contest played at Athletic Park on May 20, 1888. The Milwaukee team, then called the Creams (apparently after the Milwaukee nickname of “Cream City”), treated the record crowd to a victory over their Western Association rival, St. Paul. The Milwaukee Journal reported that the playing field had been in superb condition, except for a “rough surface in the outfield.” The grandstand was also reported as nice, but the press box was alleged to be cramped, too high, and exposed to cold winds.

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The Creams of the Western Association performed there for several years. Their most prominent athlete was a pitcher Clark Griffith, later the long-time owner of the old Washington Senators in the American League. Griffith is credited with originating one of the many myths of Milwaukee baseball history when he later observed, ‘The Irish [fans] sat on the right field side and the Germans on the left field side. It was a standing rule that the manager had to have an Irish first baseman and a German third baseman.” Unfortunately for Griffith’s reputation as a historical source, team rosters for this period do not substantiate his ethnic observations. With two short-lived exceptions, Borchert Field was always a minor league stadium. Toward the close of the 1891 season, Milwaukee was assigned a franchise in the American Association, then considered to be a major league organization, and a team called the Brewers played for several months on that level. The American Association folded after the season closed, and baseball in Milwaukee returned to the minor leagues the following year. In 1923, the Milwaukee Bears, a franchise in the Negro National League, also used Borchert Field for its home games during an abbreviated two-month season here. The Brewer team most Milwaukee fans relate to moved into Borchert Field in 1902. During the club’s fifty-one-year existence (1902-1952), these Milwaukee Brewers played nearly 4,000 games at the north side ballpark and won eight American Association pennants. Attendance was generally quite strong throughout most of Brewer history. From 1908 (when reliable records first became available) to 1952, an estimated 8,301,545 fans watched the team at Borchert Field. Countless others rooted for their favorites from second floor porches on homes opposite the ballpark on Seventh and Eighth Streets. The original grandstand, having a seating capacity of 3,500, was behind home plate, with bleacher sections alongside the first and third base lines. By 1910, the growing popularity of Brewer baseball prompted a park renovation as the bleachers were transformed into grandstands. The exact capacity was never accurately determined because there were no individual seats, only long benches. After the 1910 refurbishing, the best estimate was a 10,000 capacity, but, on special occasions, standing-room only crowds might reach 17,000. At these games, the outfield was roped off so standing fans could be crowded


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against the outfield fences from foul line to foul line. Balls hit into this overflow audience were automatic ground rule doubles. Because of the rectangular dimensions of the property on which it was located, Borchert Field, like New York’s Polo Grounds, had very short foul lines (only 266 feet). What made the playing field unique was that the power alleys in right- and left-center fields (each ending in a sharp corner) were farther from home plate than the 395 feet to straight-away center field. Borchert Field’s angular structure meant that fans could not see the complete field from certain areas of the grandstands. Depending upon one’s location, a fan could view right field or left field but not both at the same time. Many times, the best way to judge whether a batted ball was caught was by the response of the crowd. As Mike Kelley, owner of the Minneapolis American Association ball club, commented: “You have to pay two admissions to see one game at Borchert Field. The first day you see what happens in right field. The next day you come back to see what happens in left field.” In 1942, Brooklyn Dodger manager Leo Durocher agreed with Kelley. After an exhibition game against the Brewers, Durocher declared, “I’ve seen a lot of ballparks in my time but never one like that Milwaukee park. I had to get off the bench and run out to the foul line to see what happened every time a ball was hit to right field.” There were other peculiarities to Borchert Field’s distinctive design. The center field bleachers were wedged in between the wooden flagpole in the left field power alley and the scoreboard in the right-center field. In later years of Borchert Field, the wooden outfield fences were painted with numerous billboards by Art Siemann Advertising. The manually operated scoreboard consisted of white numerals hung on nails against a black background. In an earlier time period, a painted bull touting some popular tobacco rose high over the outfield fence. Any batter who struck the bull received fifty dollars. After too many batters had earned the prize, the target was permanently withdrawn. The left and right field fence planks contained numerous knotholes. For many youthful fans it was survival of the fittest as the most aggressive kids found and occupied the most strategically-placed knotholes in the Seventh and Eighth Street fences.

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Other lucky fans found that the best view of a Brewer game was from the second-floor porches of houses located across Seventh and Eighth Streets. According to some accounts, the Koutny residence at 3060 North Seventh Street was unsurpassed in its vantage point. The scoreboard and the public address system gave the Koutnys and their fortunate guests all the basic information they needed about the line-up and score, rendering Mickey Heath’s WEMP radio broadcast unnecessary. Bernice Koutny Stone and her brother, Ray, could observe everything but the right fielder from their second-floor vantage point. Although the Koutnys rented out the upstairs unit, they retained the valuable rights to the porch. In an effort to be considerate of the tenants, Bernice, Ray, and their friends would ascend to the deck with a ladder instead of intruding through the tenants’ quarters. Neighborhood homeowners often had uninvited guests, in the form of errant baseballs, shatter their windows. Very few of them complained because the Brewers had a policy of promptly paying for repairs. Sportswriters and announcers would make light of the situation by declaring that any ball hit out of Borchert Field had landed on the legendary “Frau Hasenpfeffer’s” flower bed or front porch. For many adult fans, it was an accepted fact that the best seats in the house were near the bar behind home plate. Except during the years of prohibition, thirsty fans would occupy the two rows of benches, savor a cold beer and not miss any of the action on the field. By 1920, Otto Borchert, descendant of a Milwaukee brewery family, had emerged as the sole owner of the Brewers, thus beginning the gradual transfer of the ballpark’s identity from Athletic Park to Borchert Field. Borchert proved to be as adept at making money in baseball as his family was in producing beer. The Brewers of the 1920s sent a number of talented players to the majors, as the front office signed up young prospects, developed them, and then profitably sold their rights to big league teams. This produced a source of revenue that was vital to the survival of an independent club such as Borchert’s Brewers. Colorful as well as a shrewd businessman, Borchert delighted in having a good time at his ballpark. He loved to interact with the patrons by ambling through the stands, adorned in his frock coat and carrying his walking stick. On sunny days, the middle-aged executive would secure a pre-game tan in the outfield and then saunter into the


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seating area with a wide grin before the first inning. The fans would teasingly jeer Borchert as he made his way to his seat. Milwaukee’s baseball king died on April 27,1927 while speaking before 600 people at an Elks Club dinner given in honor of Borchert and the Brewers. Near the end of his remarks, the vibrant fifty-twoyear-old collapsed into his chair, stricken with a fatal cerebral hemorrhage. The first three games of the new season were delayed until the funeral proceedings were completed. The ballpark was then officially renamed Borchert Field. This name stuck, and the older names of Athletic Park and Brewer Field fell by the wayside. After Otto’s death, his wife, Idabell (often called Ruby), took over the Brewers. She eventually sold the baseball club to attorney Henry J. Killilea, an important figure in Milwaukee baseball affairs early in the century, but retained ownership of the park and leased it to the Brewers. Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig visited Borchert Field on October 28, 1928, during a barnstorming tour following the World Series. Some 8,000 fans attended the game and witnessed Ruth’s team beat that of Gehrig and Al Simmons (a Milwaukee native and former Brewer) by a score of 5-4. Fittingly, Ruth’s eighth inning homer was the winner. His titanic shot sailed over the right field fence, allegedly cleared a dwelling on Seventh Street, and landed in the backyard of a Sixth Street residence. Ruth also pitched the ninth inning, striking out Gehrig and inducing Simmons, known to many Milwaukeeans as “The Duke of Mitchell Street,” to pop-up to preserve the victory. The Babe was impressed with Milwaukee’s fans. “I don’t think I ever played on a colder day,” Ruth pronounced. “But say, this must be a great ball town to get that many people out there on a day like this.” Baseball was not the only sport to be played at Borchert Field. Many high school, college, amateur, and professional football games took place at the north side park. Marquette University played several contests at Borchert Field in the early 1920s. On Thanksgiving Day 1923, a then-record Milwaukee football crowd of 15,000 attended the season finale against the University of Vermont. This 20-0 homecoming victory was Marquette’s last home game played at a site other than Marquette Stadium. The Milwaukee Badgers of the National Football League also performed at Borchert Field from 1922 to 1926. A dismal team, the Badgers achieved a won-lost-tied record of just 16-27-6.

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The 1933 Green Bay Packers played one game at Borchert Field. The Packers lost to the New York Giants, 10-7, despite the Giants making no first downs and completing just one pass (a 25-yard touchdown)! Over 12,500 fans paid up to two dollars for a ticket, a sizable sum for a sporting event in those days. Besides baseball and football, other more novel events which occurred at Borchert Field included boxing and wrestling matches, sixday bicycle races, circuses, rodeos, hot air balloon races, and donkey baseball (a unique version of the national pastime in which the batter was required to ride a donkey around the base paths). The first night baseball game played at Borchert Field on June 6, 1935 saw the Brewers lose to St. Paul, 7-3. A smaller-than-expected crowd of 4,747 braved the chilly evening in order to see 350,000 watts of light illuminate the ballpark. The new lighting system cost $19,000 and featured 100-foot light poles which projected from the grandstands, obstructing the view from many seats. In 1948, the posts were relocated to the outside of the facility. Surprisingly, the lights drew few complaints from the neighbors. Most considered night contests to be a part of their life in the neighborhood. Some Brewer die-hard fans claimed that the 1936 team was the best minor league ball club ever assembled. The heavy-hitting club captured the American Association pennant before drubbing Buffalo of the International League four games to one in the Little World Series. This was the first of Milwaukee’s three Junior World Series titles. Ralph Otto, a former catcher in the Brewer farm system in the mid-1940s, has recalled the 1936 Brewers: ‘That was fifty-six years ago and there has yet to be minor league team with such talent. I saw them play, I was fifteen at the time and my Dad took me. What a thrill! This club could have played in the big leagues and won. Many of them ended up there.” In the 1940s, local ownership was anxious to sell the club, and a buyer appeared in the person of the legendary Bill Veeck, then a young man eager to get into the business end of professional baseball. Veeck purchased the Milwaukee club on a shoestring and set out to resurrect the once proud Brewer franchise. Veeck, who was posthumously inducted into baseball’s Hall of Fame in 1991, vowed that there would be fun at Borchert Field and that


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the Brewers would again become winners. The “Barnum of Baseball” lived up to his promises by creating exciting promotions and a competitive team that attracted large numbers of paying customers. That, in turn, transformed an almost bankrupt franchise into a highly profitable one. As Charlie Grimm, Veeck’s manager, explained in his autobiography, “Milwaukee’s Borchert Field was a built-in laboratory for Bill’s somewhat unusual approach to baseball. There were no fans, so he had nothing to lose except money, which never bothered Bill, especially when it wasn’t his own.” Veeck’s first priority was to spruce up Borchert Field. Because the run-down park had supposedly not been painted in seventeen years, he hired one hundred cleaning ladies to scrub the grandstands completely one night before a fresh coat of light gray paint was applied to the entire structure. In addition, a new ladies’ room was constructed as Veeck sought to make the decrepit ball yard more appealing to all fans. Naturally, these proceedings drew attention from the neighborhood and the press, just as Veeck had hoped. The publicity generated by his activity resulted in a crowd of 4,800 for the next game, more than had been attracted in several years for any one game under the often frugal ownership of Veeck’s predecessor, Henry Bendinger. The list of promotions Veeck employed were endless: giving away 200-pound cakes of ice, kegs of nails, step ladders, butter, fruits and vegetables, and livestock such as old horses, turkeys, geese, rabbits, and pigeons. On one “fish night,” live eels, lobsters and crawfish were to be handed out to fans, but the game was rained out and the fish died. He also considered the use of firework displays, but because of Borchert Field’s wooden construction the risk of a conflagration was too great. Veeck also hired tight-wire walkers to perform above the right field scoreboard. Another fan enticement was the gift of a free ticket to anyone who donated a pint of blood to the Red Cross. A popular act at home games was the Brewer strolling band. Manager Charlie Grimm strummed on his left-handed banjo; Rudie Schaffer, the club secretary-treasurer, plucked a home-made bull fiddle; Mickey Heath, the radio announcer, performed on the washboard; and Veeck played the jazzbo, a sliding tin-whistle. One inventive promotion during World War II was “Rosie the Riveter” morning games. Doughnuts and bowls of cereal were distributed to the late-shift factory workers

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by ushers sporting nightgowns. Meanwhile, a band entertained in pajamas and night caps for the milk and coffee-drinking fans, Veeck who received his first national publicity from these early morning games, allowed free admittance to women wearing welding caps or riveting masks. The young entrepreneur did not advertise his promotions in advance. This created the feeling that if fans did not attend, they might be missing something. By 1942, the Brewers had jumped to second place in the American Association standings, and their league-best opening day crowd of 15,599 was almost one-fourth of their total 1940 season attendance figure of 68,320. Veeck’s willingness to listen to his customers by wandering the stands helped create this improvement in fan loyalty. Borchert Field also provided Veeck with plenty of opportunities to aid the Brewers with a few extra victories. One evening, while the Brewers were losing, an expected rainstorm was delayed in reaching Milwaukee’s north side. Veeck had the lights shut off one out before the game became official. By the time the alleged malfunction was solved by the electricians, the rain had moved in and the game had to be replayed in its entirety thus preventing a loss for the Brewers. That incident led to a change in the league rules by which contests stopped by a light failure only became suspended. On another occasion, the innovative Veeck built a sixty-toot high chicken wire fence in right field in order to eliminate 266-foot home runs by opposing sluggers. By employing a hydraulic motor, the wire fence was extended across the top of the right field wall to convert opponents’ home runs into singles. The mesh was drawn back when the Brewers batted, giving Milwaukee the ultimate home field advantage! As Veeck explained. We could do this without any trouble at all—and we did do it—by reeling the fence in and out between innings. That is, we did it once. They passed a rule against it the next day.” One of the more spectacular events at Borchert Field during the Veeck years had absolutely nothing to do with action on the diamond. On June 15, 1944, a fierce thunderstorm struck the park during the seventh inning of a night game. The fifty-six mile-per-hour gales blew off a 100-foot section of the first base grandstand roof. The flying lumber slammed against flats on Seventh Street and car-damaging debris was strewn over the entire neighborhood. Of the 5,000 fans in


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the park, thirty were injured, four seriously. The field lights also went dead, creating some panic. Fortunately, most fans calmly left the park. One major concern that evening was for the boy who worked on the grandstand roof. Paid to retrieve foul balls, the young man could not be located after the windstorm. Firemen chopped through piles of rubble, fearing the worst. After an hour of desperate searching, police thought to call his home, where the boy was found unscathed. This infamous evening was vividly recalled by Bernice Koutny Stone. As on most summer nights, she was taking in the Brewer game on the second floor porch with her father. Exhibiting great common sense, Bernice suggested that they vacate the deck as the storm approached. Being the die-hard fan that he was, Mr. Koutny insisted upon staying until it was almost too late. Only when the grandstand roof was bearing down upon them did Mr. Koutny decide to scurry down the ladder. Bernice then jumped into his arms for safety. The 1944 season was also of some significance because it was the one season that the legendary Casey Stengel managed the Brewers at Borchert Field. Stengel stepped in when Charlie Grimm took the opportunity to manage the Chicago Cubs. The “Old Professor’s” club won the AA pennant, but differences with Bill Veeck resulted in Stengel moving on to become the Kansas City manager. Men were not the only ballplayers to call Borchert Field home in 1944. The Milwaukee Schnitts, members of Phillip K. Wrigley’s All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, won the pennant in their only year in the circuit. Unfortunately for Milwaukee fans, the entire championship series had to be played in Kenosha because Borchert Field was not available to the Schnitts that September. The lack of home field advantage did not prevent the Milwaukeeans from defeating the Kenosha Comets, four games to three. The Schnitts were led by pitcher Connie Wisniewski, whose won-lost record in the series was a spectacular 3-1. After the 1945 season, Bill Veeck sold the Brewers to Oscar Salinger, a Chicago attorney. The master promoter, whose teams won three American Association championship titles, collected $250,000 after taxes, a healthy return for the $83,000 he paid for the team in 1941. Salinger then sold the club and its territorial rights in 1946 to Lou Perini, owner of the Boston Braves.

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The Perini-owned Milwaukee Brewers of the late 1940s competed in what had become an archaic, ramshackle ballpark. Veeck had done his best to keep Borchert Field patched together, but city building codes allowed for few major renovations. The bleacher fans could create a “swaying ballpark” by bouncing and stamping their feet during intense moments of competition. Stephen Hauser recalled his father Karl telling him, “You could feel the whole place sway and you just had to hope that it didn’t give way somewhere along the line.” A major renovation by Lou Perini moved the diamond twenty feet north and away from the grandstand to improve fans’ sight lines. By reducing the center field distance from 395 feet to 375 feet, both foul lines were finally visible to most grandstand patrons. Two new bullpens were placed in the enlarged areas alongside the stands created by the infield relocation. The previous pens had been in front of the right field scoreboard. Now, Milwaukee relief pitchers wound up adjacent to the first base grandstand so that they could be easily observed from the Brewer third base dugout. This alteration allowed Cliff Tarzan” Mapes of the Kansas City Blues to become the only player in Borchert Field history to knock a ball over the 35-foot-high scoreboard. His prodigious clout of May 31, 1947 sailed over the Roundy’s Coffee Cup sign and landed on the pavement near Seventh and Burleigh, traveling at least 500 feet. Perini also converted the Borchert Field foul poles into trendy neon-lighted markers protected by wire netting. Some 3,000 new box seat chairs were purchased for $15,000. The Brewers no longer had to borrow chairs from the Chicago Cubs, as they had done since 1941. Numerous opportunities for employment existed both in the ballpark as well as in its vicinity. Baseball-mad youth could worship their heroes and get paid for it in a number different ways. Whether it be car watching, bagging peanuts, retrieving seat cushions or baseballs, selling newspapers, or running errands for George Washington Buckner, the Brewer African American trainer, young fans could become a part of the Borchert Field excitement. Informants Ray Koutny and Audrey Jacobsen Roth profited by “car watching.” The arrangement began by convincing an auto owner to let the “watcher” guard the vehicle for a nickel, dime, or quarter. Protection was provided from both errant baseballs and passers-by who


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might scratch the hood by using it as a seat for the game. Of course, the car watcher had exclusive rights to carefully stand on top of the car in order to observe the field. This was done before the Borchert Field fences were raised when the new 1935 lights were installed. After the fences were heightened, trees on Seventh and Eighth Streets became heavily populated with young fans during games. Ray and his pals also kept busy selling concessions inside the ballpark. Originally purchased wholesale in large burlap bags, the peanuts were dumped on tables and then stuffed into small paper sacks for resale during the games. Kids twisted the tops closed and paraded through the stands marketing peanuts, scorecards, and seat cushion rentals. Those who only bagged peanuts and picked up cushions did not get paid. They were compensated with free admittance and baseball practice time on the hallowed diamond. Newspaper vendors were also allowed in at no charge and would earn a penny for each three cent newspaper retailed. Ball watching was the most exhilarating job. The luckiest youths were situated on the grandstand roof. From there, they would yell to fellow watchers down on the street as a ball sailed over the fence. The street retrievers were to recover the ball and return it to management. However, neighborhood kids made this a rigorous task as they ganged up on the Brewer employees and played keep-away until the fleetest runner would abscond with the prized souvenir. If the street watcher lost too many baseballs in this fashion, he was quickly replaced. The most fortunate boys were allowed to assist George Washington Buckner, the Brewer trainer and clubhouse manager. Buckner, a very popular black man in a white man’s sport, compensated his aides with broken bats and worn-out spikes. Of course, this equipment was of far greater value to a young baseball fan than cash. Many adults also discovered that working at Borchert Field provided memorable experiences as well as a paycheck. Marvin Pfennig, still an usher at County Stadium, spent the 1951 and 1952 seasons working at Borchert Field. To witness future Braves’ stars such as Eddie Mathews and Johnny Logan, then players for the Brewers, was a thrill for Marv. As a Brewer usher, he was paid two dollars per game and was provided with only a small-billed red usher’s cap for his uniform. The twelve man ushering crew was required to arrive ninety minutes

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before the first inning, but could exit with the fans after the game. Marv was responsible for the lower box seat section behind home plate and for guarding the equipment in the dugouts between games of doubleheaders. The taverns in the Borchert neighborhood did great business, as Marv recalled. Brewer employees, fans, and even players (many of whom boarded in the area) would frequent Sluggy Walters and Steve’s Baseball Tavern. Sluggy’s, located on the southeast corner of Tenth and Chambers for over forty years, had a splendid baseball atmosphere with its many baseball photos and a game ticket window. Steve’s also sold Brewer tickets and had the advantage of being kitty-corner from Borchert Field’s main entrance at Eighth and Chambers. By 1950, it had become evident that Borchert Field was nearing the end of its days. The park had become inadequate for the era’s more discerning fans. The electrical and plumbing facilities were quite dilapidated. With the increased use of automobiles, Borchert Field’s residential location had become unappealing as convenient parking was virtually non-existent. Several factors contributed to 1952 becoming the Brewers’ last year at Borchert Field. First, their long term, strictly-enforced lease with Mrs. Otto Borchert expired on January 1, 1953. Under terms of the lease, the Brewers, who never had sufficient capital to acquire land and build their own stadium, had to pay $6,000 a year in taxes and $10,000 a year in general maintenance. Together with an additional $9,000 rental charge, these expenses became excessive for an increasingly inadequate facility. More important, the construction of Milwaukee County Stadium meant that the shift of a major league franchise to Milwaukee was probable. At first, it was thought that the St. Louis Browns might move here. But territorial rights to Milwaukee in the American Association belonged to Lou Perini, owner of the National League Braves, whose National League team was drawing poorly in Boston. Thus, it was not really surprising when the Boston franchise was moved to Milwaukee in time for the opening of the 1953 season. The final Brewer game at Borchert Field, played on September 21, 1952, was the seventh and deciding contest of the American Association championship play-off series between the Kansas City


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Blues and the Brewers. Milwaukee lost, 8-7, in dramatic fashion. Trailing 8-2 going into the bottom of the ninth, Milwaukee scored five runs before the final out was recorded. Moose Skowron of the Blues smacked the last Borchert Field home run, a wind-aided shot over the right field fence. Mrs. Borchert sold her ballpark and the land to the City of Milwaukee in 1952 for $123,000 after completion of County Stadium had become a certainty. In 1937,the property had been assessed for only $73,000 with $13,000 attributed to the decaying structure. The timeworn ballpark, with all of its idiosyncrasies, was dismantled by 1954. The site served as a playground until the Locust Street section of the 1-43 North-South Freeway, running precisely between Seventh and Eighth Streets, was completed in 1963. Venerable “Borchert’s Orchard” was not totally discarded, however. At the time of demolition, the City of Milwaukee’s Central Board of Purchases marketed much of Borchert Field’s salvageable equipment on bids. These items included the beautiful long wooden park benches behind home plate and the newer box seat metal chairs. Some wooden planks were used in the County Stadium pedestrian bridge over the Menomonee River. Former Mayor Zeidler preserved a handful of field dirt, years before it was fashionable to save artifacts of historic ballparks. Today nearly 900,000 automobiles a week travel on 1-43 Freeway and pass over the site where much of Milwaukee’s baseball history was made. No sign or historic marker identifies the location, but the memories of many older residents of the Milwaukee area keep alive the Brewers teams of a by-gone era and the ballpark named after Otto Borchert where they performed. Editor’s Note: The extensive documentation for a lengthier version of this article may be consulted at the Milwaukee County Historical Society’s research center.

Pabst Mansion (Pabst Mansion file)

Milwaukee and the Columbian Exposition of 1893 by

Frank A. Cassell Milwaukee History Winter 1982

“I

t looked like Milwaukee on State Street to-night,” wrote a Milwaukee Sentinel reporter. The date was September 5, 1893, and tomorrow was to be Wisconsin Day. Along the Chicago River the huge lake steamers, such as the Virginia and the whaleback steamer Christopher Columbus, disgorged thousands of Milwaukeeans and Wisconsinites. At the Northwestern, and Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul railroad terminals, thousands of other Badger State residents were arriving. By 8:00 a.m. on September 6, the vanguard of an estimated 100,000 Wisconsin citizens had assembled at the Fifty-seventh Street entrance. Even after the gates opened, the crush was so great the management had to utilize adjacent entrances that usually remained locked. Having paid the fifty-cent admission price, the Wisconsin visitor entered the 686-acre grounds of the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago’s Jackson Park.[1] On this particular day most Wisconsin visitors would stroll past the California Building, with its wine-spouting fountain, to reach the Wisconsin Building. Located on North Pond near the handsome Fine Arts Building, the Wisconsin Building was of stone and wood construction and resembled many of the great mansions then being built in Milwaukee. Although the exhibits in the building were interesting and Professor George Bach and his Milwaukee band played pleasant music, most visitors were anxious to see the principal sights of the greatest World’s Fair ever held. They were part of the twentyseven million people who journeyed to Chicago between May and October to be part of this unique event.[2] There were over two hundred buildings constructed for the World’s Fair of 1893. Thirteen of them were the enormous Renaissance-style

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palaces that gave the Columbian Exposition its title of the White City. America’s most famous architects, sculptors, and artists, under the direction of Chicagoan Daniel Burnham, had designed and decorated these structures. Landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted transformed the once marshy grounds into a lovely park with lagoons, canals, and islands. A Milwaukee family visiting the exposition might have boarded the three-mile long, electrically powered Intramural Railroad that circled the grounds to gain a general idea of the fair. But the best way to obtain a general perspective was to walk south from the Wisconsin Building to the domed Administration Building and climb to the observation deck. From here nearly everything could be seen. To the south stood the Machinery Building distinguished by its strange mixture of Spanish and classical architecture. From the west side of the deck the visitor could see the sprawling Terminal Station where an endless stream of trains delivered visitors to the fair. The view north towards Chicago was striking. Just below were the Mines and Mining and the Electricity buildings and beyond them lay the lagoon with Wooded Island in the center. Around the lagoon could be seen the Transportation, Horticulture, Woman’s, Illinois, Fine Arts, Fisheries, and U. S. Government buildings. Some of the seventeen foreign government buildings could be seen in the distance. To the northeast lay the famous Midway Plaisance with its many attractions ranging from belly dancers to the original Ferris Wheel that could carry over 2,000 people at the same time. The best and most famous vista of the exposition was to the east towards Lake Michigan. This was the Court of Honor. Around a magnificent basin stood the Agriculture Building, the Peristyle Colonnade, and the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building, the largest roofed structure in the world. Covering thirty acres, the Manufactures Building easily accommodated crowds of 250 000 people. Statues and fountains abounded in the Court of Honor. The waters of the basin and adjacent waterways teemed with small craft, including sixty gondolas with their gondoliers brought from Venice. Inside the exposition buildings there were over 165000 exhibits from forty-four states and territories and one hundred foreign nations and their colonies.[3]


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Although primarily a Chicago production, the Columbian Exposition offered significant opportunities for Milwaukee. Only two hours away by railroad and four to five hours by steamboat Milwaukee was the nearest large city to Chicago. The fair was an obvious place to advertise the products of the city’s booming manufacturing industries and seek new capital investments Also the possibilities of attracting new immigrants and bringing tourists from Chicago could be exploited. The question was how well Milwaukee would organize to make the most of its geographic proximity to Jackson Park. Milwaukeeans had been aware of the World’s Fair since 1890 when Congress had created a Board of World’s Fair Commissioners to oversee the planning, building, and operation of the White City. Congress also had mandated the appointment of a Board of Lady Managers to supervise the involvement of women in the fair. Each state had been allowed two representatives on the World’s Fair Commission and two on the Board of Lady Managers. Milwaukeeans held two of the four Wisconsin positions. John M. Mitchell, one of the original World’s Fair commissioners, resigned in 1891 after being elected to Congress. He was replaced by David Benjamin, a lumber merchant, who drafted state legislation creating the Wisconsin Board of World’s Fair Managers. Benjamin later quit in a dispute over the size of the legislative appropriation for Wisconsin’s official exhibits at the fair. Mrs. William Pitt Lynde, wife of a former Milwaukee mayor and congressman, served on the Board of Lady Managers.[4] In the spring of 1891, Governor George Peck, who had been Mayor of Milwaukee prior to his election, signed Benjamin’s bill and appointed the members of the Wisconsin Board of World’s Fair Managers. Mrs. Lynde was included among the membership as was Harry Sanderson, a Milwaukee businessman and bank director. The board undertook to organize Wisconsin’s participation in the exposition. Besides constructing the Wisconsin Building on the fair grounds, the board encouraged farmers, dairymen, and manufacturers to exhibit their products. The board sought local support for its efforts by creating Auxiliary Committees in each of Wisconsin’s counties. In Milwaukee the eight-member Auxiliary Committee was chaired by Mrs. Alexander McD. Young. Other Milwaukeeans were associated with the board as organizers of some of the state’s official exhibits. William O. Hoch-

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stein, a tobacco merchant, traveled the southern and southwestern sections of Wisconsin accumulating hundreds of samples of tobacco leaves for display in the Agriculture Building. William E. Anderson, former superintendent of Milwaukee schools, headed a committee to organize the state’s educational exhibit in the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building.[5] The first concern of the Wisconsin Board of World’s Fair Managers with regard to Milwaukee was to insure a broad representation of the city’s products at the fair. The executive commissioner of the board, Robert Kirkland of Jefferson, personally visited many businessmen and sent hundreds of form letters. The results were disappointing. Big manufacturing enterprises, such as E. P. Allis and Milwaukee Harvester, readily appreciated the possibilities for marketing and new investment and agreed to provide displays. Smaller businesses, however, were reluctant to commit large sums for elaborate exhibits. The board called upon the Milwaukee County Auxiliary Committee for assistance. The committee responded by hosting a meeting for Milwaukee businessmen at the Plankinton House on May 2,1892. Over 200 invitations were sent, but only a handful attended.[6] The May 2 meeting was chaired by August Ledyard Smith of Appleton, president of the state World’s Fair board. Smith, a businessman and bank president, told the group that “Wisconsin, and Milwaukee especially, would receive large benefits from the World’s Fair.” Smith claimed that Chicago would be so overcrowded during the fair that many would be forced to stay in Milwaukee hotels and commute to Jackson Park. The president also emphasized the commercial advantages to Milwaukee businessmen of showing their products at the exposition. He hoped they “would awake to the importance of the fair as an advertising medium.” Smith’s appeal was well received by the small audience which agreed to form a committee to “agitate the question” in the business community. Several businessmen at the meeting, including a representative from the Pabst Brewing Company, pledged to seek display space at the fair.[7] Although the Wisconsin Board of World’s Fair Managers remained dissatisfied, several dozen Milwaukee businesses finally did decide to place exhibits at the exposition. Three Milwaukee business displays attracted considerable attention. The four E. P. Allis Reynolds-Corliss


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engines testified to the advanced technology developing in the city. Costing more than $125,000, the Allis engines helped provide power for the exposition. Two of them drove the Intramural Railroad, while the others provided electric lighting to the fair grounds. One of the engines, a 315-ton monster with a fly wheel thirty feet in diameter, was the biggest engine in the world. When President Grover Cleveland pressed a gold telegrapher’s key to open the Columbian Exposition, his simple act started the Allis engine which in turn powered the electric water fountains and unfurled thousands of flags. The Allis engine received an award for excellence.[8] Both Schlitz and Pabst mounted major corporate exhibits in the Agriculture Building not far from the official Wisconsin displays. The Schlitz pavilion, in the west gallery, cost $20,000. It consisted of two enormous beer tuns surmounted by four statues supporting the company’s symbol, a globe belted by the name of the brewery. The belt was made of colored glass behind which electric lights glowed. The interior of the tuns, each twenty feet high, boasted twelve large paintings representing the major departments of the firm. There was a particularly big mural of the Milwaukee skyline from the lake with the location of the brewery emphasized. In addition, the display included many bottles of the different beers produced by Schlitz. Souvenirs were distributed to guests including sets of twenty-five pictures of the various parts of the brewery. Some guests received a model of the Schlitz globe “containing a dozen comic views to show the extent to which Schlitz beer is drunk.” The entire display was prepared by a Chicago public relations firm. The Pabst display was simpler than Schlitz’s and far more impressive. On a thirteen-foot square, glass covered table stood a model of the Pabst brewery in Milwaukee, the largest in the world. The model included streets, streetcars, trains, and fifty buildings, each so finely detailed that every window and brick was clearly visible. What caught the public’s attention was the fact that the entire model brewery was coated in 24-carat gold. Costing $100,000, the Pabst model was made at the Reliance Wire and Iron Works of Milwaukee. Pabst hired fifteen carvers from Italy to fashion the miniature buildings in Milwaukee. The model stood within “a terra cotta and glass German palace, crowned by a mosaic dome of hand painted and stained crystal.” The frieze

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of the building illustrated the history of brewing beginning with the Egyptians.[9] The extravagance of the Pabst display reflected the Milwaukee brewer’s competition with Anheuser-Busch of St. Louis to be named the best beer at the fair. Not until the exposition had ended was the complex matter of comparing the quality of dozens of beers completed. Initial results indicated that Anheuser-Busch had won because it fared better in the chemical analysis. However the awards committee, which was chaired by Christian Wahl of Milwaukee, changed the chemist’s report and declared Pabst the winner. The committee ruled that the chemist improperly had deducted points for salt content in sixteen samples including Pabst. Anheuser-Busch attorneys appealed the decision to the national World’s Fair Commission, but the committee’s judgment was sustained. There were no blue ribbons given out in 1893. Pabst won nine medals and the right to use an advertising slogan still printed on the Pabst logo. In 1893, at least, it was indeed the best beer.[10] While the corporate displays reflected well on Milwaukee, many individuals believed that the city itself should have an official exhibit at the fair. The first effort to arrange such a civic display was initiated by a committee of leading Milwaukee businessmen in May, 1892, a year before the Columbian Exposition opened. Frank Higbee, a Chicago public relations expert, appeared before the businessmen. He proposed that Milwaukee could advertise itself by installing a model of the city between thirty and forty feet square. The model would be done in clay then reproduced in bronze. The miniature city would show the major buildings, rail lines, rivers, bridges, parks, and monuments. Water would flow through the rivers and model boats would float on Lake Michigan. And all of this could be done by Mr. Higbee’s firm for a price of $6,000 to $10,000. Higbee urged a speedy decision on his proposal as space in the exposition buildings was nearly all claimed. At first, reaction to the Higbee plan was positive. The $10,000 price tag was admittedly high, but supporters noted that the new suburb of South Milwaukee was spending $5,000 on its World’s Fair exhibit. The Sentinel wrote a supportive editorial, noting that the plan for a model was “the only proposition that has been made to give to Milwaukee any sort of special prominence.” To promote the plan, another committee of businessmen assembled with Henry Rockwell and later Charles C.


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Rogers as chairmen. By late May the committee claimed that $2,000 had been raised. To encourage more donations, a trip by rail to the exposition grounds was arranged for several hundred Milwaukee businessmen. Despite this effort, the fund drive stalled well short of its goal. The businessmen’s committee in October was forced to ask for an appropriation from the Milwaukee Common Council which promptly buried the proposal.[11] In April of 1893, Milwaukee businessmen tried once again to gather support for a Milwaukee exhibit. This time the initiative came from the Board of Directors of the Association for the Advancement of Milwaukee, a group formed in 1888 to attract new business to Milwaukee, The directors proclaimed that opinions about the fair had changed in Milwaukee. Instead of “sleeping through this important opportunity it is proposed to take definite steps immediately to advertise the city’s many attractions in Chicago and other places.” The board members discussed distributing publicity brochures on trains or establishing a bureau in Chicago to disseminate information on Milwaukee. However, no definite plans were made before the group adjourned.[12] Three weeks later Mayor Peter J. Somers joined the effort. On April 23 he called for a meeting at his office of the presidents of all major associations. At the same time he issued a lengthy proclamation arguing for a Milwaukee presence at the World’s Fair. Somers maintained that even “the most conservative Milwaukeeans must recognize the desirability of keeping in advance of our rivals for supremacy in the trade-and traffic of the northwest. . . .” The mayor claimed that Milwaukee was in danger of losing out to other cities in the race for the trade of the expanding areas to the west of Wisconsin. The problem was that eastern and European investors were not aware of Milwaukee’s potential. But the World’s Fair would bring those who controlled the flow of capital to the front doorstep of Milwaukee. Something had to be done to bring the city to the attention of these moneyed individuals. According to the mayor, the Wisconsin state exhibits would help, “but we must also bestir ourselves.” Somers warned that neighboring states and cities were more sensitive than Milwaukee to the commercial potential of the exposition.[13]

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The city’s press supported Mayor Somers’s call for action. Even the Republican Sentinel applauded the Democratic mayor’s proclamation. “Much valuable time has been wasted and now the fair is upon us,” said one Journal editorial, “whatever is done must be done quickly.” The question was whether or not Milwaukee would make a showing at the fair” and it can receive but one answer.” Backed by favorable public opinion, the mayor met with Milwaukee business leaders on April 25. Somers began by stating that there was “a general feeling among all classes of people that something should be done to advertise Milwaukee at the world’s fair.” In the succeeding discussion, however little attention was paid to the mayor’s concern. Instead, the committee decided on a three-point program that focused on action in Milwaukee rather than Chicago. The plan called first for the acquisition and erection of the Ashland Monolith in a Milwaukee park. Secondly, the Duke of Veragua, a descendent of Columbus who was in Chicago for the fair, was to be invited to Milwaukee to dedicate the monolith. Finally, funds were to be collected to entertain important guests coming to Milwaukee during the summer. If all parts of the plan were implemented, the committee felt that Milwaukee would command national and international attention.[14] The Ashland Monolith was the tallest stone in the world. When raised on its base, the monolith would be over 105 feet high. Even the famed Cleopatra’s Needle, carved by the ancient Egyptians, did not match the Ashland Monolith in size. In April, 1893 the monolith lay in a quarry near Ashland, Wisconsin, owned by the Prentice Brownstone Company. Originally, Frederick Prentice, a Milwaukeean who was the principal owner of the company, had offered to quarry the stone and donate it to the Wisconsin Board of World’s Fair Managers for display at Jackson Park. Prentice, however, did not offer to pay the estimated cost of $40,000 to move and erect the monolith. Although the state World’s Fair board and even national fair officials strongly supported the monolith idea, the money could not be found, and the plan was abandoned. The mayor’s committee of business leaders, however, hoped they could succeed where the state board had failed. Mayor Somers asked the Advancement Association to coordinate the entire World’s Fair plan. The association then acted to organize subcommittees to acquire the monolith, to invite the Duke of Veragua


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to Milwaukee, and to raise money for the entertainment of important visitors. The monolith subcommittee moved with dispatch. At first there were problems. Officials at the Prentice Brownstone Company suggested that they would charge the city for the stone. Later Frederick Prentice hinted that he might give it to Milwaukee if the businessmen’s committee would help him get the contract for supplying stone for the city’s new federal building. In early May, the subcommittee on the monolith visited Prentice at his offices in Ashland. Benjamin M. Well, a real estate investor and the chairman of the subcommittee, reported that Prentice had finally agreed to give the monolith to Milwaukee if the city could raise the $40,000 moving costs in a month. Otherwise, the stone would be broken up and sold for building purposes. Despite vigorous fund raising efforts, the subcommittee secured but a fraction of the needed money. The majestic monolith was reduced to building stone.[16] All else having failed, the mayor’s businessmen’s committee concentrated on raising money to entertain distinguished guests who might come from Chicago to visit the city during the fair. In late May the representatives of the committee met with officials of the Milwaukee Press Club to arrange for a visit by the entire foreign press corps covering the Columbian Exposition. This time the city succeeded in doing something for itself. On June 22 a special Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul train arrived at the flag-bedecked Union depot with 130 foreign correspondents. They traveled aboard three Pullman palace cars and were accompanied by Governor George Peck and members of the Milwaukee Press Club. The visitors were put aboard trolley cars and given a tour of the city. The streets had been specially cleaned the night before, flags flew along the tour route, and large crowds lined the streets. The tour included a visit to the Soldiers’ Home and then returned downtown past the Press Club, where the visitors “gave three cheers and a tiger for their Milwaukee confreres.” At the Schlitz brewery the visitors inspected the facilities and sampled the product. That night there was a large dinner at the new Pfister Hotel. The visitors left well-fed, presumably to write nice things about their hosts.[17] It is not clear whether or not the mayor’s businessmen’s committee continued to function after the visit of the foreign correspondents. However, the city soon had other opportunities to gain publicity

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because of the World’s Fair. On July 6 Milwaukee was treated to the unique experience when a fifteenth-century fleet sailed up the Milwaukee River to the Grand (Wisconsin) Avenue bridge. The three sailing vessels, replicas of Columbus’s fleet of 1492, had been built in Spain a year earlier and were on their way to Jackson Park as part of the Spanish exhibit. The small fleet had recently been in New York to participate in a massive naval review. In Milwaukee the ships caught the public fancy, and tens of thousands lined the river banks and bridges to witness their progress. Bodies were packed so tightly on several bridges that police had to be called in to clear the spans so they could be opened. Escorted by whistle-blowing fire boats and coast guard vessels, the Spanish ships moored near the Grand Avenue bridge. A committee of city officials led by the newly installed mayor, John C. Koch, greeted Captain Concas and his Spanish crews. Coaches took the guests and their hosts to the Pabst brewery for the obligatory tour. After riding through the east side, the party retired to the Pfister Hotel for lunch. News accounts noted that in deference to the Spanish visitors no mention was made of Leif Ericson’s statue on the lake front. By five o’clock that afternoon the caravelles were on their way to Chicago.[18] The visit of the Spanish vessels had given Milwaukeeans their first naval procession. A few days later there would be a similar event when the Viking ship arrived. Built in Norway as an exact replica of a ninthcentury vessel recently excavated, the Viking ship had been sailed in forty-three days to New York by a crew of Norwegian sailors. Like the caravelles, it was on its way to the Columbian Exposition. When news reached Milwaukee on July 8 that the vessel would be arriving, the city’s Norwegian citizens determined to celebrate the occasion. Otto Friis, a real estate broker, organized two meetings of Norwegian-American leaders to make plans. The group sent invitations to Congressman Nils P. Haugen of River Falls, Professor Rasmus B. Anderson of Madison, former railroad commissioner Atley Peterson of Soldiers Grove, and the governor of Minnesota, Knute Nelson. They also arranged for an artillery salute, a welcoming committee, and a tour of the city for the visiting Norwegians. “This will be the first real national Norwegian demonstration ever held in Milwaukee,” reported the Sentinel, “and


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the residents of that nationality are making great efforts to insure its success.”[19] The Viking ship reached Milwaukee late on July 9, and festivities occupied the next day. The Coast Guard cutter Andy Johnson carried Governor Peck, Mayor Koch, the reception committee, and a band to meet the strange craft as a 21-gun salute was fired. The 78-foot long ship was rowed up the Milwaukee River to the Chestnut (now Juneau) Street bridge accompanied by a half dozen steamships and a flotilla of small boats. At least 100,000 Milwaukeeans watched the spectacle, more than had turned out for the caravelles. After sailing back to the Grand Avenue bridge, Captain Magnus Anderson and his crew were treated to lunch at the Pabst Cafe. While they ate, the members of the Norwegian societies marched from their halls on the south side to the corner of Grand Avenue and West Water (now Plankinton). From there a huge parade carried Anderson and his men to Leif Ericson’s monument. After lengthy speeches, the Norwegians were given the now standard tour of Milwaukee and a banquet at the Pfister. The next day the Viking ship raised its single sail and, towed by a coast guard vessel, left for Chicago. It remains there today on display at the Lincoln Park Zoo.[20] The caravelles and the Viking ship had helped make the summer of 1893 a memorable one for Milwaukee. But in monetary terms the city had realized only limited benefits. Although Milwaukee had failed miserably to exploit fully the economic possibilities of the World’s Fair, advertising campaigns by rail and steamship companies did bring tourists from Chicago to Milwaukee. Steamship excursions were popular during summer weekends for fair visitors who had wearied of the exposition’s attractions. Interest in these trips increased when the whaleback steamer Christopher Columbus began regular trips between Milwaukee and Chicago. Built in West Superior, Wisconsin, the Christopher Columbus was called by its owners the world’s largest excursion steamer. It could sail at twenty miles per hour and safely carry 4,000 passengers. The novelty of the ship’s design, as well as the publicity surrounding it, created a public demand to book passage. Each week thousands of visitors reached Milwaukee aboard the steamers and the twenty daily trains running between the two cities.

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Restaurants, hotels, and the famed Schlitz Garden reaped significant profits. On July 23 the tourist traffic reached a peak. Word spread in Chicago that the Christopher Columbus would race the steamer City of Milwaukee from Chicago to Milwaukee. Excited by the prospect and aware the World’s Fairgrounds were closed that day, thousands converged on the Chicago offices of the World’s Fair Steamship Company seeking tickets on the two ships. The company, putting profits ahead of safety, allowed 6,300 passengers aboard the Christopher Columbus. One thousand crowded the decks of the City of Milwaukee. Still, many others demanded passage, and their frustration led to serious clashes with police, The company finally pressed two other steamers into service thus allowing another 4,500 passengers to sail for Milwaukee. The race actually never took place. A Coast Guard cutter followed the ships to enforce an official order prohibiting the contest. The two captains, however, did everything possible to reach Milwaukee first. Despite starting forty-five minutes later than its competitor, the Christopher Columbus caught up with the City of Milwaukee a short distance outside of the Milwaukee harbor. Soon nearly 12,000 visitors flooded the downtown area to the delight of businessmen. But for many of these tourists a pleasant excursion was about to become a traveler’s nightmare. Coast Guard officials refused to let more than 4,000 passengers board the Christopher Columbus for the return trip to Chicago. As a result, thousands were left stranded in Milwaukee. The lucky ones took trains home, but many did not have enough money and had to wait until the next day to use their return tickets. “There were many young men who had their best girl friends to see the sights of the Cream City,” reported one paper, “and being compelled to remain with them here until today, were placed in a most embarrassing position.” There is no record of how these young men coped with the situation.[21] While thousands came from Chicago to Milwaukee in the summer of 1893, even larger numbers of Milwaukeeans eagerly traveled to Chicago to see the wonders of the fair. Although there was no official City of Milwaukee display at the Columbian Exposition, an interested visitor would have found numerous contributions from local companies and individual citizens throughout the fair grounds. Altogether, there


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were some eighty-five exhibits by Milwaukeeans in the exposition buildings. This must be considered a small number since there were over two thousand exhibits from the State of Wisconsin. Milwaukee’s exhibits, which covered both commercial and cultural aspects of the city’s progress, were of high quality as they won fifty-eight medals and other awards. As a group, Wisconsin residents brought home slightly more than 1,000 awards. Among the corporation exhibits, the E. P. Allis engines and Pabst’s brewery model were clearly the most spectacular. These two companies helped focus attention on Milwaukee at the fair. However, other Milwaukee firms also earned recognition. The Pfister and Vogel Leather Company, Albert Trostel and Sons, and the Herman Zohrland Leather Company all won awards for their leather goods displays. George Ohl’s combined horse collar and harness, and Charles Abresch’s display of beer wagons were also honored. The Milwaukee clothing industry was represented by Brenk Brothers, and James Lawrie and Company; their displays also earned award diplomas. Other Milwaukee business exhibits included worsted cloth, odorless water closets, soda fountains, bicycles, chairs, iron poles, bricks and clay, wood pulleys, a paper mill, band saws, wheel grinders, agricultural equipment, and milling machinery. In total, twenty-nine Milwaukee businesses participated in the fair. In 1893, however, there were over 500 manufacturing enterprises in the city.[22] Milwaukeeans who wandered behind the Agriculture Building into the livestock area or into the Horticulture Building might have been surprised to find other examples of Milwaukee enterprise. Jacob Keyl brought ten horses to the fair and won eight awards, while Otto Kuehn’s three racing pigeons earned him five awards. George Jeffrey’s apples made a tempting display in the Horticulture Building, but failed to impress the awards committee. There was ample evidence in Jackson Park that Milwaukee was as concerned about culture and education as about profits. There were for example, a number of paintings by Milwaukee artists. In the Fine Arts Building, now known as the Museum of Science and Industry, visitors could see Arthur Knight’s Moonrise in Brittany and Richard Lorenz’s Alone. One of the most popular paintings in the building was The Flagellants by Milwaukee-born artist Carl Marr. Huge in size and

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portraying grotesque human behavior, the painting attracted crowds of entranced spectators. In the Wisconsin Building, which stood near the Fine Arts Building, visitors could see the work of other Milwaukee artists. Jessie Schley displayed two paintings, Three Generations and Hospital Garden. Julia Warren’s Before the Fair represented the bleak landscape of Jackson Park prior to work beginning on the exposition buildings. An unusual piece of art by John V. Tyrell of Milwaukee drew many fair visitors to the Wisconsin Building. Tyrell, on a single six-by-ten-foot sheet, had written an entire history of Wisconsin in an old English script. The Wisconsin Board of World’s Fair Managers called it the “largest and most elaborate specimen of pen and ink engrossment ever attempted.”[23] Milwaukee women were well represented in the Woman’s Building. The Woman’s Club of Wisconsin donated a desk made in Florence, and sixteen Milwaukee women contributed art and handicraft items for display. Anna Dodge, Mrs. Herman O. Frank, Susan Frackleton, Lena Felmer, Elizabeth Kelliher, and Laura Tate all won awards for their decorated china. Mrs. Frackleton also received a prize for her display of gas and electric kilns for firing china.[24] The Wisconsin educational display in the Manufacturers and Liberal Arts Building had been assembled by William E. Anderson of Milwaukee and contained a great deal of material from the city’s schools and colleges. Milwaukee Normal School, a predecessor institution to the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, earned honors for its display of photographs, original work in geometry drawing, class note books, and “homemade physical apparatus.” Other awards were won by the Milwaukee Public School system, the German and English Seminary and Academy, and the Spencerian Business College. The Archdiocese of Milwaukee received five awards for the exhibits of parochial schools.[25] When the Columbian Exposition ended in October, 1893, the Milwaukee Museum and other Wisconsin institutions attempted to obtain some of the best American and foreign exhibits as additions to their own collections. The museum, already well regarded nationally, was particularly active. Custodian Henry Nehrling was sent to Chicago with $2,000 to procure natural history materials from foreign government exhibits. He was able to obtain an impressive 1,500 piece


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collection of archeological and ethnological artifacts that had been shown in the Anthropology Building. The Milwaukee Museum also was designated by the Wisconsin Board of World’s Fair Managers as the recipient of the state’s award-winning forestry exhibit. Thus, at least one important city institution secured significant benefits as a result of the fair.[26] Milwaukee could be proud of its limited but excellent presentation at the Columbian Exposition. Moreover, the city’s merchants had benefited from the tourists, and its citizens had been treated to exciting civic events such as the visit of the caravelles and the Viking ship. Thousands of Milwaukeeans had boarded trains and steamers for a trip to the White City. Yet, in retrospect, Milwaukee did not completely seize the opportunities for increased sales of its products, the encouragement of new capital investment, and the attraction of new immigrants to the city. Nor did it utilize fully a unique chance to show easterners and Europeans that the young city was no longer a frontier town but had developed a flourishing and sophisticated cultural environment. The cause of these lost opportunities was the inability or unwillingness of Milwaukee’s business community to support the initiatives of Mayor Somers, the Association for the Advancement of Milwaukee, and the Wisconsin Board of World’s Fair Managers. In 1992 Chicago will host another World’s Fair. The question again will be whether or not Milwaukee has the foresight, imagination, and unity to organize an effective presentation.

Notes

[1] The Milwaukee Sentinel. Sept. 6 and 7, 1893; Milwaukee Journal, Sept. 6, 1893. [2] The Milwaukee Sentinel, Sept. 7, 1893; Final Report of the Wisconsin Board of World’s Fair Managers, (M.S.), Records of The Secretary of State, Elections and Records, Slate Board of World’s Fail Managers, State Historical Society of Wisconsin. Hereafter cited as Board Final Report. [3] R. Reid Badger, The Great American Fair: The World’s Columbian Exposition and American Culture (Chicago, Nelson Hall, 1979), pp. 1-39; David F. Burg, Chicago’s White City of 1893 (Lexington, University of Kentucky Press, 1976) pp. 1-75; Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Book of the Fair (New York, Bounty Books, 1891) pp. 5-68. [4] Milwaukee Journal, Jan. 17 and 30, Feb. 6, Apr. 17, 22, and 23, 1891; The Milwaukee Sentinel, Jan. 31, Feb. 27 and Apr. 19, 1891; World’s Columbian Exposition Illustrated (vol. 1, no. 10) pp. 7 and 9.

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[5] The Milwaukee Sentinel, May 3, 1892, and Sept. 7, 1893; Board Final Report. [6] The Milwaukee Sentinel, May 3, 1892; Board Final Report; Minutes of the Board of World’s Fair Managers (M.S.), Jan. 19, 1892, Records of the Wisconsin (Secretary of State, Elections and Records, State Board of World’s Fair Managers, Stale Historical Society of Wisconsin, cited hereafter as Board Minutes. [7] The Milwaukee Sentinel, May 3, 1892. [8] Board Final Report; The Milwaukee Sentinel, Nov. 16, 1892 and May 2, 1893. The great Allis engine stood in the annex of the Machinery Building and was a popular exhibit. After the fair ended, it was sold to a New Jersey traction company. The Pabst beer pavilion was designed by Otto Strack and is now attached to the east side of the Captain Frederick Pabst Mansion at 20th and Wisconsin Avenue. [9] Milwaukee Journal, Apr. 1, 1893. [10] The Milwaukee Sentinel, Nov. 17, 1893. [11] Ibid., May 12, 17, 18, 28, and Oct. 4, 1892. [12] W. J. Anderson and Julius Bleyer, eds., Milwaukee’s Great Industries: A Compilation of Facts (Milwaukee, Association for the Advancement of Milwaukee, 1892), pp. xiii-xx, 200-205; Milwaukee Journal, Apr. 1, 1893. [13] Milwaukee Journal, Apr. 1 and 24, 1893; Dictionary of Wisconsin Biography (Madison, The State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1960), p. 334. [14] The Milwaukee Sentinel, Apr. 24 and 26, 1893; Milwaukee Journal, Apr. 4, 24 and 25, 1893. [15] Board Final Report; Board Minutes, Sept. 16, 1891, March 15 and Nov. 1, 1892. The Milwaukee Sentinel, Sept. 2, 1891, Sept. 10, Nov. 8, and Dec. 9, 1892, Jan. 29, 1893. [16] Milwaukee Journal, Apr. 23, 24 and 27, 1893; The Milwaukee Sentinel, Apr. 27, 28 and 29, May 3 and 9, 1893. [17] The Milwaukee Sentinel, May 24, 1893; Milwaukee Journal, June 22, 1893. [18] The Milwaukee Sentinel, July 6 and 7, 1893. [19] Ibid., July 9 and 10, 1893. Dictionary of Wisconsin Biography, pp. 11 and 163. [20] The Milwaukee Sentinel, July 11, 1893. [21] Ibid., Apr. 15 and 18, July 24 and 25, 1893. At least some of these young couples took advantage of Wisconsin’s lax marriage laws and came to Milwaukee to wed. Russell Austin, The Milwaukee Story: The Making of an American City (Milwaukee, The Milwaukee Journal, 1946), p. 157. [22] Board Final Report; Harry H. Anderson and Frederick I. Olson, Milwaukee: At the Gathering of the Waters (Tulsa, Continental Heritage Press, 1981), p. 61; Bayrd Still, Milwaukee: The History of a City (Madison, The State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1948), pp. 321-355; Robert C. Nesbit, Wisconsin: A History (Madison, The University of Wisconsin Press, 1973), pp. 313-338. [23] Board Final Report; List of Wisconsin World’s Fair Exhibits (M.S.), Records of the Secretary of Slate, Elections and Records, Stale Board of World’s Fair Managers, State Historical Society of Wisconsin; Dictionary of Wisconsin Biography, p. 240. Carl Marr’s painting, “Flagellants” is now at the West Bend Gallery of Fine Arts. [24] The Woman’s Building was controlled by the Board of Lady Managers. Led by Bertha Palmer of Chicago, the board had insisted that the architect of the structure be a woman. A national competition was held, and Sophie Hayden of Boston won the contest. One of the unsuccessful applicants was Julia F. Alien of Milwaukee. Daniel Burnham to Julia V. Alien, Apr. 23, 1891, Burnham Papers,


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An Institute of Chicago. The Venetian desk is now located at the Woman’s Club of Wisconsin building in Milwaukee. [25] Board Final Report. [26] Ibid., The Milwaukee Sentinel, Nov. 11, 1893.

Grand Ave. looking west from Milwaukee River; billiard hall on right (W. Wisconsin Ave. file)

Augie Kieckhefer: Milwaukee’s Billiards Professional by

Erwin W. Kieckhefer Milwaukee History, Summer 1992

A

t the turn of the century, there were two places many-young Milwaukee men would gather for recreation after a hard day’s work in the factory, at the store, or office. One was the saloon, the workingman’s club and a place for conversation, perhaps a game of skat or schafskopf and a shot-and-schnit or just a glass of beer. The other was the pool hall, frequently a smoke-filled, dimly lighted place where the language of the patrons might be coarse but most of the sounds were those of cue balls striking object balls. Pool halls were frowned upon by mothers and other respectable citizens as breeding places for crime where the players not only were uncouth but actually bet on the outcome of their games. Indeed, the billiard rooms became known as “pool” halls because the early tables often were installed in places where betting pools already were in operation. It was commonly said that to play billiards well was a sign of a misspent youth. But that did not deter young men who had little else to do. There were dances at places such as the Bahn Frei and other halls, and the nickel-show offered movies. There were few spectator sports. Basketball was not invented until 1891, and football was a rough-and-tumble game considered to be a sort of organized mayhem. Baseball was a minor league or sandlot game in the summers, and some nationality groups played soccer. But billiards—pool—was a game for any day of the year and the price was low.

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Milwaukee had plenty of billiard halls. In 1901, they were clustered around the downtown area with John Baier’s parlors at 172 Second Street (714 North Second Street), Max Dreher’s at 212-214 Grand Avenue (212 West Wisconsin Avenue), and Godfrey and Vetter at 131 Third Street (613 North Old World Third Street). John Callahan had tables at his hall at 203-205 Grand Avenue (205 West Wisconsin Avenue), and he also sold billiard supplies there. For traveling men, the Hotel Pfister and the old Plankinton House at 119 Grand Avenue (161 West Wisconsin Avenue) had tables. In following years the number of halls increased steadily, and the game became available in outlying areas of the city, too. The Tivoli Billiard Hall was at 396 National Avenue (between Fifth and Sixth Streets), and the Milwaukee Pool and Billiard Company was at that address, too. Baier’s place had doubled in size by 1907, Stephanopoulos & Papaconstantinu were operating at 319-321 Wells Street (327-329 West Wells Street), and William Minn had an establishment at 454 Mitchell Street (710 West Mitchell Street). Manufacturers of billiard equipment also were represented in Milwaukee. Brunswick-Balke-Collender was listed in the Milwaukee City Directory at 57 Oneida Street (across from the Pabst Theater) and later at 275-279 West Water Street. Milwaukee even had its own manufacturers of billiard tables and equipment. The Minn Billiard Company advertised in the 1912 City Directory that its was the largest exclusive manufacturer of billiard and pool tables as well as a supplier of billiard and bowling equipment, cigar and wall show cases. The company had its office and show rooms on Second Street, north of Wells, and its factory was on Buffum Street between Townsend and Keefe. By 1914, the City Directory listed forty-six billiard and pool halls. By 1921, that number had grown to seventy-two. Not all the young men who frequented those places were “pool sharks” and wastrels. Young business and professional men were known to frequent them, too. Frank Haggerty, city editor of the old Socialist daily newspaper, The Milwaukee Leader, often told how poet-historian Carl Sandburg, when he was the Leader city editor, would jot down lines of poetry at his desk after the newspaper had gone to press and then would adjourn to a neighborhood billiard parlor for a friendly game. The [sic] Harry F. Kelley, who was for a number of years the


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city attorney of Manitowoc, also told of Sandburg’s visits to the billiard halls of that city when he worked for the daily newspaper there. The game was played in private clubs and many of the community’s leaders had tables in their homes. The billiard room was on the top floor of Captain Frederick Pabst’s mansion. Milwaukee was to gain national fame in billiard circles because one such table had been installed in the basement of a residence at 729 Cass Street (1445 North Cass Street), the home of August C. Kieckhefer, president of the Kieckhefer Elevator Co. and other enterprises. Kieckhefer had placed it there in large part to provide home entertainment for his nine children and their friends. But it was his son, August H. Kieckhefer, who was most taken with; the game. Little Augie became the family champion and boasted later he had beaten everyone who had met him at the table. He claimed his family’s table had produced fully 150 billiard players in Milwaukee. By the time he was attending East Division High School, Augie thought he was ready to take on the players at the public parlors. But they would not admit him because of his age until he brought a note of permission from his father. He took the note to the Plankinton parlors where his skill attracted so many spectators the management asked him not to play during the busy hours. Augie was graduated from high school and apparently took some courses in bookkeeping at Spencerian Business College. By 1913, the City Directory still listed him as living at his father’s house but said he was engaged in “sales,” without specifying the company which employed him. In 1914, though, the directory said he was the manager of Falkner & Moody, a cigar company with headquarters at 343 Grove Avenue (821 South Fifth Street). How he made a connection with a cigar company is not clear, but the supposition is he had come to know the neighborhood because there were several billiard parlors there. George Schmidt’s parlors were at 385 Grove (937 South Fifth Street) and John Highlin’s at 390 Grove (1000 South Fifth Street). Peter Gorch had an establishment at 254 Grove (530 South Fifth Street) and Tcheshitoff & Natseff had a parlor at 277 Grove (619 South Fifth Street). How long Augie was with the cigar company also is not clear, but Billiards later said he had worked for a year in the treasurer’s office at city hall.

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The game at which Augie excelled in those early years was pocket billiards, the game which still is played in most billiard parlors. This is rotation pool, using fifteen numbered object balls. Augie was so good at it that he had won the Wisconsin pocket billiards championship in 1908, when he was just nineteen years old. He realized, though, that the real challenge in billiards was posed by a game known as threecushion billiards. The “big” names in the billiard world were proficient in both games and Augie decided he would be, too. Three-cushion is one of several forms of carom billiards, all requiring great skill and concentration because they demand not only a “touch” but a knowledge of the principles of geometry. Only three balls are used in three-cushion, two white and one red. The table has no pockets, the cushions being rubber bumpers completely around the inner rim of the table. Two players play in turns. The cue ball must strike both the object balls and also carom off three of the four cushions. If the player is successful in such a shot, he is allowed to try again; so he tries to leave the balls after his first try in a configuration which makes it possible for him to repeat. The number of times he succeeds in this is referred to as a “run.” If the player thinks he cannot make the necessary combination his own previous shot has left him, he shoots again with the purpose of leaving the balls in an even more difficult configuration for his opponent. Each shot, therefore, requires figuring three, four, and even five angles. Three-cushion always has been regarded as a “gentlemen’s game” because of the skill required. Consequently, when professional players engaged in tournaments to determine champions, they would be held in large halls with tiered seating arranged around the massive table. The lights of the room would be extinguished when play was about to begin, leaving only the bright lights above the tables to produce a theatrical effect. The contestants always appeared in tuxedos. Augie took to this game as readily as he had to pocket billiards, so well that within a year he entered the Interstate Three-Cushion League competition in 1913, the first year of that organization. The Interstate apparently was a sort of minor league of the game, played in cities from Buffalo to St. Louis, but it did attract some big names. Augie won that first tournament and to prove that the win was not a


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fluke, he entered and won again in 1914. He lost that title to Charles Ellis of Pittsburgh in 1915. It was in 1915, too, that he married Genevieve Victoria White, who an article in the magazine Billiards described as having attained considerable fame on the stage, having been at one time understudy to Miss Elsie Janis. Janis was an American variety performer, musical comedy librettist and composer. She appeared on the New York stage and in some Hollywood movies, including Women in War in 1940. With his marriage, Augie moved to Chicago, where he already was recognized as a coming billiard star. W.J. O’Conner had predicted Augie’s 1913 Interstate League championship in a column written for the trade magazine Billiards. And Frank Benson, who presided over the Rex Cue Emporium in Chicago, said, after he had lost twice to Augie, that the young Milwaukeean had “the stroke and the sand to make a champion” if he would apply himself to the game. “He’s wealthy, though, and never will be induced to play billiards for the money that’s in it,” Benson said. Nevertheless, he said he thought Augie would become the world’s champion three-cushion player within four years. Another article in Billiards in 1914 noted that Augie was a lefthanded player, one of a very few in the United States. Actually, Augie was right-handed in almost everything he did, but he had learned to play billiards left-handed to compensate for a defective left eye, which made it impossible for him to sight the cue that way. The defective eye never seems to have been explained but was mentioned frequently in later years. It did not impede his game. A Billiards article said his great forte was across the table bank shots, “on which he is voted a wonder by all players,” and that he banged away with apparently very little study over table situations. In January 1918, Billiards said Augie was considered the best allaround shot-maker at three-cushions which the United States ever had produced and was next in line to play for the world championship. At that time Augie was representing W.P. Munsey’s billiard room in Chicago. That article reviewed some of Augie’s career, recalling among other things that in the 1913-1914 season, in recognition of his success, 125 Milwaukee fans had contributed $125 and presented him with a gold watch, stick pin, and gold chain. The magazine also noted

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that Augie had rendered fine service to the Billiard Players Ambulance Fund by appearing in a number of matches. The ambulance fund apparently was for World War I service. Because of Augie’s personal success, Chicago also was watching the progress of billiards in Milwaukee. Chet Koeppel wrote in the October 1917 issue of Billiards that Milwaukee was rapidly coming into its own as a billiard center since the opening of the Plankinton Arcade parlor, noting that the cue and carom game here had risen to become one of the most popular pastimes. Fred Smith, who was operating the new Plankinton Arcade parlor, was credited with taking Milwaukee out of the “one-horse village” category. In 1918, Augie was to make good on the promise that Billiards had seen in him four years earlier. He met Alfredo De Oro, a Spanish diplomat who had been the world champion of three-cushion billiards in 1908, 1909, 1910, 1911, 1913, 1914, 1915, and 1916, in what was described as a “stunning” match. Augie defeated De Oro to win the world championship for the first time. In October of that year he retained the title by defeating challenger Charles Otis of New York in a match at Chicago. Billiards described the match and said Augie had cinched the match with a brilliant display of billiards in the second block in which he effaced a lead of five points which Otis had gained the first night and took a commanding lead of twenty-five points. During the same week that Augie defeated Otis, Fred Smith announced in Milwaukee that he would wager any amount of money from $1,000 up that Pierre Maupone could beat Augie or any other man in the country in a three-cushion match of 250 points or more. Maupone was a Mexican player who had come to the United States in 1910 to play what is known as 18.2 and 18.1 balkline billiards. That is a complex game in which the green table is marked off into squares at specified distances from the rim. Maupone had found that game too difficult and had switched to three-cushions, making his home in Milwaukee. Augie accepted the challenge and the match was held in January 1919 at Guyon’s Paradise in Chicago, not at the Plankinton Arcade. Augie won it, 150 to 141. Another match was arranged in Milwaukee in April 1919, and Maupone won that one. There was no report on how Smith had fared with his offer of wagers. The period between


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1918 and 1919 had been a busy one for Augie. He defended his title six times against challengers, but in February 1919 he met De Oro again and lost the title to the old master, 150 to 148. Having won the championship six times, Augie had been within three wins of gaining permanent possession of the Brunswick diamond emblem, and Billiards said his play against De Oro showed he felt the pressure. In September 1919, Augie announced a new phase of his career—the opening of the Kieckhefer Recreation Company, described as the largest one-floor billiard parlor in Chicago. It was at 20 East Randolph Street, next to the Masonic Temple and across the street from the Marshall Field & Co. department store. A full-page ad in Billiards said it was “a distinct departure from the ordinary billiard room, a revelation to player and fans.” The parlor was on the second floor of the Ryerson Building and boasted carom tables for three-cushion play and pocket art-metal steel tables—“Kieckhefer model, Treiber patent—best tables made.” There also was a mezzanine lounge, a soda fountain with luncheon service, and a three-chair tonsorial shop. An indication of the effect players such as Augie had had on the game is found in the fact that only eight of the thirty-five tables in his hall were for pocket billiards. Augie was president of the company and Charles R. Morin, who twice had been the three-cushion champion of Chicago, was the vice president. The company also had a second vice president who was the general manager. As Augie’s fortunes grew in Chicago, so did the interest in billiards in Milwaukee. There were many expert players in Milwaukee but probably the most unusual of them was George H. Sutton, a handless wonder who played the game by holding the cue in his elbows. He got mentions in the trade magazine because he traveled the billiards circuit and was remarkably successful. By the end of the second decade of the century, Fred Smith was advertising the fact that he was the proprietor of the two largest and finest billiard halls in the world. One, of course, was at the Plankinton Arcade, where he had sixty tables and also had forty-one bowling alleys. It was in the basement of the arcade where the offices for the Grand Avenue now are located. It was accessible by the circular stairway surrounding the statue of John Plankinton and the pond with its giant goldfish, or by way of a narrow wooden escalator from the West Water Street (North Plankinton

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Avenue) entrance to the arcade. That escalator, rather than the one in Gimbel’s, probably was the first such moving stairway in Milwaukee. Smith’s second establishment was in Cleveland, Ohio, where he had thirty-eight tables and fifteen bowling alleys. The ads had drawings depicting scenes in the arcade. That year turned out to be a sad one for Augie because his father, who had been visiting him in Chicago, was stricken by a heart attack while waiting in the North Western station for the train to Milwaukee and died.[1] Augie continued playing the game even after he became a businessman. In 1921, he played John Layton of Sedalia, Missouri, who had won the title the year before. Augie regained his title in that match but lost again to Layton later that year. Layton won the world threecushion championship twelve times during his career. Such matches offered the players considerable rewards if they won. The December 1921 Kieckhefer-Layton match, for example, carried with it a championship emblem, a $500 cash prize, the entire net game receipts, and a salary of $200 a month, plus whatever income could be derived from exhibitions by the champion, according to Billiards. If that does not seem magnanimous, it must be remembered that this was a time when Henry Ford’s five dollars-a-day wage for factory workers was considered high pay. Incidentally, Billiards noted that the spectators at that match had included O.E. Kuechle of Milwaukee. The Milwaukee Journal’s sports writer, Ollie Kuechle, perhaps? Augie regained the championship in 1927, winning over Otto Reiselt and chalking up what was then a world record for low innings, scoring the required 100 points in 57 innings. He later lost the title to Reiselt again, but returned in 1932 to become the champion by defeating Arthur Thurblad. That was his last three-cushion world championship. He continued operating his Chicago billiard parlor and also operated a billiard supply company from the same address. Billiard cue chalk cubes bearing the Kieckhefer Manufacturing Co. name still show up from time to time around billiard halls. On September 12, 1936, a full column of type on the front page of the Chicago Tribune’s sports section announced that “August (Augie) Kieckhefer, five times holder of the world’s three-cushion billiards


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championship and for a score of years a perennial favorite in big time cue meets, died suddenly yesterday afternoon at his home, 1501 East 60th Street. Death was due to a coronary thrombosis.” He was only forty-seven years old. His funeral was held in Milwaukee, and he was buried at Forest Home Cemetery. The obituary noted that his Randolph Street billiard parlor was being “dismantled” and that he had moved his headquarters to 25 South Wabash. None of the buildings in the Randolph Street block at that time remain now. The game of billiards declined in popularity during and after World War II and most of the billiard parlors in Milwaukee closed. The threecushion game was kept alive on the national scene by such players as Willie Hoppe, who won the championship eleven times, and Harold Worst, who won the title in a match in Argentina and defended it for many years, but there were few title matches after the 1950s and now it is hard to find a three-cushion table. Augie Kieckhefer himself was almost forgotten in Milwaukee after he died and few records of his accomplishments are to be found here. The Billiard Congress of America maintains a headquarters in Iowa City, Iowa, but an inquiry there last year about Augie failed even to get a response. Billiards Digest, which now is the magazine of the game and the industry, is published in Chicago and it has a shelf full of bound volumes of the now defunct Billiards. Its editor, Mike Panozzo, makes that source available to interested historians. The only other significant source of billiard history seems to be the Billiard Archives which Mike Shamos maintains as a hobby in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Augie never was named to the Billiards Hall of Fame, even though he defeated at least two of the players who are included, De Oro and Layton. The game of billiards appears to be gaining in popularity again. New parlors are being opened in suburban locations in a number of cities. Women have taken up the game in increasing numbers and this gives it the respectability it lacked in earlier years. The Women’s Professional Billiard Association held its nine-ball tournament in Milwaukee in 1991. The suburban parlors also are attracting young players again. They probably would have no idea who Augie Kieckhefer was. They might not even recognize the name of the legendary Willie Hoppe. In fact, they probably don’t even know what three-cushion billiards is.

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Note

[1] August C. Kieckhefer, father of the billiard champion, was the son of a Milwaukee builder. He had gone to work as a carpenter at the age of fourteen and then married Anna Barbara Buestrin, whose father was a building contractor. He was associated with Buestrin in that business for eight years during which the firm built the Immanuel Presbyterian Church, the Pfister Block, the Best (now Pabst) Brewery, and the Exposition Building which was the forerunner of the present Auditorium, among other Milwaukee landmarks. He organized the Kieckhefer Elevator Co. with other members of the family in 1883 and in 1892 the Milwaukee Brewing Co., of which he also was president. During World War I, he established the Globe Gray Iron Foundry. He was the Seventh Ward alderman for six years and register of deeds for two.

Milwaukee’s House Numbering Systems by

Christopher P. Thale Milwaukee History, Autumn 1986

M

ilwaukeeans take for granted the gridiron layout of their streets and routinely assume that houses and buildings will be easy to locate. We speak casually of an address “in the thirty-one hundred block” of a street; knowing its “hundred,” we can pinpoint the nearest cross street. In Milwaukee, as in many other American cities, the system of numbering buildings is based on a Cartesian coordinate system. The numbers start at zero and rise, as you go from the center, along two axes or base lines (basically, First Street and the Menomonee Valley’s Canal Street). The numbers rise regularly and uniformly. Capitol Drive, for instance, is 4000 north at Lake Drive, at 124th Street, and everywhere in between. Numbered streets are tied to the house numbering system, so that First Street is 100 west, Second Street is 200 west, and so on. The system extends far beyond Milwaukee’s limits into most suburbs and several adjacent counties. By contrast, in cities like Boston, New Orleans, or most European cities, streets seem to go every which way, following ancient foot trails or topographically oriented city plans, and each street has its own house numbering system. It was not always so mathematically simple to find your way around Milwaukee. Regular, uniform house numbering is barely half a century old. Before 1930 a collection of systems prevailed, one for each part of town and more for the suburbs. Before 1865 each street had its own system (if that is the word) or none at all. Before 1846, the year Milwaukee incorporated as a city, there were no numbers whatsoever. Today’s numbering system would not work without the gridiron street plan which has defined the use of space in Milwaukee since its earliest days. Milwaukee was founded as three separate townsites: Juneautown, Kilbourntown, and Walker’s Point. Their highly com-

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petitive promoters often refused to cooperate with, and sometimes actively tried to obstruct, each other. Such obstructionism included an attempt at laying out streets to prevent their matching up. Yet in spite of the rivals’ worst intentions, all three settlements were laid out in gridirons, and the gridirons lined up reasonably well. That was because the gridirons followed the survey lines of the federal land office, which sold land in neat rectangular parcels whose boundary lines rolled right over the rivers and bluffs, ignored the rivalries of the town promoters, and made any non-gridiron plan virtually unworkable. Many of the city’s major streets follow the lines of this survey, running along the boundaries of 40-, 80-, and 160- acre parcels of land. Lesser streets were laid out in orderly parallel lines, allowing for cheap, rapid survey, and quick sale by local developers. The few diagonal roads, often built by private plank road companies and leading out of the city, were exceptions. Given a gridiron street layout, a uniform house numbering system might seem an obvious next step. It was not because no one in the city’s earliest days had any reason to number houses. Even the largest cities in the county had irregular systems at best; and Milwaukee was no more than an overgrown village in the 1840s. True, promoters needed accurate descriptions of lots for sale to developers, and they arbitrarily numbered lots (not buildings) in each subdivision. The subdivisions, in turn, were described in terms of the federal land survey. You can still find them in property deeds and title insurance. But these were descriptions, not addresses. They were far too complicated for everyday use. Besides, each subdivision had its own lot-numbering system. The earliest attempt at a system of house numbering in Milwaukee was the work of city directory compiler Julius P. B. McCabe. McCabe had a far greater professional and pecuniary interest in the matter than anyone else. For a city directory compiler, house numbers provide a vocabulary that allows precision in describing where people live, and add considerable value to a directory. McCabe induced Mayor Solomon Juneau and the common council to approve a plan he himself apparently devised, and as early as October 1846, the year of the city’s incorporation, he had embarked on implementing it. The general principles of McCabe’s system were laid out, somewhat vaguely, in his Directory, Milwaukee’s first, issued the next year. De-


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pending on which side of town they lay, streets were to be numbered from the Milwaukee River, the Menomonee River, or Wisconsin Street (now East Wisconsin Avenue). The early divisions of the city, into East Side Juneautown, West Side Kilbourntown, and South Side Walker’s Point, were reflected in this abstract scheme. The isolated South Side was ignored entirely. Most of McCabe’s plan was never implemented, but the plan itself is interesting in its own right. On eighteen streets McCabe assigned numbers to at least some buildings. But these eighteen streets were not part of a city-wide unified, house numbering system, nor even of a “sectional” system. Instead, there was a different system for each street. Milwaukee’s gridiron might as well as have been the jumble of Boston or London, for all the “system” in house numbering it led to in this period. Uniformity and regularity were absent. To give an indication, the table below shows the numbers assigned buildings on each street where it crossed the present Wisconsin Avenue (then known as Wisconsin and Spring Streets). No two were alike. A visitor hoping to find 250 Milwaukee Street could not count on its being in a line with 250 Main, or 250 on any other street for that matter. To find the address, the visitor would have to look at the city directory (for the few years in which they provided this information), or else to wander the streets, searching by the hit-or-miss method. PRE-1865 HOUSE NUMBERS AT WISCONSIN STREET/SPRING STREET Cass 80 Van Buren 102 Jackson 324 Jefferson 342 Milwaukee 258 Main (now Broadway) 242 East Water (now North Water) 201 West Water (now Plankinton) 187 Third 79

The system covered only eighteen streets, ignoring many others. Coverage was heaviest on the north-south streets on Milwaukee’s East Side, most of which had house numbers, or at least could have had them,

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under McCabe’s plan. The streets with (theoretical and sometimes actual) house numbers were mainly residential, Yankee Hill streets populated by proprietors and professionals. It would be interesting to know exactly why this population had house numbers. Only a few North Side streets were envisioned as having numbers, and none at all on the South Side. But only a small part of McCabe’s system was ever carried out. Implementation requires not only an abstract scheme, but a survey by city officials, city directory compilers, or someone else to assign numbers to every house and business. Then the numbers must actually be posted or painted on buildings. But on most houses and businesses in Milwaukee, even on McCabe’s favored eighteen streets, house numbers were not to be found until nineteen years after the city adopted McCabe’s plan, and then they were numbered according to a different scheme. McCabe’s plan was fully implemented only on East (now North) Water Street, then the city’s main commercial artery. It was the retail and wholesale businesses and professional offices on this denselypopulated street which made the most use of McCabe’s numbers in advertising and which were identified by them in McCabe’s and other city directories. On other streets, by and large, the numbers gained acceptance. Subsequent city directories and newspapers indicate that most buildings on these streets were not actually numbered. With few exceptions, they identified private residences (as well as some businesses) by reference to nearby intersections. Since house numbers were not widely used, how did Milwaukeeans explain where they lived or worked? Before 1847 the universal method of describing locations was by reference to nearby street corners. The practice continued to predominate for almost two more decades. A resident might be said to live “on Third near Chestnut” or “on Main between Huron and Michigan.” If you wanted to locate that resident, presumably you would have had to ask someone on the street corner for exact directions. Possibly this hampered process-servers, police, bill collectors, or other outsiders, though perhaps in a small city, or with the aid of pecuniary grease, they made their way well enough. As for mail, it was picked up at the post office, not delivered door to door. Businesses operating in streets without effective house numbers probably could be identified by signs or storefronts.


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Even businesses with house numbers often used a non-house number vocabulary to describe addresses. Advertisers persisted in referring to well-known landmarks: “First door north of Dousman’s yellow warehouse,” “Opposite Shepard and Bonnell’s,” “Opposite Barr’s exchange,” and so on. The Police Justice (Clinton Walworth, an attorney, informed the public that he could be found in his office “Up Stairs, next door to the Telegraph Office.” Once in a while, newspapers wrote critically of the unnumbered state of Milwaukee’s buildings, and efforts were occasionally made to remedy the situation. In 1854 city directory compiler Jesse M. Van Slyck proposed to number the houses and put up “guideboards” on the streets. Here again it was a city directory compiler the person most familiar with addresses, whose vested interest led to an attempt to complete the system(s). A Mr. Thomas actually took up this task the following year on Main and Milwaukee Streets. Numbers were to be made and erected at private expense. Mr. Thomas was an entrepreneur. But in an era when there was little incentive to number a house, it may be doubted whether such a scheme had wide appeal. Not until 1862 did another city directory compiler bother to provide a guide to the house numbering system. After almost two decades of haphazard numbering, Milwaukee finally adopted a system (or rather three systems) in 1865. Once again, the moving force was an institution with a vested interest in improving house numbering, this time the U.S. Post Office. In that year the Post Office introduced “city free delivery,” twice a day house-to-house delivery of mail. Before then, Milwaukeeans, like city dwellers across the United States, received their mail at the Post Office. Some 2,000 Milwaukeeans rented boxes before 1865. Others simply inquired at the desk. Newspapers regularly published lists of people for whom mail was waiting at General Delivery, one for Gentlemen and another for Ladies. City free delivery of mail was part of a general reform of the Post Office during the Civil War. With the South temporarily out of the Union, Northern urban representatives gained influence in the Civil War Congresses when the loss of money-losing Southern and Southwestern routes made possible an experiment in free delivery. In November, 1864, Milwaukee was informed that it was soon to join the growing list of cities enjoying free delivery.

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Postal authorities required posting of numbers to every business and residence in the city. The city complied by enacting an ordinance (modeled on a Chicago ordinance), requiring every resident or occupant to affix and maintain a house number at least three inches long. The city surveyor assigned numbers, and a map showing all house number assignments was to be available in the city clerk’s office. Owners and occupants were obliged to find out their number. The ordinance was to apply to later construction, so presumably the survey was envisioned as an ongoing activity. Backed by the threat of a trip to municipal court and a five dollar fine, the city was able to implement successfully the new system. People flocked to city hall to learn their house numbers. Recalcitrants, ironically, were limited mainly to businesses and residents who had always had house numbers. They had gotten used to the old system (for the numbers on East Water and other streets changed), but eventually they complied. The 1865 city directory shows the extent of the change. Gone were the days of street-corner descriptions of residences. For the first time, the standard address was a house number and a street name. The new system took some getting used to. At the outset, newspapers instructed readers on addressing letters. Milwaukeeans were reminded to inform correspondents of their addresses and were urged to use others’ addresses in their own letter writing. Letters without addresses had to be picked up at the post office, and the Ladies and Gentlemen’s lists continued to be published, though the separate windows were combined in September of 1865. By then, the use of postal boxes was declining, but it was several years before everyone had grown used to the new postal regime. One of the things this ought to remind us of is the simple but not necessarily obvious fact that house numbers are far from being part of the nature of urban living. As a part of the 1865 house numbering reform, the system itself was rationalized. In place of a dozen-plus separate house-numbering schemes, the city created three systems, one each for the East, North/ West, and South Side. This division of the city into three parts reflected, of course, the city’s origins in three distinct and separate promotional efforts associated with the names of Juneau, Kilbourn, and Walker. While the days of bitter sectional conflict between settlements were


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past, the city’s charter retained a high degree of ward autonomy and decentralization. Municipal centralization was a long drawn out process, most of which was yet to come. At the same time, the Milwaukee and Menomonee Rivers were far more divisive in this era of few bridges and much walking. Milwaukee felt no need to invent a house-numbering system reflective of a non-existent urban unity. Nor was there any functional reason to do so. Apparently the Post Office was content to have any house numbers at all. Each of the new sectional systems was based on a single quadrant, or quarter, of a Cartesian coordinate system. That meant, on the one hand, that each side of town had a genuine system. Every street on a given side of town was numbered the same as the streets paralleling it on that side of town. This feature was novel, and it must have been a great aid for strangers. On the other hand, each system was a separate entity. The few streets crossing between two systems changed names at the border. Today’s Wisconsin Avenue was Wisconsin Street east of the Milwaukee River, Spring Street on the west. There was no need for prefixes (north, south, east, or west) to these thoroughfares. Each system had base lines, but the base lines were not necessarily zero points. The zero-points were the wandering rivers; the base lines were nearby streets assigned a low “hundred.” For example, the North Side’s Wells Street was one base street: it was the 200 block. North of Wells, numbers rose regularly. To the south, they declined. Between a base line and the river, house numbers were stretched out or compressed as needed. On a few streets, decimal numbers were actually used when the gap was too large for the few hundred integers available. One other aspect of this system is very much worth noting, the use of numbered streets and avenues. Milwaukee’s North Side north-south streets had numbers-as-names as far back as 1835. On the South Side, however, there were no numbered streets at all until 1857. In that year, the common council renamed a number of South Side north-south streets, giving them numbers and designating them “Avenues.” These Avenues bore no relation to the numbered “Streets” of the North Side. The present (North) Sixth Street has always had that name. But the present (South) Sixth Street was known as First Avenue from 1857 until 1930. (Before 1857, it was known as Monroe Street.) The present South Seventh Street was known as Second Avenue, and so on. The

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ordinance got as far as Seventh Avenue, which at the time was as far west as any developer could even imagine selling town lots. But the ordinance provided for the extension of South Side numbered Avenues ad infinitum. Here, more even than in the sectional house-numbering systems, we can see the influence of separate development, ward semi-autonomy, and the Menomonee River, which cut off the South Side from the rest of the city. On the North Side, east-west streets followed what was known as the “Philadelphia system” so called after that city’s house numbering reform of 1856, which numbered each block 100 higher than the preceding block, beginning with 100 at First Street. The “hundred” of a block thus corresponded to the number of the nearest cross street. This was the only feature of the 1865 system which was in any way retained to the present. On the South Side’s east-west streets, the Philadelphia system was not used. Eight hundred Mitchell Street, for example, was between Thirteenth and Fourteenth Avenue. East-west streets on the South Side used thirty numbers per block, and elsewhere the pattern varied. The development of a complete house numbering system in 1865 may have been less helpful to strangers than might first seem to be the case. The reason? Milwaukee’s streets were ill-marked. From the 1840s on complaints abounded, as did schemes to paint the street names on buildings, insert special signs in gas lamps, or hang signs on posts. “It is a good deal like playing at ‘blind man’s bluff for a newcomer to undertake to find his way,” wrote the Sentinel in 1855. “We have frequent complaints,” they said five years later, and the problem continued right up to the reform of 1927. For many years, each ward determined how much it would spend on signs, so that street signs were by no means uniform across the city. A related problem was duplication of street names. Street naming was done de facto by common council “local committees,” corn posed of aldermen from the affected wards, who were little inclined to take account of developments in the rest of the city. Street names like Elizabeth, Franklin, Washington, and many others, were used twice or more in different sections of the city, and on the East Side a system of numbered avenues was adopted, though fortunately it was changed before those streets were developed.


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The systems’ inconveniences cannot be measured and should not be measured simply by imagining ourselves confronted by the most confusing aspects. Probably it varied from one time to another and from one part of town to another. People familiar with the three systems, used to their quirks, and able to negotiate ill-marked streets, may have had few difficulties. Hence complaints were often formulated as appeals to provide for visitors. The Post Office, at that time perhaps the only institution in a position to reap big savings in labor or labor costs or to improve efficiency by improving the system(s), apparently was content to adapt. Finding one’s way in later-nineteenth century Milwaukee must have been somewhat more difficult for outsiders than it is today. On the other hand, the very existence of a house numbering system provided a language or set of concepts with which to speak or think about urban space. The city’s three house numbering systems, each a quadrant of a Cartesian system taking advantage of the city’s gridiron layout, could be and were expanded to match the city’s growth to the northwest and southwest from 1865 to 1930. Geography proved a stumbling block in the upper East Side, where a fourth system developed after the year 1880. Diagonal streets, slipping between bends in the river and lake shore, presented problems for house numberers. As early as 1880, Prospect Avenue had been numbered according to a scheme not used elsewhere. Since that street did not then run south of the present Juneau Avenue, numbers began at Juneau (then known as Division Street). By 1890 this scheme had been extended to new, adjacent streets, as well as north, to the upper East Side. Upper East Side east-west streets were numbered according to a regular scheme which differed from that on the lower East Side (though both systems used the Milwaukee River as zero-point). The upper East Side system was extended farther into Shorewood and Whitefish Bay as those suburban communities were built up. Bay View, founded as an independent industrial suburb, developed its own system of numbering houses to accommodate its somewhat irregular, mostly diagonal street plan. Bay View was consolidated with Milwaukee in 1887, but the one-quadrant South Side house numbering system was not easily expandable to the east By 1889 city directories, though still speaking of the 6 divisions of the city,” were obliged to

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note that Bay View had its own system. Lincoln Avenue served as its northern base line the lake as the eastern base line. Between Bay View and the rest of the South Side was a good deal of empty territory, but as development progressed in the 1910s, serious problems arose. On Oklahoma Avenue, for example, houses numbered in the 400s could be found east of Humboldt Park (following the Bay View system), but also west of First Avenue (following the South Side system). Like Bay View, other suburbs developed separate systems of numbering. Wauwatosa, North Milwaukee, South Milwaukee, and Cudahy were all some distance from the Milwaukee city limits when they were founded, and independent development was certainly sensible. What is remarkable, perhaps, is that West Milwaukee and West Allis made use of the South Side’s system But they adopted it with a difference. While South Side numbers failed to correspond to the numbers of cross streets (the numbered Avenues), the southwestern suburbs adopted the Philadelphia plan In these suburbs, you could count on the 3000 block being next to Thirtieth Avenue, the 2900 block being next to Twenty-Ninth Avenue, and so on. The curious result was that, on crossing from Milwaukee into West Milwaukee, house numbers jumped dramatically. With the sole exception of South Milwaukee, these systems would be replaced in the early 1930s by the metropolitan system adopted in Milwaukee at the beginning of that decade. By 1911 the metropolis had nine entirely separate house numbering systems, and in that year agitation began for a new, uniform system. By then, the city economy had spawned a group of substantial department stores and utilities whose increasingly efficiency-minded managers were interested in cutting the costs of mistaken deliveries and wrong addresses. Along with the Post Office, these businesses were generally seen as important beneficiaries of a new system. By then, also, the city had come to be tightly linked by an intricate network of telephone and electric wires gas mains and sewers, viaducts, bridges, and street car lines—and by a centralized city government. The sectional house number systems not only seemed out of place, but to some they seemed to signify the bitter political conflicts between ethnic groups and political parties, conflicts with a distinctly sectional character. A long struggle by reformers led, after two study commissions and one partial reform, to a general change in house numbers which was implemented in 1930-31 in the city and adopted by most suburbs within a few years.


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Milwaukee’s earliest, rudimentary house numbering systems were quickly forgotten and little is known about them today. The McCabe system, in particular, is obscure. Fortunately, even historians and genealogists researching pre-1865 Milwaukee will not need to track down anything as specific as a numbered address. For those who do, a reference to the 1862 or 1863 directories should provide an accurate, if only approximate, guide. They give the house number at each cross street (for the thirteen streets which had numbers and were explicated there). Of course, by this method one cannot locate the exact spot, but only a general area. (Tracing a building through eighty years of later directories might conceivably provide a link with a current address.) McCabe’s 1847 Directory gives addresses for three streets not listed in 1862 and 1863 directories. Addresses were used on Chestnut and Spring Streets (and perhaps on other streets of which I am not aware), but were not listed in the directories’ Street Guides; they seem to be exclusively near West Water Street. Genealogists and historians seeking to locate an address in Milwaukee from 1865 to 1930 can find a good general guide to the three main systems in Virginia Zarob’s schematic description, which is available at the Central Library’s Local History Room and the Milwaukee County Historical center. But for the upper East Side and Bay View, as well as for irregularly numbered streets, the place to go is the detailed street-by-street guides in Wright’s city directories. As with the earlier Milwaukee numbering system, this can give no more than the nearest street corner and the side of the street. But a special 1930 edition of Wright’s City Directory can be used to “translate” a pre-1930 address into the present address (or vice versa). Street name changes have been made continually. Before checking the house number’s location, the street itself should be located on a contemporary map, which can be found conveniently at the Milwaukee County Historical Center, the Local History Room of the Milwaukee Central Library, the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, or the American Geographic Society Collection at the UW-Milwaukee Library. A catalog of street name changes was made by Edward F. Petersik of the city engineer’s office in the 1930s, and this seems to be the basis of catalogs kept in the city engineer’s office, the Legislative Reference Bureau in city hall, and at the local History Room.

Milwaukee County Home for Dependent Children (Milwaukee County Institutions-Children’s Home file)

3. Service Institutions in Milwaukee

O

Introduction Brigitte Charaus

rphans, delinquents, and children from broken homes all huddled outside of the Milwaukee County Home for Dependant Children on a cold winter’s day in 1911 for the poignant photograph viewed on the opposite page. The Home for Dependant Children structured each youngster’s education, provided for health care, planned leisure activities, and sought the best course for his/her overall welfare. The Home represented a microcosm of the institutions which, over time, made up Milwaukee’s educational, religious, and health history. The variety of services the Home sought to provide under one roof, other institutions provided individually. The State Normal School in Milwaukee reinforced the value of education; St. Benedict the Moor Parish spoke to the development of a spiritual life; St. Mary’s and Milwaukee Hospitals demonstrated the role of health; and Lake Park and the National Soldier’s Home enshrined the yearning for recreational space. Milwaukee’s character is defined by a diverse group of elements including its demography, politics, economics, and its social and cultural organizations. Together, these elements helped to create the city’s identity. Education was one of the earliest ideals institutionalized in the city’s history. Missionary schools for the Native Americans, parochial and private schools, and, eventually, public schools all contributed to a literate and orderly society. Along with reading, writing, and arithmetic, schools also taught manners, morals, and proper social conduct. As student enrollments increased and more schools were created, the training of the educators became a concern for city and state leaders. Virginia A. Palmer addresses this movement in her history of the development of the Normal School in Milwaukee. The normal school movement sought to provide training in the theory and art of teaching. By standardizing the education of teachers, authorities hoped to create an educational uniformity throughout the city and

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state. Leaders in the field of education reasoned that well-educated teacher would produce a well-educated populace. Educational ideals also played an important part in the development of ethnic and racial institutions in the city. With the arrival of the first large waves of immigrants in the late 1840s, there was a corresponding increase of ethnic organizations designed to meet their religious, political, and social needs. German, Irish, Polish, and Italian groups developed a variety of self-help organizations—many with religious foundationss—to aid in their assimilation. The growth and development of one of these institutions is detailed in Steven Avella’s article on the parish of St. Benedict the Moor. The small number of African Americans in Milwaukee in the late 19th century had considerably fewer organizations and, thus, fewer safety nets in times of difficulty. St. Benedict the Moor, originally founded in 1913 to convert African Americans to Catholicism, developed into an organization that provided spiritual guidance, educational opportunities, and eventually health care to Milwaukee’s growing African American population. St. Benedict’s became the African American model of ethnic parishes by providing services that nourished both body and soul. Concerns over clean water, sanitary streets, and contagious disease drove the development of health care organizations in the city. Religious groups, specifically women religious, were on the forefront of health care delivery in the city. They were the first line of care for the sick. Long before there were city or county hospitals, nursing sisters cared for cholera victims at Jones Island, smallpox cases at the city’s pest house[1] , and afflicted sailors at the marine hospital. St. Mary’s Hospital, originally St. John’s Infirmary, was established in 1848 by the Sisters of Charity. Msgr. Peter Leo Johnson documents the history of the hospital which originally catered to sailors and immigrants coming to the busy port of Milwaukee. In a companion piece, Henry Friend describes the early history of Milwaukee Hospital, also known as the “The Passavant.” It was established in 1863, attempting to address the desire of Protestants for a hospital of their own. While both institutions were fundamentally private, their mission statements maintained that they served the larger Milwaukee community, treating people of different religious, economic, ethnic, and racial backgrounds. These two hospitals provided a template for later developments in health care institutions.

3 • Service Institutions in Milwaukee

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Concerns over the health and welfare of Milwaukee’s Civil War veterans determined the establishment of a National Soldier’s Home just to the west of the city in the late 1860’s. James Marten describes the creation of the Home and, more specifically, its grounds. Originally created to meet the needs of a veteran community blighted by homelessness, unemployment, and drug addiction, the Home came to represent something greater for the community: a public space for recreation. Not only did the Home provide hospital care, social services, and shelter for Civil War veterans, but it also provided the community with lanes to stroll, lakes to sit beside, and grounds for jubilant Fourth of July celebrations. Situated among over four hundred acres of land, the Home and its grounds evoked a peaceful, tranquil atmosphere, providing space for “respectable” entertainment and quiet leisure activities for both the resident veterans as well as the general Milwaukee population. The Soldier’s Home became the harbinger of the changes that would occur in the late nineteenth century. The creation of green space was intended to counteract the negative effects of urban life by providing fresh air, pleasant surroundings, and socially proper amusements. As Milwaukee emerged as a metropolis at the turn of the twentieth century, the city’s planners sought to ensure the presence of parks and open spaces for all its citizens. While not strictly an institution in the same vein as hospitals or schools, the park system in Milwaukee became a publicly organized element of leisure. The park system helped to define the city itself, establishing borders of usage between work and leisure space. As Milwaukee sought to define its green spaces, it turned to one of the country’s premier landscape designers, Frederick Law Olmstead. Diane Buck provides insight into this strategy in her article “Olmstead’s Lake Park”. While Olmstead designed three parks for the City of Milwaukee, it is his Lake Park that became the city’s crown jewel. Through a careful design of pastoral settings, approved and respectable leisure activities were imposed on behalf of the social order. Parks were for quiet leisure activities, places to enjoy the beauty of nature, not for raucous outings of amusement. They were places to stroll, to listen to Sunday concerts, to enjoy the beauty of nature, not to play baseball. While dictating habits of leisure, these spaces also provided an escape for any Milwaukeean. This “institution” of leisure exemplified Olmstead’s ideals of pastoral beauty while providing Milwaukeeans a place to enjoy nature in the midst of the city.

Milwaukee Normal School class photo (School Groups file)

The Normal School on Wells Street by

Virginia A. Palmer Milwaukee History, Winter 1979 t shall be the duty of the Regents of Normal Schools to establish an additional school at the City of Milwaukee in the Fourth Congressional District of this state and to proceed to organize and conduct the same without impairing the efficiency of normal schools already established, as provided by S. 399 of Ch. 26 of the Revised Statutes of 1878, as soon as said Board shall in its own judgment be able to provide from funds at its disposal for the maintenance of said school in Milwaukee; provided said City of Milwaukee shall donate a site and suitable buildings for a normal school in Milwaukee, the location and plan of buildings to be approved by the Board of Regents and said site and buildings to be together of value not less than $50,000.00. S. 1, Ch. 299, LAWS OF WISCONSIN, 1880. Like a barely noticeable spark which grows steadily from a glowing flame, this legislation of a century ago was ultimately responsible for the beginnings of the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. On July 3, 1839 the first normal school in the United States was established at Lexington, Massachusetts. Its purpose was to serve as a model school for training teachers and its name was derived from the English translation of the French term “école normale,” or training school. The Wisconsin legislature of 1857 had appropriated 25 percent of the proceeds from the sale of Wisconsin swamp lands for the support of teacher-training institutions to be supervised by a Board of Regents of Normal Schools. The purpose of such schools, according to the act, was to train persons, both male and female, in the theory and art of teaching in the public schools of Wisconsin.

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The Board of Regents of Normal Schools, incorporated in 1866, was immediately deluged with applications from cities, towns, and villages throughout the State of Wisconsin which wanted to have a school located within their limits. After setting standards for site selection, the Board prepared to visit these communities to judge accessibility, climate, the availability of cheap fuel, the cost of local building materials and labor, and the literary and scientific advantages of the community. Platteville, in the Third Congressional District, was selected for the first normal school because that community offered the use of the Platteville Academy building, as well as $1,100 for its repair and an additional $5,000 for other expenses. Thus, the first state normal school opened at Platteville on October 9, 1866. Whitewater, which offered a site and $5,000, was the second location selected; it was in the Second Congressional District, since each district was to have no more than one normal school within its boundaries. The Whitewater normal school building was completed and opened on April 21, 1868. In its application for a state normal school, the City of Milwaukee offered $31,000 in cash in seven annual payments, as well as the use of a city school building until a new normal school could be constructed. This generous offer was ignored by the Board of Regents of Normal Schools, despite the appeals of such distinguished Milwaukee citizens as Silas Chapman, Frederick William von Cotzhausen, and Carl Doerflinger, who were serving on the Board of Regents of Normal Schools. Supplying trained teachers for a growing city school system had not been altogether solved by the normal school department which had been added to Milwaukee High School as required by an 1870 state law. With fourteen primary schools and one high school in Milwaukee by 1880, the problem of teacher supply for a growing community was becoming crucial. Meanwhile, Oshkosh, in the Sixth Congressional District, had successfully bid for the third normal school, which opened on September 12, 1871. A fourth normal school opened in River Falls four years later. The Board of Regents of Normal Schools still would not consider the selection of Milwaukee as a normal school site. Even the appointment of Milwaukee’s Superintendent of Schools, James MacAlister, to the normal school board in 1879 was not effective. This


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series of rebuffs, therefore, made the adoption of Chapter 299 by the Wisconsin legislature on March 15, 1880 even more encouraging to Milwaukee citizens. The common council lost no time in appropriating $50,000 for the purchase of land and for the building of a normal school. Any reluctance on the part of Milwaukee aldermen to commit funds for this purpose, as the law required, was overcome by the realization that city tax money would no longer be needed to support a city normal school. The council also realized that a state normal school in Milwaukee would enhance the city’s image in the eyes of the rest of the state. If any city economies were necessary, the common council was ready to sacrifice public works projects. Site selection was assigned to a committee of aldermen who sought a location which was accessible, had a sunny exposure and good drainage, and was believed to be remote from the sources of malaria. In July 1881 the normal school regents approved a 270-by-150 foot tract on West Wells and North Eighteenth Streets, which cost the city $12,000. The plans executed by Milwaukee’s leading architect Edward Townsend Mix, for a three-story cream brick building, were approved by the regents one year later, and construction began with an appropriation by the Milwaukee Common Council of $40,000. Occupation and use of the building were delayed beyond its completion because of the requirement in the act of 1880 that regents operate and maintain the school with funds already at their disposal. The board claimed it could not spare funds from its operation of the four existing normal schools. Moreover, the economic picture at that time was such that board’s investments were not yielding sufficient income to support five schools. The Wisconsin legislature again stepped in by providing an additional appropriation of $10,000 to be made annually from the general fund for the Milwaukee Normal School. This expression of support for higher education by the legislature was without precedent. The building used by the first students on opening day, September 14, 1885, had twelve well lighted and ventilated classrooms. The students maintained a reading room with magazines and newspapers, many of which were donated. Students learned to move with free bodily movements in physical training classes, which were taught in

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a large room equipped with dumbbells and Indian clubs. Forty-six students met the requirements for matriculation in the normal school in one of four ways: (1) completion of three years in Milwaukee High School’s course of study; (2) completion of the two-year elementary course at any of the other four state normal schools and possession of an elementary certificate; (3) graduation from one of the free high schools in the state which had adopted the four-year course of study in English and science prescribed by the State Superintendent of Schools and for which a diploma was awarded; or (4) examination in these studies by the normal school president. Milwaukee’s was the only normal school in the state which required high school graduation as a condition of matriculation at that time. One hundred twelve pupils in grades one through six were enrolled in the model school, which was also housed in the new building. There were two grades to a classroom, but no more than forty children in each room. Parents who enrolled their children in the model school were willing and able to pay the fifteen cents to thirty cents weekly tuition, either because they believed their children would receive a superior education or perhaps because they were unwilling to have them mingle with the rough and tough pupils they thought attended Milwaukee public schools. Although many of the model school pupils lived in the neighborhood of Eighteenth and Wells, others traveled some distance to attend classes. Milwaukee novelist Elizabeth F. Corbett describes her own experiences in the model school in the autobiographical Out at the Soldiers’ Home, A Memory Book (1941), and the school is the setting for her novel, In Miss Armstrong’s Room (1953). Tuition for normal school students was seventy-five cents per week, payable in advance. This amount was waived if the student indicated an intention to teach in a Wisconsin public school upon graduation. The cost of books for the year was three dollars. Because some students found it difficult to pay three to four dollars for room and board if they were not living at home while attending school, the Alumni Association offered a student loan fund for needy and worthy students, and there were usually some opportunities for students to earn $1.50 per day as substitute teachers in the city’s public schools. Young men students could usually find part-time jobs in the community, but young ladies were warned not to expect to find other types of employment.


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John J. Mapel, who had been the principal of Milwaukee High School on Knapp and Cass Streets, was the first president of the Milwaukee Normal School. A graduate of the University of Michigan, he also taught classes in psychology and pedagogy. The other faculty members, when the school opened for the first time, were Alexander Bevan in mathematics, S. Helen Romaine in the English language, Eleanor Worthington in geography and history, and Mary Gate in teaching methods. Critic teachers in the model school were Mary Campbell for the primary grades, Emily Strong for the third and fourth grades, and Dora Hilliard for the fifth and sixth grades. The curriculum for the two-year course included reviews of branches of knowledge taught in common schools, physiology, natural history, physics, chemistry, and geology with teaching methods, English language, literature, political economy, and United States history with teaching methods, and school management and history of education. All candidates for graduation were required to take at least one class in drawing and one in music; it was believed the even the student who did not have an “ear” for music could still be successful in teaching it. As the first catalog issued by the Milwaukee Normal School pointed out in July 1886, the City of Milwaukee offered educational and cultural advantages which smaller communities could not provide. Students had at their disposal the 35,000 volumes of the Milwaukee Public Library housed in Espenhain’s building at Fourth and Grand (Wisconsin Avenue) as well as the many exhibits at the new natural history museum in the Exposition Building. The last six weeks of the social geography course were devoted to field trips in the city so that students might develop their skills of observation and questioning. They became acquainted with the many commercial and manufacturing institutions in Milwaukee through visits to a tannery, brewery, slaughter house (where two pigs were slaughtered as a demonstration), shoe factory, knitting works, fur factory, gas works, newspaper office, book bindery, water works, and the Chamber of Commerce. In the second year of the normal school’s operation, the catalog informed students that they would receive instruction in the use of common woodworking tools. Generous Milwaukee citizens who were interested in manual training had equipped a workshop where students learned to construct apparatus they might need in their

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future classrooms. In 1890 President Mapel brought back from Sweden examples of models used for sloyd, a form of instruction which emphasizes neatness and exactness through training of the hands and eyes. Two years later, Jennie Erickson was recruited from Finland to give instruction in sloyd to model school pupils. Manual training was soon introduced in the first and second grades through the use of paper and cardboard; woodworking began in the third grade; and more advanced pupils worked with bent iron and brass. Thus, manual training was soon emphasized throughout the entire educational experience at the normal school and was adopted by the Milwaukee Public School system in 1895. Nearby Watertown had been the scene of the first kindergarten classes in the United States conducted in 1856 by Margarethe Schurz, so it was not surprising that a two-year training class was organized at Milwaukee Normal School in 1892 for those who wished to be kindergarten teachers. Nina Vandewalker came from Whitewater as director of the department in 1897; in 1920 this author of The Kindergarten in American Education (1908) moved to Washington, D.C. where she was employed by the U.S. Office of Education as a kindergarten specialist. With the resignation of Mapel in 1892, Lorenzo Dow Harvey, formerly Institute Conductor and a civics teacher at Oshkosh Normal School, became president. A former lawyer, Harvey was chairman of the Wisconsin Education Association committee on legislation for many years. Changed admission standards in 1892 led to a marked increase in enrollment, with the normal school drawing its student body from both inside and outside Milwaukee County. Each assembly district in the state was entitled to nominate eight candidates for admission to a normal school. Such candidates presented a certificate from their school superintendent stating that they were at least sixteen years of age, in sound physical health, and of good moral character; they could substitute an entrance examination for a high school diploma. The curriculum was expanded to include two-year courses in English, German, Latin, and mathematics, in addition to the kindergarten training courses.


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A committee assigned by the State Superintendent of Public Instruction to visit Milwaukee Normal School in 1894 concluded that the building was too small for the enrollment and that the ventilation was poor. Teachers, although overworked, maintained cordial relations with the Milwaukee public schools, the committee reported, and the school was still deserving of the support of Wisconsin citizens. In March 1895, a $35,000 addition was completed to the east, doubling the capacity of the original building. A library replaced the reading room and a science laboratory was installed. A thoroughly equipped gymnasium, 35 by 60 feet, prompted the organization of basketball teams for both men and women students. In addition, the students were provided a passenger elevator in the three-story building, reportedly to prevent students from suffering the “evil effects which so often are seen when students are compelled to do so much stair climbing.” In 1896 the first Milwaukee Normal School annual, The Echo, was published, depicting in words and pictures the students at work and play. Each class chose its own class motto, a suitably inspirational phrase ranging from the Latin “Non Nobis Solum” to “More Light,” and distinguished their class by the choice of a class flower, color, and song. Other extracurricular opportunities included a tennis team and a literary society. President Harvey resigned the presidency in 1898 in order to become State Superintendent of Public Instruction. His place was temporarily filled by Walter Cheever, Director of Institutes and teacher of political economy. Cheever returned to his teaching duties in 1900 when Charles McKenny, an ordained Congregational minister, was recruited from Central State Normal School at Mount Pleasant, Michigan. In 1897 the Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin notified the Board of Regents of Normal Schools that students who completed the advanced normal courses could be admitted to the state university at Madison as juniors, provided that the normal schools were willing to extend their German course and to add trigonometry to the mathematics course. When the normal schools made these adjustments in the curriculum, many students were delighted to take advantage of the opportunity to obtain the first two years of higher education in their home community before transferring to the University of Wisconsin for their remaining two years.

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Enrollment climbed once again and caused the legislature to appropriate funds for the purchase of adjacent lots with the intention of adding another wing to the school; but before this project could be carried out, the city building inspector condemned the Wells Street building as being unsafe and unsanitary. Funds were therefore appropriated for another site on which a new school building would be constructed. Many of the families who had sent their children to the model school and lived in the neighborhood of Eighteenth and Wells Streets had begun to move to the east side of the city near the lake, and the normal school followed them to that neighborhood in 1909. There were no regrets at leaving the old building, which was referred to as “that unsightly old box on Wells Street” at dedication proceedings for the new school on November 12, 1909. The commodious and well-equipped fireproof building of reinforced steel and concrete at the northwest corner of North Downer Avenue and East Kenwood Boulevard was designed by the Milwaukee architectural firm of Henry Van Ryn and Gerrit DeGelleke. There were complete laboratories, a reference library on the second floor, and a gym with adjoining locker room for the boys and separate but equal facilities for the girls. The cost of the building was over $308,000. In anticipation of future expansion, Chicago architect Walter Burley Griffin was asked to draw plans for a landscaped campus and a quadrangle of buildings, but these plans were never entirely realized, mostly for lack of funds. Enrollment exceeded 400 in the new normal school, and there were over 200 pupils in the training school, as the model school was now called. After the departure of the Milwaukee Normal School in 1909, the building at North Eighteenth and West Wells Streets was assigned to the Girls Trade School by the Milwaukee Public Schools administration which had purchased the structure. This school was similar to the Boys Trade School developed in 1906 in Walker’s Point, but the thirty-five girl students chiefly studied millinery and sewing. In 1917 the addition to the west, which had been proposed earlier, was built. The curriculum was expanded in 1924 to include a technical high school course for the students. The Girls Trade and Technical High School closed in 1955 and the building was reassigned as Wells Junior High School. Wells was closed in June 1979, and the Milwaukee Public Schools administration now seeks a buyer for this historic building.


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Perhaps the building may be adapted to new uses and continue to serve the educational needs of Milwaukee citizens.

(St. Benedict the Moor file)

African-American Catholicism in Milwaukee: St. Benedict the Moor Church and School by

Steven M. Avella

O

Milwaukee History, Autumn/Winter 1994

n the day of his nomination to the Supreme Court, Clarence Thomas paid tribute to the nuns who helped him as a child, and he acknowledged a debt of gratitude to the heroic work done for African-Americans by Roman Catholic religious orders in the South. When the Great Migration transferred large numbers of African-Americans to northern cities with large, established Catholic populations, the church replicated these efforts. Although few blacks, except those from Louisiana were Roman Catholics, church leaders developed an African-American version of the popular ethnic parish for them, replete with an array of social welfare services: food programs, shelter for travelers, child care and above all, schools for their young. The underlying reason for these activities was simple: to convert African-Americans to Roman Catholicism.[1] In the very rationalistic Roman Catholic theology popular in the early years of the twentieth century, conversion meant primarily an intellectual assent to the creed, cult, and code of the Catholic church and faithful participation in Sunday worship. But, in addition to the purely spiritual dimensions of conversion, becoming a Roman Catholic also offered a way to inculcate blacks, as other foreigners, with the intellectual skills and character traits that would enable them to cope with urban life in a white, northern society.[2] In short, church membership had spiritual and social dimensions for African-Americans. The chief instrument of this program was the Catholic school. Hand in hand with religious instruction, Catholic schools conveyed important lessons in self-control, sobriety, the importance of hard work and punctuality.

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At the same time, they encouraged the professional aspirations and racial pride of their African-American charges. St. Benedict the Moor Mission in Milwaukee provides a distinctive case study of these urban institutions. The Mission was established in 1908 as one of a number of “colored missions” created by the Catholic church for African-Americans migrating north at that time. Like many of these other missions, a free day school for blacks was founded and the Mission was staffed by religious communities of men and women.[3] What made St. Benedict’s distinctive from other Catholic missions to African-Americans was its sponsorship of a popular boarding school for elementary and high school youth, both male and female. Until its closure in the early 1950s, this boarding school attracted African-Americans from around the nation, but most notably from the Midwest. Among its more illustrious alumni were Harold Washington, later Mayor of Chicago, and entertainers Redd Foxx and Lionel Hampton. The boarding school was seen by its founders as the most effective tool to help blacks make the transition to life in northern society as well as ensure they would remain life-long Catholics. By rooting out bad habits of laziness, violence, and immorality while at the same time providing an experience of academic success, they would instill character traits that would last a lifetime. The African-American community in Milwaukee was small through much of the nineteenth century. The numbers began to grow when Milwaukee’s economic base shifted from commerce to industry in the early twentieth century. It was only the promise of industrial jobs around the time of the two World Wars that swelled the numbers of African-Americans living in the city. Huddled in the city’s Sixth Ward, a small section just north of the central business district, the black community became an established part of Milwaukee city life by 1900.[4] The origins of Catholic ministry among the members of the community in Milwaukee can be traced back to 1886 when a white Catholic layman named Charles Boetting began working among the small black community in the heart of the city. Boetting’s efforts brought together a handful of black Catholics to worship at old St. Gall’s Church on North Second Street and West Michigan. However,


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Boetting’s activities transgressed on the “turf ’ of the local Jesuit priests who ran St. Gall’s, and he left the city abruptly, abandoning the fledgling community he had founded. St. Gall’s Church eventually merged with another Jesuit-run congregation, Holy Name on North Eleventh and West State Streets, and this community became the nucleus of still another new parish on North Twelfth Street and Grand Avenue (now West Wisconsin Avenue) called Gesu. When Gesu opened its doors in the winter of 1894, black Catholics were urged to attend the recently completed church. However, as at St. Gall’s, they were compelled to sit in the gallery. Moreover, Gesu was farther removed from their residences than Holy Name. The distance, coupled with the discriminatory attitudes of some of the parishioners and parish priests, caused many to drop away.[5] In 1908, Captain Lincoln C. Valle, a black Catholic layman, and his wife Julia arrived in Milwaukee to take up work among the members of their race. Valle had participated in the Catholic Negro Congresses of the late nineteenth century and was very active in organizing African-American Catholics in Chicago. Soon after marrying Julia Yoular, Captain Valle headed for Milwaukee, strongly motivated to bring Catholicism to African-Americans. Upon arriving, the Valles were warmly received by Archbishop Sebastian Messmer, who helped them establish a storefront mission chapel named in honor of St. Benedict the Moor and permitted the priests from Old St. Mary’s on North Broadway and East Kilbourn Avenue to assist them. Building on the small handful of Catholics left from Boetting’s era, the Valles worked indefatigably to increase the numbers of black Catholics. In 1910, Valle described his Milwaukee efforts in a letter to Josephite Father Justin McCarthy: Our work is moving along nicely here. In fact the success of this work, through my own efforts as a layman has startled this part of the country. I have had the entire management of the work. Without a Pastor and without the regular attention of a Priest, we have had Mass in our chapel attended by the Capuchin Fathers, whom I have induced to volunteer their services. I have had the services of the Sisters of Notre Dame to take charge of Sunday school which I have started 2 months ago.[7]

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In the same letter, Valle asked for an African-American priest to serve permanently at the Mission. However, the Capuchins agreed to assume full-time responsibility in 1911 and secured a new property for the Mission at 1041 North Ninth Street. Messmer eventually turned over the whole Mission to their control. The School Sisters of Notre Dame also expanded their commitment to the Mission by opening a small day school in September 1912 and assuming care of the Mission chapel. The advent of the two religious communities spelled the end of the Valles’ involvement. Captain Valle was accused of public drunkenness and misappropriation of Mission funds, and Julia became the object of unflattering gossip. The husband-wife team left the city in 1913.[8] Meanwhile, the Capuchins gradually began buying up property around the Mission site. Until 1913, the priests working at the Mission commuted from St. Francis Friary (North Fourth and West Brown Streets) to St. Benedict’s. In 1913, Father Stephen John Eckert, the first permanent resident pastor, took up residence in one of the newly acquired Mission buildings. Eckert’s vision would be integral to the success of the Mission. Eckert was a native of Ontario, Canada and had been ordained in 1898. From the very beginning of his priestly ministry, he wanted to work with African-Americans and spent some time working at a Capuchin parish in Harlem before coming to Milwaukee. Upon arriving in mid-July 1913, Eckert began walking the neighborhood around the Mission, knocking on doors and asking the black denizens if they had heard of St. Benedict’s and if they would be interested in sending their children to its school. “I have seen within the last few days,” he wrote his religious superior in mid-August, “over two hundred colored faces.... They all received me, with a few exceptions, most cordially.” Indeed, the response to Eckert’s invitation was phenomenal as black Milwaukeeans of all denominations came to the Mission for services and sent their children to the school. By 1920, 120 children were enrolled, most of them non-Catholics. Contributing to the success of the school was a decision made in 1913 to accept three orphan children, the Cattron brothers. Instead of being boarded with a local family, they lived in the building with Eckert. These three boys were the beginnings of the boarding school program that would run


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in tandem with the existing day school. The boarding school would be a feature of St. Benedict’s until 1954. On the average about 300 children attended the school every year, over half of them boarders. By the late 1940s, it had a waiting list of over 4,000 applicants from virtually every state in the Union. Eckert gave the boarding school primacy, taking comfort and an example from the work of the foundress of the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament (a congregation that accepted black women) Mother Katherine Drexel, who had established similar institutions. To her he wrote, “We have learned from your circular that the best means to work for the colored children is providing boarding schools.” Eckert’s strong preference for a boarding school as the best way to reach African-Americans was reflective of the feelings of many white priests in “colored” work. Although devoted to African-Americans, Eckert believed, as Cyprian Davis has observed of other white priests, in a “paternalistic conception of their [African-Americans] lack of moral fiber.” While other priests attributed these deficiencies to the debilitating effects of slavery, Eckert attributed them to the deplorable conditions in the urban ghettos of the north. These he learned first-hand as he trudged from home to home in Milwaukee’s overcrowded Sixth Ward. In the dilapidated homes he was appalled to see the number of broken families, the poor morality, and the continual troubles that black youth had with the police. He wrote to Drexel, “. . . so many live in unfavorable surroundings and ... so many are left at sea owing to marriage ties being broken.” Even allowing black boarding students to go home on vacation could be perilous as Eckert wrote to Mission benefactors: Three years of experience has taught us that not infrequently much of our good work is being destroyed in the hearts of these children who spend their vacation away from here.... To do all we can that children may not be spoiled by being away from us during summer vacation, we are willing to keep them, if necessary, at what it would cost parents to keep them at home.[10]

As he wrote to his superior who considered discontinuing the boarding operation at one point, “a home gives real results, far more good can be

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done according to the best authorities in one year by means of it [the boarding school] than in five and ten years by a day school....”[11] An additional reason for promoting the boarding school was to insure the commitment of the young blacks to Catholicism—a commitment that many of them often made while in the school. These numbers cheered Eckert, but he and the other priests at the Mission were often saddened when their young neophytes drifted away from the church once they left the environment of the Mission. This was especially true of the day students, who shuttled back and forth between the Catholic cocoon of St. Benedict’s and their own neighborhoods, which were religiously mixed or non-practicing. For Eckert and his successors, falling away from the practice of the Catholic faith was one short step from a return to degradation. Only a boarding school would provide the reinforcement necessary for an enduring Catholic faith. “The fact is,” he wrote to Archbishop George Mundelein of Chicago, “that if properly instructed they become the most exemplary Christians.…”[12] Finally, only the intense environment of a boarding school would produce the upright, hard-working, and moral black populace that could end the rampant discrimination and racism against AfricanAmericans. Eckert deeply admired Booker T. Washington and his efforts to uplift at Tuskegee Institute in Alabama.[13] From his perspective, Eckert saw the only hope for the betterment of the race in its conversion to Catholicism with its strict moral code and its insistence on upright ethical behavior and personal discipline. “The Negroes look up to the Catholic Church today as the only Church to bring true help to their race,” he wrote in a paper just before his death. To priests he had written earlier: Convinced that it is the duty of the white man who brought the colored freedom to help him spiritually and materially until he can take care of himself and ... no truer help can be given him than by opening a [boarding] school.[14]

In a variation on Booker Washington’s theme: only educated and industrious black people would be able to demonstrate that they were worthy of full membership in American society and would dispel the terrible prejudice that characterized white society. This theme


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was underscored by a visitor brought to the Mission by Eckert, who “reminded them [the students] how many crimes are attributed to their race . . .and then exhorted them to help to pull down prejudice by their exemplary lives.”[15] Indeed, Eckert became so convinced of the need to isolate blacks from the deleterious features of the black ghetto that he agreed to move the school out of the city to a rural community in northern Racine County called Corliss (today Sturtevant). The Dominican Sisters of Racine agreed to lease an empty girls’ academy to the Capuchins for the year 1920-21 in the hopes that they would purchase it. The Dominicans sweetened the offer with a promise to staff the school free of charge. Eckert’s hopes that he would create a Catholic Tuskegee in the rural atmosphere of Corliss, Wisconsin did not materialize. The venture hit serious financial problems, complicated by the objections of many African-American parents who did not want their sons and daughters on farms. That was why they had left the rural South in the first place. Eckert was compelled to admit defeat, and he moved the school back to its urban location.[16] Upon its return to Milwaukee, the Mission school entered a period of serious crisis. The Dominican Sisters, who had helped on the Corliss project, were reluctant to move to Milwaukee. Although a few came as support staff, the teaching duties had to be carried on by costly lay teachers. Eckert and his superiors tried to find other religious communities of nuns to staff the school, including Mother Katherine Drexel’s Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament, but to no avail. Finally, after securing promises from Eckert for decent living quarters for the sisters, the Dominican superior, Mother Romana Thorn, agreed to fully staff the Mission School. From that point on, the Dominicans and Capuchins formed an effective,, if at times rocky, working relationship until 1967, when the elementary school program at St. Benedict’s was discontinued.[17] When Eckert returned to Milwaukee, he devoted himself to full-time fund-raising for St. Benedict’s until his death in 1923. Administering the affairs of the Mission was first given to Father Sebastian Schaff and later Father Philip Steffes, who served as pastor until his death in 1950. Steffes was equally committed to Eckert’s vision of the school, but, being a much better manager than the peripatetic Eckert, was

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able to bring many of Eckert’s dreams to fruition. For example, he was able to build a Romanesque Mission church and decorated it handsomely through the benefactions of local Milwaukeeans. His greatest stroke of luck was to interest one of the wealthiest Milwaukeeans of the day, brewer Ernest G. Miller, in the affairs of St. Benedict’s. Miller had watched the construction of the church from afar. One day in 1923 he visited the site, found Steffes, and asked if he needed money. Steffes readily said yes, and Miller gave $50,000 for the completion of the work. This was only the beginning. In 1925, he purchased the old Marquette Academy adjacent to the Mission, on North Tenth and West State Streets, for the huge sum of $125,000 and presented it to the Capuchins. Miller asked that his name be publicly acknowledged, and the children of the Mission pray that he be healed from some malady that kept him in the warmer climates of the Caribbean and Florida for much of the year. The new buildings gave ample room for the expansions of the boarding facilities.[18] With these new facilities, the boarding and day school programs grew in numbers. In the late 1920s, a two year “commercial” course was added to the St. Benedict curriculum. In 1938, the course was expanded to a four-year high school program which lasted, with a brief interruption between 1948 and 1951, until 1964. The grade school closed several years later when expressway construction went right through the middle of the property. Today, only the church building stands. Before it closed, at least 2,000 African-American children went through St. Benedict’s.[19] How did the school affect the life and behavior of the AfricanAmerican children who flocked to it? Three key areas emerge: religious formation, academics, and community life. We have a clear picture of the religious dimension of the school through the chronicles kept by the Capuchins and Dominicans. These relate details of religious celebrations, the visits of superiors, occasional frustrations and disappointments, and answered prayers. From these documents it is clear that the primary purpose of the school was to convert blacks to Catholicism. Annually anywhere from 100 to 150 school children were baptized in impressive group ceremonies. Although Eckert and his successors took pains to insist that these conversions were not coerced, the social pressure especially for boarding students must have been


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great. How many of them remained Catholic is difficult to determine with any accuracy. However, impressionistic evidence gathered from occasional reunions reveals a continued Catholic identity for many of St. Benedict’s graduates in both the day and boarding schools.[20] Other elements of Roman Catholic teaching were brought to bear. The manner of teaching morality popular among Catholics in the first half of this century was through prescriptive manuals and catechisms which spelled out, often in painstaking detail, the various kinds of sins and faults that a believer ought to avoid. Spun from the Ten Commandments, the prescriptions of Jesus Christ in the New Testament, and the Roman Catholic church’s own rather extensive legal code, these books taught in rather clear, legalistic terms the difference between right and wrong, and the penalties attached for the latter behavior. Vivid descriptions of the torments of hell or the pains of purgatory reinforced the lessons.[21] Yet another feature of Roman Catholic religious formation that the children of St. Benedict’s experienced was Catholic ritual. The elaborate and mysterious ceremonies of Roman Catholicism must have struck many of the African-American youth as strange. For those who were practicing Baptists and Methodists, Catholic ceremonies lacked the spontaneity of religious services in their churches. Moreover, the hierarchical structure of Roman Catholicism precluded lay participation in any meaningful way. Yet, the Latin ceremonies and pageantry of the celebrations were attractive to many African-Americans, many of whom did become and remain devout Catholics. Indeed, African-American youngsters vied to become altar boys, which meant learning the prayers and responses of the Mass which were in Latin and dressing in the Roman cassock and surplice. These religious ceremonies and devotions to the saints and the Blessed Virgin Mary were indeed a very different experience for the young men women of the Mission, but they had a formative effect on their evolving religious sensibilities. This is no better indicated than by the number of them who them who became and remained Catholics. A smaller number expressed interest in becoming sisters and priests.[22] One small concession to popular participation that blended Catholic piety with Protestant idioms of black worship was the so-called Storm

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Novena. The novena was a popular form of Catholic petitionary prayer consisting of nine days of prayer to a saint or the Blessed Virgin seeking a favor. The black children were encouraged by the priests and sisters to “storm” heaven with their prayers. Eventually the custom developed of praying nine times each day with arms outstretched before the altar (a rather unusual prayer posture in Catholic worship until the advent of Catholic pentecostalism in the 1960s and ‘70s) to petition God to grant a particular request. The children of St. Benedict’s constantly made the Storm Novena and attributed the successes in the Mission’s life to the power of the prayers. It was also an important selling point to possible benefactors: in exchange for a Storm Novena, they were encouraged to donate to the Mission.[23] The academic program of St. Benedict’s was dominated by the theological focus of Catholicism, which was heavily neoscholastic. Philip Gleason has convincingly demonstrated how neoscholasticism constituted an official ideology for the church in this era and how this ideology was translated into practice. According to this particular approach, truth was both objective and knowable. Clear and distinct ideas could be taught and one could be sure of them. Moreover, Catholics believed that faith and reason were compatible. Hence, Catholic schools taught all branches of knowledge from the perspective that these were to bring one to the threshold of faith.[24] The two religious communities of sisters who conducted the school had established programs of study that translated these insights into standard curriculums. The curriculum of the elementary program emphasized the mastery of reading, writing, and basic mathematics. Pedagogical techniques relied heavily on rote memorization and regular repetition of rules and mathematical tables. For the higher grades, the Racine Dominicans drew from their long years of experience with girls’ academies in Racine and supplemented a basically classical curriculum with the fine arts of music, art, public speaking, and dramatics. The high school as well has a small department of domestic economy which taught the girls sewing. Boys were offered some trade courses in printing and “manual arts.” However, these latter programs were smaller. Although earlier in its history some of the Capuchins had planned to emphasize industrial arts and domestic skills as the core of the curriculum, these never materialized, and St. Benedict’s never had


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the reputation of being a vocational school. Sports and recreational programs also augmented the school program, and St. Benedict had field teams in all the competitive sports.[25] An anonymous author wrote of the effects of a St. Benedict’s education: Many students upon their leaving the school find that they are much in advance in practical knowledge over their friends. The erudition they have received under the influence of religion gives them an advantage in life. The confidence they have is noticeable by their friends and marks one of the desirable qualities in character traits which St. Benedict’s inspires....[26]

But the curriculum was also calculated to the needs of the young blacks who very much wished to learn more about their heritage. The sense of racial inferiority felt by some of the black children who attended St. Benedict’s was no more pathetically revealed than in an anecdote related in the Capuchin chronicles. When one of the Notre Dame nuns discovered one of the pupils rubbing white facial powder on his cheeks, she took it from him and the lad apologized to her by saying “he wanted to be white like her.” At another time, the black children asked the same sister: “Why did not God make us all white like you.” Moreover, as Milwaukee’s African-American population grew, incidents of racial discrimination accelerated as well, even among Catholics.[27] To help children overcome these feelings of inferiority, the priests and the sisters arranged events that cultivated and reinforced a sense of ethnic pride. Visits by prominent black leaders to the Mission provided important role models of successful African- American figures. The day after Christmas in 1916, African nationalist Marcus Garvey spoke to the children and teachers at the Mission about the proliferation of Catholicism among the blacks of Haiti. Students of St. Benedict’s met and gave a copy of their yearbook to Bill “Bojangles” Robinson who was performing at the Riverside Theater. When the entertainer generously spent time with the students explaining his career, they came back duly impressed. In 1944, Harlem Renaissance poet Claude McKay spent a day with the students sharing his poetry and the reasons for his recent conversion to Catholicism. The Mission hired an

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African-American teacher, Charles Madison, who also served as a role model for the students.[28] Equally impressive was the emphasis given by the sisters to the study of black history and historical figures of the Negro race. In 1943, what later was known as Black History Month was celebrated in February with an assembly commemorating the contributions of such notable African-American historical figures as Crispus Attucks, Marian Anderson, Ralph Metcalfe, Benjamin Banneker, and even a favorite black Catholic priest, Father William Lane, who periodically visited the school from his home in Minnesota. The dynamics of boarding school life also had a significant impact of the lives of these black youngsters. The chronicle of the School Sisters of Notre Dame records the state of the first students who appeared in 1912: “rough street boys, with no shoes on their feet, their trousers…dirty and torn. They said that they came to the Catholic school thinking they would get something to eat.” Not all of the black youth who entered the Mission school were as desperately poor as these first five, but most were not much removed from these conditions. For many of the young people, the regimen of life at the Mission imposed order on their lives, provided them with clean clothes and regularly scheduled meals. The difference between their home environment and the environment of the Mission was summed up years later by graduate George Gaines who recalled, “When I came to St. Ben’s I felt as if I had been transplanted to another planet.”[30] To do this, the regime of the boarding school was strict. Harold Washington, who attended the school from 1928 to 1932, later observed that “St. Ben’s got me ready for the army.” Students followed a strict daily schedule which began with early rising and attendance at Mass. Household chores were apportioned among the youngsters according to their age and capabilities, and a regularly scheduled study hall made sure they did their homework and kept on task with their studies. Discipline was firm and infractions against the rules often merited corporal punishment.[31] One incident revealed the nature of the approach to discipline. When a Notre Dame sister discovered a troublesome student attempting to knock a crucifix off the wall, the chronicle reports, “She [Sister Marie] downed him and gave him and the others an object lesson from which


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they would not so soon forget.” The chronicle concluded, “From that time the crucifix remained unmolested in its place of honor.”[32] Runaways were a persistent problem as well. Occasionally, older students would sneak off the Mission property for fun downtown. Some, having had enough of the discipline of the school, would stow away on trains heading south. For those who were caught, the punishment was swift and painful. Such was the case of one Roy Mitchell, whom the chronicle reported as “again playing truant” in the early summer of 1913. When one of the Mission priests spotted Mitchell riding in a truck, the boy took off running. The priest chased and caught him, and dragged him to a local Catholic school “where after a good flogging, he was kept at the monastery until probation office notified us what to do with him.” If the discipline was firm it was probably because there were repeated incidents of running away, vandalism, petty theft, and disrespect for Catholic values. Not all efforts to reform the young people were successful and there were expulsions. However, people noticed the changed behavior. One truancy officer “expressed his surprise” to one of the Notre Dame sisters, “to see the change and improvement of the children. I do not understand your method,” he commented.[33] But whatever difficulties administering discipline may have posed to the priests and sisters, they realized that their students would need a great deal of control to withstand the forces of racism in society and even in the Catholic Church. Father Philip Steffes, who oversaw the Mission for nearly thirty years, was especially aware of the racism that still existed within the Catholic Church. He expressed his concerns about the exclusion of the rapidly growing black population from white parishes in a letter to Milwaukee Archbishop Samuel A. Stritch: “The only reason to fear that the Negro will be lost to the Church is the old and bitter evil of segregation. The Negro is not welcome except in Negro churches and schools…There is little encouragement for a colored man to join the Catholic church in Wisconsin if he knows he can be a Catholic in Milwaukee at St. Benedict’s but it is impossible for him to be a Catholic in Madison and Beloit.” It was hoped that graduates from St. Benedict’s would be equipped intellectually and spiritually to confront white society.[34]

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St. Benedict’s discontinued its boarding school in 1954, and in 1964 the high school program was phased out altogether, leaving only the elementary school. When expressway construction cut through the heart of the plant, St. Benedict grade school closed as well in 1967. By this time, the black population of Milwaukee had increased considerably, and the population center had moved farther north from the Mission site. The Milwaukee archdiocese had attempted to preserve a specifically designated “colored” parish when it opened Blessed Martin de Porres in 1950, just north of St. Benedict’s. However, other Catholic parishes and schools were beginning to abandon their whites- only policy and admit blacks. By the 1960s, few African-Americans lived in the St. Benedict’s neighborhood, and it became as much a victim of the changing demographics of Milwaukee as the older German and Irish parishes that dotted the central city. Moreover, the Catholic church in many cities has downplayed the role of convert-making and education in favor of social welfare and social justice advocacy approaches to African-Americans. St. Benedict’s is again a model of this strategy. Its current operative programs, apart from its worship, are a meal program and a center of criminal justice. Nonetheless, the legacy of its former work still remains among its faithful alumni who gather periodically and among whose ranks are many professionals and deeply dedicated Roman Catholics.

Notes

[1] The best history of Catholic efforts among African-Americans is Cyprian Davis, The History of Black Catholics in the United States (New York: Crossroad 1990); see also Stephen J. Ochs. Desegregating the Altar (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press 1990). Some of the best literature on the Great Migration includes James Grossman, Land of Hope (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1989); Nicholas Lemann, The Promised Land: The Great Black Migration and How it Changed America (New York: Alfred Knopf 1991); Karl E. Taueber and Alma F. Taueber, “The Negro as an American Immigrant Group” American Journal of Sociology 69 (January 1964): 374-382. John McGreevy’s “American Catholics and the Great Migration” (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, 1992) examines the reaction of church leaders and members to the influx of African-Americans in several selected cities. [2] In their quest to help African-Americans adapt to the exigencies of life in the urban north, American Catholic leaders seemed to share a great deal with the Progressive reformers of the period. Progressive concern for order and efficiency is discussed in Samuel P. Hays, Response to Industrialism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1957) and Robert Wiebe, The Search for Order (New York: Hill


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and Wany 1967). Paul S. Boyer’s book. Urban Masses and the Moral Order (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press 1978) discusses the relationship between municipal reform and the behavior of the immigrant poor. However, although both Catholic leaders and Progressives stressed the alteration of personal behavior for social conformity, Catholic efforts were directed more towards the membership in a particular religious body. [3] For a discussion of these schools in nearby Chicago, see James W. Sanders, The Education of Urban Minority (New York: Oxford University 1977): 205-224. [4] The following statistical chart gives some idea of the growth of the African-American population of Milwaukee: Year Total Population African-American Population 1910 373,857 980 1920 457.147 2,229 1930 578.249 7.501 1940 587,472 12,773 (Source: U.S. Census) For additional information on African-American life in Milwaukee, see Joe William Trotter, Black Milwaukee: The Making of an Industrial Proletariat: 1915-1945 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press 1985). [5] Capuchin Chronicles. 1886, Archives of the Province of St. Joseph, Detroit (hereafter APSJ). [6] See David Spalding, “The Negro Catholic Congresses, 1889-1894,” Catholic Historical Review 55 (October, 1969): 337-357. Valle’s identity still remains something of a mystery. Cyprian Davis has discussed the man and his career in The History of Black Catholics, 210-213. Some insight into Valle’s life prior to becoming involved in Catholic evangelization is hinted at in one of the house chronicles of the School Sisters of Notre Dame which asserts that he held the title “captain” because he had been in one of the Negro units of the United States Army during the Spanish-American War. [7] Lincoln C. Valle to Justin McCarthy, June 2,1910, Josephite Archives, Box 31—Section D—Letter 9. Valle also began the publication of a black Catholic periodical called “The Catholic Truth” and ran a free employment bureau for African-Americans. [8] Mother Caroline and the School Sisters of Notre Dame in America, 1892-1928 Vol. II (St. Louis: Woodward and Tieman Co., 1928) p. 123. See Davis, 211-213 for fuller details of the Valle’s departure. [9] For more biographical information about Stephen J. Eckert, see Berchmans Bittle, A Herald of the Great King (Milwaukee: St. Benedict the Moor Mission, 1933). Catholic officials in the Capuchin Order and the Archdiocese of Milwaukee began the process of recommending Eckert for canonization in the 1950s. Eckert to Benno Aichinger, August 25, 1913, Eckert Papers, APSJ. “St. Benedict the Moor School Here Help Negro Youth on Way to College Education,” Milwaukee Journal, Feb. 25, 1956. “Work in the Midwest” Our Negro and Indian Missions (January, 1947): 15. [10] Eckert to Mother Katherine Drexel, January 26, 1915, copy in St. Benedict Files, Archives of the Racine Dominicans (hereafter ARD.) All subsequent references to material from ARD are from St. Benedict Files. Davis, Black Catholics, p. 184. Eckert to Drexel, July 12,1916, copy in ARD. Eckert to “Dear Friend” May 29, 1916, copy in ARD.

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[11] Eckert to Aichinger, April 18, 1922, Eckert Papers, APSJ. [12] Eckert to George Mundelein, April 23, 1922, Eckert Papers, APSJ. [13] Indicative of this admiration for Washington was the lengthy obituary of the black leader Eckert penned in the chronicle of his community. No other person’s death, even those of his religious brethren, received as much space and ink as the notice of Washington’s death. Capuchin Chronicles, November 13, 1915, APSJ. For other American Catholic reaction to Washington see Davis, Black Catholics, p. 177. Interestingly, there is little or no mention in these chronicles or the history of the Mission of the other great African-American figure of the day, W.E.B. DuBois. While this is no indication that his name and accomplishments were unknown, it seems to have been the case that Catholic priests who worked in the “colored apostolate” had ambivalent feelings about DuBois’ insistence on racial integration, deeming it subordinate to the true goal of conversion. Although Catholic efforts towards inter-racialism would develop in the 1930s and ‘40s with the work of men like Jesuit John LaFarge and the Catholic Interracial Councils, white priests in black work kept somewhat aloof from the movement. Such was the case in Chicago where the differences between convert-makers and inter-racialists were well known. See my This Confident Church: Catholic Leadership and Life in Chicago, 1940-1964 (Notre Dame; University of Notre Dame Press 1992): pp.283-288. [14] Stephen Eckert, “Bring the Negro into the Church” unpublished paper, Eckert Papers, APSJ. Eckert to “Dear Father” May 29, 1916, copy in ARD. [15] Capuchin Chronicles, June 27, 1915, APSJ. [16] “The St. Benedict Story,” St. Benedict Reunion Day, July 27, 1974, ARD. [17] Sister M. Benedicta to Benno Aichinger, August 15, 1921, APSJ. Benno Aichinger to Romana Thorn, March 15, 1923, ARD. [18] Steffes also secured money to build a hospital for blacks near the mission site, relying heavily on the contributed services of Franciscan Sisters from Minneapolis. St. Anthony Hospital became an important health care delivery center for urban blacks far distant from the County Hospital which, in contrast to other private hospitals in the city, welcomed the blacks. All of these events are related in Celestine N. Bittle, O.M. Cap., A Romance of Lady Poverty: The History of the Province of St. Joseph of the Capuchin Order in the United States (Milwaukee: Bruce Publishing Co. 1933): 450-455. [19] The transcripts of the St. Benedict’s pupils (elementary and high school) are on microfiche at the Education Department of the Archdiocese of Milwaukee. Well over 1,500 African-American children attended the school according to these records. [20] A description of one of these ceremonies in the 1920s relates the baptism of 91 children and three adults. It took eleven priests officiating simultaneously to baptize all of them. Not all of these converts were from the school. This account is found in the “Milwaukee” section of The Colored Harvest 15 (March-April 1927): 13. Apparently there was concern among the Capuchins themselves about the quality of the conversions and criticism was leveled at Eckert for coercive techniques. See Bittle, pp. 435-436. References to the continued interest of the alumni and their Catholic identity are made in a text written by Sister Agnes Simmons, “History of the Racine Dominicans at St. Benedict the Moor in Milwaukee, 1987” unpublished paper in ARD.


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[21] For an overview of the history of Catholic moral teaching see John Mahoney, The Making of Moral Theology (New York: Clarendon Press 1987). [22] According to the Archdiocesan Office of Multi-Cultural Affairs, the Archdiocese of Milwaukee today has about 3,000 practicing African-American Catholics, many of whom attribute their Catholic roots to St. Benedict’s. Eckert’s earliest correspondence referred to various students at the Mission who wished to become sisters. There is no way of knowing how many of these joined or persevered. The Capuchins had some success in attracting African-American vocations. Stephen Ochs’ book Desegregating the Altar, reflects the problems African-American youth had in becoming diocesan priests. It was only in 1974 that the Archdiocese of Milwaukee ordained two African-American men, Joseph Perry and Marvin Knighton, to the priesthood. [23] “The Storm Novena,” no author, pamphlet, ARD. Fund-raising materials in the St. Benedict files of APSJ show how the Storm Novena was used as an incentive for donating to the Mission. The promise of prayers and novenas was and still remains a staple of fund-raising for Roman Catholic religious orders. [24] Philip Gleason, “Neoscholasticism as Preconciliar Ideology” U.S. Catholic Historian 7 (Fall 1968): 401-412. [25] The School Sisters of Notre Dame had a “Program of Studies” that first appeared in the late 19th century and was periodically updated. Copies of these are in the Archives of the School Sisters of Notre Dame (hereinafter ASND). The Racine Dominicans’ approach to education is described in M. Hortense Kohler, Rooted in Hope (Milwaukee: Bruce Publishing Co., 1962): 164. [26] St. Benedict Mission,” no author, written c. 1940, ARD. [27] Capuchin Chronicles, dated December 18, 1912, APSJ. Joe William Trotter relates this in Black Milwaukee, pp. 149-225. An instance of Catholic discrimination is related in the Josephite publication Our Colored Missions 36 (September 1950): 142 when it reprinted an editorial from the Milwaukee archdiocese’s Catholic Herald Citizen decrying an act of intolerance against a black family at a local parish. [28] These observances are all recorded in the school chronicle kept by the Dominican Sisters, ARD. [29] These events are related in the St. Benedict yearbook called Maroon. Copies of this book from 1938-1942 can be found in ARD. [30] St. Benedict the Moor Chronicles, ASND. Sister Agnes Simmons’ text compiles historical reminiscences of the Sisters who worked at St. Benedict’s. These pages attest to their poverty and the disorderly nature of their lives. See Simmons, “History of the Racine Dominicans at St. Benedict the Moor...” in ARD. Quoted in Simmons, “A History of the Racine Dominicans,” ARD. [31] Racine Journal Times, Apr. 23, 1983, clipping in ARD. Corporal punishment was a feature of Catholic schooling until the 1940s when school administrators began to ban it. However, although it was discontinued in day schools, boarding schools such as St. Benedict’s and minor seminaries, where young men began their studies for the priesthood, still employed it. [32] Capuchin Chronicles, January 27 and June 23, 1913, APSJ. [33] St. Benedict the Moor Chronicle, ASND. [34] Philip Steffes to Samuel A. Stritch, January 6, 1940, St. Benedict the Moor Parish File, Archives of the Archdiocese of Milwaukee.

St. Mary’s Hospital and North Point Water Tower (Water Towers file)

St. Mary’s, Wisconsin’s First Public Hospital by

Msgr. Peter Leo Johnson

T

Historical Messenger December 1966

he Daughters of Charity received an accolade from the Wisconsin Medical Society on September 18, 1966, when it unveiled an historical marker at the main entrance of St. Mary’s hospital, in order to note Wisconsin’s first public hospital, which was opened under the direction of the Sisters on May 15, 1848. The placing of the marker was sponsored by the State Medical Society in cooperation with the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, which granted the marker after extensive research and named the hospital an official historical site of the United States. The program included the following: master of ceremonies, F. E. Drew, M.D., president of the State Medical Society; invocation, Rt. Rev. Msgr. Edmund J. Goebel, director of health, Milwaukee archdiocese; welcome, D. W. Ovitt, M.D., president medical staff, St. Mary’s hospital; official marker program, Harry H. Anderson, director, Milwaukee County Historical Society; introduction, George E. Collentine, Jr., M.D.; address, John S. Hirschboeck, M.D.; unveiling of marker, Sister Juliana, administrator of St. Mary’s hospital, and E. L. Bernhart, M.D.; response, Sister Elise, hospital coordinator for the Daughters of Charity, St. Louis, Missouri. Dr. Hirschboeck, former dean of the Marquette Medical School and acting director of the Wisconsin heart-stroke-cancer program, told the crowd of 300 attending the ceremony that the social needs of society could be met only by the joint planning of many agencies and institutions. He remarked: “We need to plan scientifically within the framework of private enterprise to develop sound systems which can meet these needs.” He said that a single hospital, clinic, or medical center could not determine its needs without reference to the planning being done by others. “We must also accept the fact,”

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he continued, “of governmental support for much of the collaborative planning, that is, governmental support rather than governmental planning and operation.” In bye-gone days because the public care of the poor was everybody’s business, nobody acted until compelled to do so by epidemics or stricken immigrants. Lack of laws delimiting their jurisdiction may exonerate public officials. Confusion existed regarding duties as distributed among the officers of counties townships, and cities. So hospitalization was left pretty much to chance. Wisconsin Territory had no “poor” laws. So there were no county poorhouses or hospitals.[1] By 1854 townships, cities, and counties had worked out a relief set-up based on the county. Cities and townships sent their needy cases by contract with the county, which treated its own cases. The name “pesthouse,” by which the first hospitals were known, is a symbol of their nature. One such was put up in 1843 on the Milwaukee poor farm near St. Mary’s present location. By 1860 the county had given up its holdings here in order to centralize at Wauwatosa. Bishop Henni had been in Milwaukee a brief time when he tried to secure the Sisters of Charity, Emmitsburg, Maryland, to open a hospital in Milwaukee. Early in 1848 four sisters arrived for that purpose. St. John’s Infirmary was started May 15, 1848, in a former school on the southeast corner of Jackson and Wells streets. The hospital had three wards and a few single rooms. Its furniture and equipment came from subscriptions and gifts under the supervision of Solomon Juneau, the city’s founder. Patients of the hospital were accepted from all classes, creeds, and colors, and were free to call in any doctor or clergyman. In 1849 the following physicians offered their services free to needy sick: Azariah Blanchard, Henry Smith, James Johnson, J. F. Spalding, James P. Greves, John Knowlton Bartlett, H. D. Shumway, Erastus B. Wolcott, noted surgeon. His Army service, especially in the Civil War, and practice at Milwaukee, are commemorated by a statue in Lake park. Cholera raged at Milwaukee in 1849 and 1850. The first annual report of the hospital from October in 1849-1850 includes a total of 293 patients. Twenty-eight cases of cholera were admitted, of whom sixteen died. In September 1850 more than 300 Norwegians and Swedes en route for Milwaukee were stricken by typhus, and survivors were transferred to federal buildings on Jones Island, where out of 260 patients sixty


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recovered. In the emergency Mayor Don A. J. Upham requested the Sisters of Charity to take charge of the sick newcomers. Their acceptance and heroism never have been forgotten. They refused any compensation at the time. Later a grateful city donated the land upon which St. Mary’s hospital was built. Sister Monica spent twenty-five years in Milwaukee and never counted the cost when work was to be done for God or man. Asked how she could work all day and nearly all night, she answered simply: “Oh, I loved to do it; it was a labor of love.” In April 1855, St. John’s Infirmary was transferred to the bishop’s house at 1018-1038 North Jefferson street. It had three wards and a number of private rooms. The land about it was low, and because of the difficulty in heating it the Sisters called it their Crystal Palace. The Sisters were its only nurses and attendants. Not a thing is recorded about the hospital’s activities on Jefferson street. An excellent medical board served the needs of the hospital. Medicaments were procurable in bulk from stores, and both doctors and Sisters measured out doses as needed. A number one prescription consisted of whiskey and quinine. The pungent odor of iodoform and other disinfectants was enough to cause pioneers to fight shy of doctors and hospitals. Traditional remedies of blood-letting, purgatives, and baths were still practiced. The hospital on Jefferson street was provisional. Its central location was objectionable and its low grounds did not form an asset. Mr. John G. Gregory, historian, writes: “The Sisters worked heroically in the time of cholera and their hospital [1st site] was a blessing. They and the doctors, especially E. B. Wolcott and C. T. Orton, earned the public gratitude. The infirmary gave shelter to the homeless sick of the city and its surrounding territory.” The city donated three acres of its forty acre tract on North avenue to the Sisters for hospital purposes on February 4, 1857. The Sisters transferred to the new hospital on November 24, 1858. A new wing was ready on March 8, 1889, due to the generosity of Alexander Mitchell, Milwaukee financier. For over a quarter century (1858-1885) accommodations for 55 patients proved ample enough. The daily average amounted to 40, which was reached in 1895-1905. By 1909 the annual registration rose to 1395. The heaviest patient population occurred in the first

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two years of the Civil War, when from 50 to 80 disabled soldiers were cared for daily. Charity cases were never turned away. Since 1850, with the exception of one year, St. Mary’s has maintained a Marine section under contract with the federal government. Thousands of seamen have been treated at the hospital. To 1900 the rate per day ran from 50c to 80c. Half a century later the rate per day rose to $4.75. Seamen treated in 1945 numbered 294. Sailors for over a quarter century were known as “my boys” to Sister Stanislas Minogue, who presided over the section like a doting grandmother. Through her care some of the “boys” had to be weaned from over indulgence in strong drink by doling out their own liquor by the teaspoonful. In the days when hired help could not be afforded, her “boys” pitched in and helped with a thousand odd tasks. Throughout its history St. Mary’s hospital has been stamped with the character described by Judge James G. Jenkins at the cornerstone laying of the new hospital May 9, 1909. He declared that St. Mary’s was not a money-making concern and that in this age of the almighty dollar the better angels among men were not wholly silenced. He added that the work of the Sisters was recorded in the book of the recording Angel. Patients were transferred to the new hospital June 28, 1910. Since 1910, the annual entries grew from 1,459 to 9,838 in 1965, with 8,437 out-patients. Sister Dolores Gillespie (1904-27) may be considered the foundress of the hospital and nurses’ residence (1928). A few of the physicians and surgeons may be listed here. Among them were: E. V. Brumbaugh, pathologist; W. C. F. Witte, surgeon; G. V. I. Brown, oral surgeon; James A. Bach, nose specialist and surgeon; Louis A. Fuerstenau, professor of anatomy and surgery at Marquette University; Philip A. Forsbeck, surgeon, and Hans A. Reinhard, surgeon. The hospital has ever had the support of generous men and women, who were formally associated with a Women’s Guild in 1910 and a Lay Advisory Board in 1953. Both groups have performed various services, including reception of visitors and promoting financial campaigns. A school and residence for nurses was opened November 21, l928. In 1961, opportunity was offered students to acquire a college degree by enrolling at Mount Mary College, Wauwatosa, where they may obtain 44 credits over four years.


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The need for an addition to the hospital became urgent by 1955. At this time the hospital undertook its first major appeal for funds on a community wide scale. Over a million dollars was subscribed which gave the Sisters enough impetus to undertake the addition. Archbishops Cousins blessed this north part June 6, 1959. A bed capacity of 400 was cut to 310 by space allotted to auxiliary services. The Burn Center was opened August 19, 1959, with a seven member medical team, of which Dr. George S. Collentine Jr., is the chief. On February 1, 1963, the therapeutic section of the radiology department with its newly installed Cobalt 60 device was opened under the direction of Dr. Anthony Grueninger who began radiotherapy at the hospital in 1958. The hospital entertains great hope for advances in the treatment of cancer. Since the history of St. Mary’s Hospital appeared in 1946 there have been eleven presidents of the medical staff, of whom six are deceased. The current chief is Dr. David W. Ovitt, surgeon A past president, now deceased, Dr. John T. Klein, surgeon, may be listed for his notable service to St. Mary’s for over forty years and his direction of the Electric Company’s clinic in Milwaukee The Burn Section in St. Mary’s is a memorial to his foresight and to generosity of the Wisconsin Electric Power Company for which he served as medical director. The living link of the hospital medical staff is Dr. Erwin L. Bemhart, twice its chief, and for over forty years an active and energetic physician and surgeon. Since 1942 four Sisters in succession have been administrators of the hospital. They are Sisters Rose Maguire (deceased) Hermine Regan, Josephine Atchison, and the present administrator, Juliana Kelly. As long as voluntary associations like the Sisters of Charity are permitted to care for the sick and needy, freedom is assured generally. When various governmental units intervened for needy subjects who happened to be in the keeping of the Sisters, they protected individuals and not the Sisterhood as such. Much of the history of the hospital may be learned from a device of the Sisters: The doctor tends, but God mends.

Note [1] . Most of this article is drawn from Daughters of Charity in Milwaukee, 1846-1946 (Appleton, Wisconsin, 1946) by Peter Leo Johnson.

Milwaukee Hospital (Hospital file)

The Founding of Milwaukee Hospital–1863 by

Henry C. Friend

B

Historical Messenger, September 1964

efore the year 1863 Milwaukee had only one private hospital, St. Mary’s situated on North avenue on high land above Lake Michigan outside of the city limits. The Catholic Sisters of Charity, an American order founded in 1809 by Mother Seton, operated it. While they served seamen and sick and wounded soldiers upon the basis of government contracts, the patients were for the most part charity cases admitted without regard to religion. The patients were allowed to choose their own physicians, or if the patients made no choice, were assigned physicians chosen by the medical society. Most of the physicians and many of the contributors to the hospital were Protestant. Nonetheless, this was a Catholic hospital, and this situation was not satisfactory to the Reverend John Muehlhaeuser. Pastor Muehlhaeuser was a Lutheran minister who had been imprisoned in his native Austria on account of his activities in behalf of his faith and had come to Milwaukee as a missionary in 1849. He had organized a congregation, which built Grace Church on Broadway in 1851, was its pastor until his death in 1867, had organized the Wisconsin Synod of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, and was its President, and gave much of his time to charity. He would visit people who needed help and solicit whatever they required often in kind. He virtually constituted a Family Welfare Association and Community Chest all by himself. Pastor Muehlhaeuser recognized that organizing a hospital called for outside aid, and as early as 1850, the year after his arrival in Milwaukee, had sought to interest the Reverend William A. Passavant of Pittsburgh in the project. While the Reverend Passavant had started out serving a congregation as a Lutheran minister, in 1846 he had gone to London to attend a meeting of the Christian Alliance, as a

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delegate of the Pittsburgh Synod. He was caught in a sudden rainstorm and sought shelter in a Jewish orphan asylum. He was impressed by the beautiful stone building and facilities to a point where he had a religious experience which he described: “It was as if the world were passing like a cloud beneath our feet. Dreams of earth dissolved as the mists of the morning.” He had found his new life’s work. From London he went to Kaiserswerth on the Rhine near Dusseldorf, Germany, where he was received by the Reverend Theodore Fliedner, the founder of the Institute of Protestant Deaconesses, who conducted hospitals and orphanages in Europe. The Reverend Passavant left money with the Reverend Fliedner and requested him to train and send four deaconesses to Pittsburgh. In 1849 Pastor Fliedner arrived in Pittsburgh with the four deaconesses for the dedication of the Passavant Hospital. A Pennsylvania corporation known as the Institute of Protestant Deaconesses was organized on the German pattern, and the Reverend Passavant became its director. While he was unable to respond to Muehlhaeuser’s appeal in 1850, he was ready in 1863. Under date of May 11, 1863, the Secretary recorded his report: He had visited Milwaukee “in answer to pressing calls and found the field overripe. A Roman Catholic Hospital has been established, and unless the Protestant portion of the community do something soon, a German Roman Catholic Hospital will be established to meet the wants of the large German population of that city. The Director consulted with the German pastors in Milwaukee, and all were favorable to the opening of an Infirmary, under the auspices of the Deaconess Institution, and it is confidently believed that such an Infirmary would secure the patronage of the Germans generally.” The Reverend Passavant returned to Milwaukee to look for a site for a hospital. At about this time Asahiel Finch, a Milwaukee lawyer, died. He left a large home situated on ten acres of land bounded by what is now Kilbourn Avenue, 22nd Street, State Street, and 23rd Street plus other property subject to debts and secured obligations. J.H. Van Dyke, who was also a lawyer, called for the Reverend Passavant in his buggy and drove him to see the property, and participated in the negotiations for sale. The price was $15,000.00 for sale upon an installment basis, but $12,000.00 for cash, and Dr. Passavant would


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have 8 weeks to provide the funds. He agreed to pay the cash and borrowed $1,000.00 for the down payment from a former patient of the Passavant Hospital in Pittsburgh. He was able to provide $6,000.00 from funds paid to the Institute as a subvention by the Pennsylvania legislature, and this left $6,000.00 to be subscribed by the citizens of Milwaukee. Dr. Passavant secured four initials gifts, each in the sum of $500.00. The initial gifts for St. Mary’s Hospital built in 1857 had likewise been $500.00, a sum comparable to $5,000.00 a century later. The donors were Alexander Mitchell and Marshall & Ilsley, bankers, and heirs of J.H. Rogers, who had made a fortune in real estate, all of whom had contributed to the building of St. Mary’s. In addition there was an initial gift of $500.00 from Imbusch Bros., wholesale grocers, of which Dr. Passavant made special note. “One kind German friend has already agreed to pay $500.00 as soon as the friends can get the work of collection under way.” Dr. Passavant’s gratification was perhaps influenced by the fact that the second largest contribution from a German source was $25.00 from Philip Best, the brewer. The sum of $6000.00 was realized, but by far the greater part of it was “Yankee money.” The contributions of the German community were numerous but small, but often made in kind. On August 3, 1863 Dr. Passavant dedicated the hospital which had 20 beds. The Reverend J.M. Schladermundt, a Lutheran minister, came from Pittsburgh to be the Director. His duties included farming the land to provide fresh vegetables and fruit for the patients and fodder for the cows. He also saw to the upkeep of the buildings and listened to the complaints of the patients. He was soon followed by a single deaconess, Sister Barbara Kaag. Although Sister Barbara came from Wurtemberg, she had received her training as a deaconess in Pittsburgh. She had a distinguished record as a nurse in the Civil War, where she had served under Miss Dorothea Dix. No more deaconesses could be spared. During its first year, the medical staff of the Milwaukee Hospital consisted of Dr. Erastus B. Wolcott, the Surgeon General of Wisconsin and Chief of Staff at St. Mary’s; Dr. John K. Bartlett, who has also served at St. Mary’s and who was to become Vice-President of the

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American Medical Association; Dr. Henry Harpke, and oculist and not yet specialized; Dr. Hermann Naumann, a surgeon, free thinker, member of the Freie Gemeinde, in Rev. Passavant’s phrase an “infidel.” They were assigned to the hospital by the medical society and served without compensation. Neither the physicians nor the patients were subject to any religious test, but the administration of the hospital was Lutheran. Milwaukee Hospital was thought to be the first Protestant hospital west of Pittsburgh. Like so much else in Milwaukee, it followed a German, rather than a British model.

Soldiers Home (Clement Zablocki Veterans Administration Medical Center file)

A Place of Great Beauty, Improved by Man: The Soldiers’ Home and Victorian Milwaukee by

James Marten

T

Milwaukee History, Spring 1999

he writer Elizabeth Corbett recalled “idyllic summer evenings” spent with her turn-of-the-century beaus near Milwaukee. “The full moon rose over the tops of the great trees, and the night wind brought from the gardens the compound scent of twenty different flowers.” Complementing the sensual aromas was a “silence... so deep that the young lovers could easily believe that they were the only people on earth.” A modern reader might be surprised to learn that the lush, seductive surroundings described with such nostalgia lay only a short walk from the celibate cots of nearly two thousand sleeping veterans of the Civil War. Corbett’s father Richard served as chief clerk of the National Home for Disabled Volunteer Soldiers from 1888 to 1915; Elizabeth grew from a toddler to a grown woman in one of the houses built on the ground for the permanent staff. She later moved to New York and wrote a number of well-known novels, some of which drew on her life among the sometimes eccentric staff members and their families at the National Home. A quarter century after leaving Milwaukee, she penned her memoirs, the gentle but truthful Out at the Soldiers’ Home, one of the most useful sources for studying the lives of institutionalized Civil War veterans.[1] Modern Americans, accustomed to the drab efficiency of the concrete and glass hospitals built for veterans of the Second World War, may hardly believe that a government agency of this type could boast woods, ponds (complete with swans), secluded drives, stately buildings, and wild animals. Yet the first generation of soldiers’ homes established by Congress in the 1860s were placed in relatively isolated, park-like settings. At a time when American cities had begun designing public

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parks to blunt urban blight, provide spaces for genteel recreation, and offer respectable entertainment, the Soldier’s Home in Milwaukee represented the best in Victorian ideas about not only patriotism and just treatment of veterans, but also about appropriate ways to spend leisure time. Milwaukeeans embraced the Home as one of its most important and recognizable institutions; they made its rolling hills and wooded drives among the most popular sites in the metropolitan area. As such, the Home offered an alternative to the crowded streets and odiferous alleys of a growing city. The Northwestern Branch of the National Home for Disabled Veterans was a direct descendant of the Soldiers’ Home established by Milwaukee women during the Civil War. After Appomattox, a number of factors convinced the federal government to take action on behalf of Civil War veterans. High rates of unemployment and homelessness and criminals intent on robbing or cheating discharged soldiers’ out of their last paychecks greeted returning Yankees. In addition, many soldiers—one contemporary estimated 45,000—were addicted to pain-killers like opium and laudanum, while those who turned to crime seemed to fill up the nation’s jails and penitentiaries. Their jailers discovered that the ardors of active duty had left them in deplorable physical condition. On top of their physical problems—perhaps because of them—employers frequently discriminated against them. Veterans pensions would, by 1885, comprise 18 percent of the total federal budget. But the first step taken by Congress to provide for hard-pressed veterans was the establishment of a system of federally sponsored “asylums” for veterans. After hard lobbying by one of Milwaukee’s leading lights. Col. George H. Walker, the government agreed to locate one of the proposed homes in Milwaukee (others were established in Dayton, Ohio, Togus, Maine, and Norfolk, Virginia, with five more regional branches added in subsequent years.) The first inmates—including thirty-six men from the old Wisconsin Soldiers’ Home—moved out to a ramshackle collection of farmhouses in May 1867. As the population of northern veterans aged, Congress relaxed the rules to include veterans whose disabilities were not necessarily caused by their military service. In effect, the National Home became a kind of nursing home for elderly veterans. The number of men cared


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for in Milwaukee rose from 212 in 1867 to 2,347 in 1884-85; the average number of men present in 1887 was 1,857.[2] A flurry of building projects soon established a stately village on the four-hundred-plus acres purchased west of Milwaukee. The Victorian Gothic main building housed for a number of years all the veterans, most of the offices, and a concert hall, chapel, amusement hall, and rooms for Grand Army of the Republic and Good Templars Lodge meetings. A masonry hospital replaced the old farmhouse-turned hospital in 1867 (it was replaced, in turn, by a sprawling wooden hospital in 1879), while a grand house for the governor and his family was completed in 1867. By the early 1890s, a theater, library, post office, headquarters building, powder house, fire station, chapel, officers’ quarters, and recreation hall joined the towering main building.[3] The presence of the Home was seen from the beginning as an economic boon to the city. Even nearly twenty years after its founding, the Milwaukee Sentinel urged its readers to understand that it was “to a certain extent, a Milwaukee institution, in the welfare of which every citizen ought to feel an interest, and anything which concerns its interests is entitled to favorable consideration.” And Milwaukeeans did take a close interest in the Home. They happily welcomed political and military dignitaries who stayed in town while visiting the Home on official business, collected books for its library, and celebrated the establishment of a Home post office. They involved themselves in the temperance squabbles that occasionally arose over the sale of beer at the Home saloon. Local reformers helped veterans form a Social Temperance League in 1875 and frequently attended meetings there. When Gen. Edward W. Hincks, the governor of the Northwestern Branch, attempted to impose prohibition at the Home in 1879, a lively series of letters and editorials reflected the interest taken by Milwaukeeans in the goings-on at the Home. This sense of investment extended, of course, to economic issues. Local contractors frequently constructed buildings, including the giant Main Building. Three different men won contracts for the new hospital in 1879, while all twelve bids submitted for the construction of the Ward Memorial Theater came from Milwaukee contractors.[4] Although town boosters, not surprisingly, ignored it, one particular segment of the metropolitan economy benefited directly from the

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veteran trade: the saloons that clustered near the entrance gates to the Soldiers’ Home. Some bore signs lettered with names like “Lincoln,’’ “Sheridan,” and “Sherman.” Saloonkeepers encouraged veterans to drink on credit, running up bills, especially after “Pension Day.” The Congressional ban on alcohol early in the twentieth century, Elizabeth Corbett believed, drove the men to rely on high-priced, poor quality whisky peddled in nearby bars that, she said, “corresponded to the lowest type of waterfront saloon.” A Sentinel correspondent claimed that “the baser sort from the city” haunted these saloons, shrewdly getting veterans to buy them drinks and then, after the old men were “stupidly drunk on vile whiskey,” robbing them in the street. But saloons still crowded as close to the Home as possible. In 1896, for instance, fourteen saloonkeepers listed their address as “National Home” in the county directory; seventeen more were crammed into a two-block stretch on National Avenue just south and east of the Home.[5] Milwaukee incorporated the Home into its commercial and political circles in other ways, too. The Home generously offered to share its new steam fire engine with the city in 1871, and by 1876, the Home had been added to the fire-signal system of Milwaukee. In 1877, Elizabeth Street, which extended from downtown Milwaukee towards the Home, was renamed National Avenue—perhaps in honor of the National Home. By the mid-1880s, a move was made to extend city water lines out to the Home. Over the first two decades of the Home’s existence, it was gradually woven into the city’s transportation system. Omnibuses or even special trams carried visitors to and from the home on occasions such as concerts, receptions, or the giant celebration of the Fourth of July. Efforts to make these connections permanent finally paid off in 1882, when regular stops of the Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul train could take evening visitors out to the Home and back into the city and when a horse-drawn omnibus linking the terminal at the end of National Avenue—Milwaukee’s city’s limits—and the Home began running every half hour. Finally, in 1892, the Milwaukee Street Railway Company, which operated electric streetcars, opened a rustic, tree-covered Soldiers’ Home Depot at 42nd and National Avenue, near the south entrance to the Home.[6]


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“It was a very sightly world,” began the most complete description of the Home grounds, which appeared in Corbett’s memoirs. She catalogued the oak, maple, choke-cherry, elm, and pine trees growing prodigiously on the hills and in the low land of the Home. Apple trees burst into color and exuded delightful aromas. Roads wound over knolls and through glades, lawns green and smooth as a golf course” sprouted gorgeous foliage sometimes arranged to spell “GRANT” or “SHERIDAN.” Willow trees lined four small ponds, with rowboats —also named after Union generals—available for hire. Grave walks encircled formal flowerbeds and a cast metal statue of the goddess Flora. Corbett also betrayed her love for the place in her account of drives into town to attend school, which carried her and her siblings through meadows, forests, hills, valleys, lakes, a small farm and alongside the then-sparkling Menomonee River—all before leaving the property of the National Home. Completing the scene at the Home in the 1890s were three swans who lived on the largest lake, a tame black crow, friendly squirrels who would eat nut; from the hands of the inmates, and, in cages, two large eagles and a badger.[8] The lovely grounds certainly enhanced the veterans’ lives, but they also became, in the words of the Milwaukee Sentinel, “the place of resort for our citizens and those who visit us.” In souvenir books, Corbett’s memoir, and newspaper descriptions, the Home grounds resembled nothing so much as the parks being built by pathbreaking landscape designers in major metropolitan areas. Designed to combat the pollution, crowding, and commercialism of urban life in the late nineteenth century, vast projects like Central Park in New York City or Jackson Park in Chicago provided artificially rural escapes from the stress and corruption of the city. They offered unstructured recreational opportunities for beleaguered city dwellers to walk, ride, boat, and enjoy various kinds of musical entertainment in picturesque surroundings. Rejecting European models, American parks would not be dominated by formal gardens or provide venues for shops or beer halls; they would be informal and ecumenical refuges of natural beauty and quiet leisure.[9] Milwaukeeans made the Home grounds into one of the first true urban parks in the areas. Only four public parks and several “ornamental squares” comprising a total of less than seventy acres—compared

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to the Home’s 400-plus acres—had been developed as late as 1889, when the City Park Commission began to build the park system. Private parks and beer gardens began appearing before the Civil War. They often served particular ethnic groups, offered numerous food and beer stands, and sometimes featured games, “menageries” of caged animals, and proto-amusement parks. Neither the tiny city parks nor the sometimes crowded—or, perhaps, rather exclusive—private parks quite matched the model formulated by the burgeoning park movement.[10] As a result, the Soldiers’ Home hosted thousands of city folks seeking to enjoy the benefits of rural surroundings a mere half-hour’s carriage ride from town. In fact, home officials nurtured the park-like impression of the grounds, and the man in charge of landscaping at the Home—who also happened to be the chaplain—gave a speech in late 1868 in which he urged local residents to utilize the Home grounds. Milwaukee had reached that point in urban development, he declared, “which imperatively demands parks for those who ramble, and for those who ride and drive.” Other cities would have to spend millions of dollars to rescue their residents from urban ills; Milwaukee needed only to look westward to the welcoming hills on which the Home perched. By the end of its first decade, 60,000 people visited the grounds each year. Elizabeth Corbett and her sister liked to go down on summer afternoons and watch the street-cars unload tourists, who, although they filed into the grounds past a sign declaring “This is not a public park,” tended to treat the grounds as a very public place. Sometimes they ended up as uninvited guests in Corbett’s mother’s yard, where they settled down for picnic lunches and even, on occasion, tried to build bonfires.[11] Despite such inconveniences, a number of improvements made to the grounds over the years were designed expressly to make it a more delightful experience for visitors. An invitation was extended to city residents in the summer of 1871 to come out and enjoy the new pleasure boat on the large Home lake. With cushioned seats and a red, white, and blue awning, it would make for a delightful excursion on “this romantic lakelet.” In 1875 alone, a dance hall “for the use of beneficiaries and pic-nics,” a band stand, three summer houses, two “outside water closets, for use of pic-nics,” and a new street gate were


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built. In addition, new and existing roads were graveled and graded, one of the lakes was dammed, and six hundred shade trees were plants were planted “along the avenues.” When a new amusement hall was built in 1878, it was located near the railway that wound through the grounds to make it easier for visitors from the city to attend performances. By the 1890s, a restaurant sold light lunches and desserts and docents led guided tours of the institution. The Home governor acknowledged that “the judicious betterment and tasteful adornment of the grounds” not only benefited the old soldiers by beautifying their surroundings, but also made their lives less monotonous by attracting “large numbers of visitors.”[12] The event that brought out the biggest crowds each year was Independence Day, the most popular public holiday of the Victorian era. A fairly small gathering in 1869 was ushered in with thundering cannon followed by a somber reading of the Declaration of Independence. A sumptuous dinner was followed by “a grand display of fire works” ending at 9 p.m. The “proper observance of the day of days in the history of our country” grew over the years to include concerts by the Home band, military parades by the inmates, afternoon and evening dances to the melodies of string bands, and hundreds of Chinese lanterns encircling the largest of the four ponds with “picturesque and grand” illuminations. Eventually games were added; inmates and visitors raced in “tubs” on the lake, in sacks, in wheelbarrows, on crutches, and on foot, while greased pigs were chased and a game called “cutting down turkey” was played. The celebration in 1879 showed the party in full force. The Sentinel described special train cars unloading their “human freight bedecked in gay dresses and black broadcloth” and “hundreds of wagons and omnibuses winding around from the Grand Avenue” toward the north entrance of the Home. “Flags fluttered from every tree,” the miniature lake sported small boats decorated for the occasion, and men and women—some in red, white, and blue dresses—explored every foot of the grounds, which “fairly foamed with sight-seers like a choppy sea.” A thirty-eight gun salute marked high noon, after which the Home band “struck up dancing music” for hundreds of couples swirling around the pavilion “at an American pace.” As afternoon gave way to evening, revelers sang patriotic and camp songs, “and from the shadows” cast by the illuminated lakes “came the most human kind of

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laughter.” By dusk, between fifteen and twenty thousand spectators had gathered to watch the fireworks, a fit ending to a memorable day. The next year, with the addition of illuminations along the curved avenues and transparencies tucked under arching trees, the Sentinel pronounced that the “Centre of Attraction” of a “Fiery Fourth” was “at the National Soldiers’ Home.”[13] The gala Fourth of July celebrations were only the biggest of the numerous attractions that drew people to the Home. A few months after the Home opened, the Sentinel ran the first public invitation for an event of the grounds—the flag raising over the nearly completed Main Building. The “Veteran Variety Troupe”—which included a dozen amputees—presented the first public performance at the Home in early 1868. By 1871, nearly one hundred city residents attended the Home Christmas concert. If attendance at Home events truly indicated the extent of local residents’ interest in the Home, it grew by leaps and bounds over the years. The Home Band began presenting summer concerts in the early 1870s. A program for the “Eleventh Promenade Concert” of the National Home Silver Comet Band also announced weekly “social parties” with entertainment by the Home Orchestra. Tickets cost fifty cents, transportation would be provided from the streetcar terminus to the Home, and refreshments would be available from the Home restaurant. By the 1880s, the Sunday performances were a Milwaukee tradition, with nearly two dozen held each year. The band, composed of civilian professionals by the time Elizabeth Corbett arrived at the Home, also played six afternoon and two evening concerts, as well as two concerts at the Home hospital, each week. Theatrical presentations were quite popular. In 1871, the temperance melodrama “Ten Nights in a Barroom” enjoyed a large attendance. Inmates often presented complete theatrical “seasons,” with free performances given each week, “simply for the amusement of Inmates and citizens generally, who favor the veterans with their presence.” The 1872 season, for instance, featured “The Poacher’s Doom,” the comedy “The Toodles,” the “Irish farce, ‘Bamey the Baron,’” “The Cross of Gold,” and “Poor Pillicoddy.” Winter debates staged by the Home’s “literary and philosophical association” included city residents, and local citizens were invited when acts like the magician Shoo Shon appeared at the Home.[14]


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That Milwaukeeans considered the Home to be a community resource was proven again and again, as visitors came not only to celebrate patriotic holidays or enjoy concerts and plays on formal occasions, but also to simply enjoy the grounds. Illustrations often featured more civilians than soldiers. A souvenir booklet published in 1884 showed the most prominent buildings, but also tourists and visitors strolling the ground, ladies gracefully floating on swings hanging from trees near the hospital, couples admiring a picturesque fountain—and a dog drinking from it. Only four years after the Home was founded, the Sentinel remarked that picnic parties occasionally visited the grounds, and boasted that “no more suitable and attractive situations for pastimes of this kind can be found anywhere in this region.” Shade trees, boat rides, dancing, and pleasant refreshments awaited visitors. “Here are tolerated none of the riotous worshippers at the sickening shrine of Bacchus”—an allusion, perhaps, to the private beer gardens in the city—“here the lovers of order and innocent amusements can while away a leisure hour, with no apprehension of disturbance from the interference or the clamorous babblings of the vulgar and dissipated.” Here, one could find “relief from the continuous hum, incessant bustle, intense heat and dusty breezes of the city.”[15] Seeking to escape the distractions of the city, not to mention its less well-heeled residents, many local organizations held meetings, picnics, and parties among the Home’s groves and meadows. According the to Sentinel, “our citizens delight in the... sylvan shades” found at the Home. Other organizations who came out for their social events included the Knights of Templar Lodge, the local dancing school, the Old Settlers’ Club, the employees of the St. Paul Railroad, and four hundred residents of Columbus, Wisconsin. For the first fifty years of the Home’s existence, the Milwaukee Gun Club and Milwaukee Balloon Club were guests of the two Grand Army of the Republic posts actually formed by the veteran inmates themselves. Finally, among the activities planned for the Wisconsin Soldiers and Sailors Reunion in 1880 was an afternoon visit to the Home.[16] The entertainment and social events enjoyed by visitors to the Home were a sampling of the kinds of family-oriented activities favored by Victorians. Burlesque shows and their less risqué relative, vaudeville, were obviously geared to popular, working class audiences. More

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respectable were lectures by prominent men and women, choral and brass band concerts of sentimental and sacred music, and “legitimate” (even if produced by amateurs) theatrical productions—all of which were a regular part of the entertainment at the Milwaukee Soldiers’ Home. Equally popular to Victorians were picnics organized by ethnic, work, or religious groups, or, of course, by families, with the Fourth of July as the peak of the picnicking season.[17] Although the Soldiers’ Home was not a formal part of the local park system, Milwaukeeans’ avid use of its grounds reflected the Victorian search for gentle, clean recreation. The challenges posed by urbanization—crowding, unsanitary conditions, teeming immigrant neighborhoods—sparked an almost frantic scramble to head off society’s apparently inevitable decay. This fear that traditional values and assumptions might not survive the modern age encouraged Americans to recreate islands of rural surroundings and innocent amusement amid urban corruption—and for Victorian Milwaukeeans, the Soldiers’ Home fit the bill.[18] Three generations after Elizabeth Corbett extolled the romance of her surroundings and long after the last Civil War veteran was laid to rest, young lovers from West Milwaukee High School still hid among the groves and winding trails of the Soldiers’ Home. Although we may be able to assume that they were guided less by Victorian inhibitions than the young men and women of their grandparents’ generation, they nevertheless continued in the old Milwaukee tradition of using the Home grounds as park, as playground, and as courting space.

Notes

[1] Elizabeth Corbett, Out at the Soldiers’ Home. A Memory Book (New York: D. Appleton, 1941), 136; Wilma L’Pfeifer, “A Guide to the Collection of Elizabeth Corbett, 1887 --, A Milwaukee Author,” Local History Room, Milwaukee Public Library, 1. [2] Judith Gladys Cetina, “A History of Veterans’ Homes in the United States, 18111930,” (Ph.D. Dissertation, Case Western Reserve University, 1977), 81-83, “Domiciliary Building History,” Clement J. Zablocki Veterans Administration Medical Center Collection. Milwaukee County Historical Society (hereafter cited as VA Collection); Richard Severe and Lewis Milford, The Wages of War: When America’s Soldiers Came Home—From Valley Forge to Vietnam (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1989), 130-131, 138-141, 176; Annual Report of the North-western Branch, National Home for Disabled Soldiers 1874 (Milwaukee: National Soldiers’


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Home Printing Office, 1875), 1-4; Milwaukee Sentinel, Aug. 4, 1885, and Mar. 14, 1887. For the sharp—if brief-controversy over closing the Wisconsin Soldiers’ Home in favor of the National Home, see Milwaukee Sentinal, May 31, June 9, 11, 12, 13, 1866. Congress changed the name of the institutions from “Asylum” to “Home” in 1873. Milwaukee Sentinel, Mar. 1, 1873. [3] Milwaukee Sentinel, Nov. 26, 1870; 125th Anniversary Historic Walk (Milwaukee: Clement J. Zablocki VA Medical Center, 1992). [4] Milwaukee Sentinel, Sept. 16, 1881, Nov. 28, 1867, Sept. 14, 1869, Oct. 29, 1870, May 29 and June 19, 1869, Jan. 21 and Feb. 28, 1876, Jan. 8, 1877, Mar. 17 and 24, Apr. 2, 3, 4, and 5 and June 10, 1879, and Apr. 27, 1881. [5] Ibid., Aug. 10, 1881 and Mar. 14, 1887; Corbett, Out at the Soldiers’ Home, 74-75, 156-157, 186-191; Milwaukee Sentinel, June 29, 1884; Wright’s Milwaukee County and Milwaukee Business Directory, 1896 (Milwaukee: A. G. Wright, 1896), 323-329. [6] Milwaukee Sentinel, Oct. 10, 1871, and Apr. 11, 1876; Carl Baehr, Milwaukee Streets: The Stories Behind Their Names (Milwaukee: Cream City Press, 1995), 187-188; Milwaukee Sentinel, Sept. 17, 1886, Feb. 14 and July 10, 1876, and June 10, 1882; Joseph M. Garfield. TM: The Milwaukee Electric Railway & Light Company (Chicago: Central Electric Railman’s Association, 1972), 97. [7] Milwaukee Illustrated (Charles Harger, 1877), 28-31; Milwaukee Sentinel, Sept. 16, 1869, and Oct. 28, 1888. [8] Corbett, Out at the Soldiers’ Home, 27-34, 235-236; The Soldiers’ Home (n.p. ca. 1891), Cornelius Wheeler Papers, Milwaukee County Historical Society. [9] Milwaukee Sentinel, Mar. 18, 1868; Galen Crans, The Politics of Park Design: A History of Urban Parks in America (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1982), 3-59. [10] Harry H. Anderson, “Recreation, Government, and Open Space: Park Traditions in Milwaukee County,” in Ralph M. Aderman, ed.. Trading Post to Metropolis: Milwaukee County’s First 150 Years (Milwaukee County Historical Society, 1987), 256-263; Frederick I. Olson, “City Expansion and Suburban Spread: Settlements and Governments in Milwaukee County,” in ibid., 26-27; Christian Wahl, “Public Park System of the City,” in Howard Louis Conard, ed.. History of Milwaukee County: From Its First Settlement to the Year 1895, Vol. 1 (Chicago: American Biographical Publishing Co., 1895), 300-307. [11] Milwaukee Sentinel, Nov. 27, 1870, Dec. 24, 1868, and Feb. 14, 1878; Corbett, Out at the Soldiers’ Home, 224, 170-171. [12] Milwaukee Sentinel, July 15, 1871; Annual Report of the Northwestern Branch, National Home for Disabled Volunteer Soldiers, 1875 (Milwaukee: National Soldiers’ Home Printing Office, 1876), 7-8; Milwaukee Sentinel, Dec. 23, 1878; The Soldiers’ Home; Annual. Report of the Northwestern Branch, National Home for Disabled Volunteer Soldiers, 1874 (Milwaukee: National Soldiers’ Home Printing Office, 1875), 6. [13] Daniel E. Sutherland, The Expansion of Everyday Life, 1860-1876 (New York: Harper & Row, 1989), 261-262; Milwaukee Sentinel, July 7, 1869, July 1, 1872, June 29, 1873, July 5,1879,and July 6,1880. [14] Ibid., November 19, 1867, Feb. 24, 1868, Feb. 1, 1871; Program for the Eleventh Promenade Concert, July 18, 1877, VA Records; Milwaukee Sentinel, Sept. 12, 1871, Apr. 20, 1874, Jan. 31, Feb. 22, and Mar. 22, 1872, Dec. 31, 1877, Jan. 17, 1872. The first concert by inmates was held in August 1867 at Milwaukee’s

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Turner Hall; it sparked brief controversy when it was revealed that at least some of the performers were not inmates at all. One had been dishonorably discharged from the Home a few weeks before the concert. Ibid., Aug. 20, 1867. [15] National Soldiers’ Home Near Milwaukee (Milwaukee: National Soldiers’ Home, 1881), n.p.; Milwaukee Sentinel, July 17, 1871. [16] Milwaukee Sentinel, July 18, 1872, Aug. 2, 1870, July 16, 1886, June 17, 1869, Aug. 1, 1872, July I, 1875, July 14, 1877, and July 14, 1882; “Domiciliary Building History”; Milwaukee Sentinel, Aug. 5, 1872, and July 31, 1873; Programme and Plan of Organization of the Wisconsin Soldiers and Sailors Re-Union (n.p., 1880), 4. [17] Southland, Expansion of Everyday Life, 248-253; Thomas J. Schlereth, Victorian America: Transformations of Everyday Life, 1876-1915 (New York: Harper Collins, 1991), 211-212. [18] Paul Boyer, Urban Masses and Moral Order in America, 1820-1920 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1978), 123-131; Peter J. Schmitt, Back to Nature: The Arcadian Myth in Urban America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1969); David Schuyler, The New Urban Landscape: The Redefinition of City Form in Nineteenth-Century America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986), 77-100; Louise L. Stevenson, The Victorian Homefront: American Thought and Culture, 1860-1880 (New York: Twayne, 1991), 48-70.

Lake Park plan (Lake Park file)

Olmsted’s Lake Park by

Diane M. Buck

T

Milwaukee History Autumn 1982

he public park system developed slowly in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The city was founded in 1846, but its first real park was built on the fashionable eastside lakefront in 1872. Other than this park, named after Milwaukee’s founding father Solomon Juneau, the city had only several public squares and two lakefront tracts. Those were the Water Tower and the Flushing Tunnel and were landscaped by the Board of Public Works as an incidental side to their main functions for sanitation. Although Milwaukee had established a public library in 1878 and a public museum in 1882, a true park system had to wait until 1889 when the Board of Park Commissioners was created.[1] During the period from 1870 to 1900, Milwaukee’s population grew fourfold, from 70,000 to 285,000. This rapidly expanding city looked for outdoor recreation to a number of entertainment gardens operated by private interests. These gardens, which catered to families and group excursions brought to their gates by street railways, were money-making projects which offered a combination of entertainment, amusement and refreshments, in addition to fresh air and flowers. The public parks, on the other hand, were intended to be public places, open to everyone without charge, where people might relax among pleasant green landscape free from the trammels of commercial activity. The Milwaukee Board of Park Commissioners was created to realize this public-spirited, non-commercial approach to parks, and the commissioners began immediately to develop the parks into an extensive system which now comprises 14,7000 acres of land. Mayor Thomas H. Brown appointed the first board which was composed of five civic

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and business leaders who served without pay. They were: Christian Wahl, president; Calvin E. Lewis, Charles Manegold, Jr., Louis Auer, and John Bentley. Each of the commissioners was to serve a term of five years with one term expiring each year. Such duty was seen as a selfless, worthy public cause which would improve the quality of life for all its citizens.[2] This approach is typified by Christian Wahl (1829-1903), a wealthy, retired businessman, who led the park commission for its first productive decade. In 1816 Wahl had emigrated from Bavaria to Milwaukee, where lie lived with his parents on a farm only five miles north of the city. He left Milwaukee as a young man and traveled extensively before settling in Chicago, where he joined his brother in the glue business. In Chicago, Wahl served on the city council, the board of education left his mark as an influential citizen. After selling Ins Chicago business interests to Philip D. Armour, Wahl returned to Milwaukee to reside in a home on Prospect Avenue, on the east side. During the last years of his life, Wahl’s strong leadership as president of the park commission was instrumental in the development of the city’s park system and he took a deep personal interest in the completion of Lake Park. His previous experience in Chicago helped him to meet the challenges and frustrations of his unpaid public: service. His example of a wealthy community leader who devoted great attention to the city parks set a tradition which existed in Milwaukee until very recently.[3] The creation of a system of public parks in Milwaukee had to await provisions for adequate financing. In 1889 the state legislature passed laws permitting the City of Milwaukee and its park commission to buy lands with money raised from the sale of bonds. Milwaukee was authorized to sell $100,000 worth of bonds to acquire land within the city limits for parks and to increase the property tax levy by onehalt mill for park operating expenses. The park commission quickly found the original authorizations too restrictive; therefore, in 1881 they successfully lobbied for new legislation authorizing more borrowing, higher mill levies and the right to acquire lands outside the city limits, but within Milwaukee County.[4] In 1889 the Board of Park Commissioners of the City of Milwaukee signed an agreement with Frederick Law Olmsted, John Charles Olmsted, and Henry Sargent Codman to examine park sites the com-


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missioners intended to purchase. The city agreed to pay the Olmsted firm $12.50 for every acre of ground for which park drawings and designs were prepared. By the fall of 1890 the city had acquired five park sites, two on the east side and three on the west.[5] In February, 1893, Frederick and John Olmsted, along with Charles Eliot, visited Milwaukee to fulfill their contract and explore the park sites. In April, 1893, the Olmsted firm sent Christian Wahl preliminary landscape designs for two parks, Lake Park on the city’s east side, and West Park. The plans included roads, walks, bridges, man-made ponds, belvederes, and refectory buildings. Each design was to be built around the existing topography to give a distinctive character to the site. In an accompanying letter, Frederick Law Olmsted chided the park commissioners for purchasing large sites away from the city center. He wrote of the commissioners’ responsibility to provide citizens with the opportunities to enjoy rural scenery at locations convenient to the city. The implication was the civic-minded leaders should have purchased smaller tracts closer to the city center, so as to offer every citizen an opportunity for open-air recreation.[6] Olmsted’s criticism seems a little harsh considering that Lake Park was only a twenty-minute ride by electric street railway from the city center. Lake Park bordered on a residential area favored by wealthy Milwaukeeans, but it was still within reasonable distance of the middles lass and working-class residential areas which were located west and southwest of Lake Park closer to the industrial sites along the Milwaukee River. Lake Park’s southern corner was only a tenminute walk from the major street railway interchange at North and Prospect Avenues. In fact, the first annual report of the park commissioners made in 1892 proclaimed the commitment to select park sites “which offer the best natural advantages and which were located as to afford accommodations for the greatest number and still adhere to the general scheme of having a chain of parks around the city connected by handsome boulevards.” This statement shows clearly that the commissioners had embraced Olmsted’s philosophy for urban parks and were implementing it in a reasonable fashion.[7]

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Under Wahl’s leadership from 1889-1899 most of the commissioners’ attention was lavished on Lake Park. The other east side park, River, also received attention as it would ultimately link with Lake Park by means of a gracious boulevard. River Park was much smaller, only twenty-four acres, and presented more difficulties because the site was traversed by the Chicago and Northwestern railway. The railway generously eased problems in the river site, and plantings were made to take advantage of the steep river banks. River Park, although never as significant as Lake Park, did establish the northern boundary of industrial use of the Milwaukee River, which downstream from the park had been used from the 1840s onward as a major industrial location for Milwaukee tanneries, breweries, and other industry. The second park design proposed by Olmsted was for West Park, which was also begun in the 1890s. This park, equal in size to Lake, was another major Olmsted contribution to Milwaukee’s park system. It was developed concurrently with Lake Park, and this site, in many ways, more closely fit Olmsted’s preferences for parks. West Park, renamed Washington in 1900, underwent considerable modifications after the completion of Olmsted’s original design including the installation of extensive athletic facilities after 1902 and then housing Milwaukee’s zoo. Lake Park, however, was kept more in conformity with Olmsted’s original design. Lake Park was the jewel in the crown of the park commission’s work for the 1890s. The site was on a long, mostly undeveloped section of the Lake Michigan coastal bluffs. The linear site started north of Milwaukee’s Water Tower and extended northward for one and one-half miles. The park was located on top of the bluff, 80 to 100 feet, above the Lake Michigan waterline. Such bluffs are a standard topographical feature of the lake’s shoreline in the southeastern park of Wisconsin, except where broken by lowlands created by major estuaries or by small beaches at the foot of a steep ravine. The site was cut by several such ravines. The crest of the bluffs are generally flat and extend to a western boundary of fine table land. Oak trees provided the natural cover and in the northern park of the site there were several Indian burial mounds. One of the city’s private amusement gardens, Lueddemann’s-On-The-Lake, was purchased to consolidate the park land. In total, Lake Park consisted of six different plats, totaling 123.7


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acres. The park commission paid a total of $255,175 to acquire the land. The neighborhood bordering on the park included St. Mary’s Catholic Hospital at the southern end and carefully laid out streets where large, individually designed upper-class homes were beginning to be built in the early 1890s. Park construction was followed by more gentrification of the adjoining housing sites. This pattern was a continuation of the earlier construction of upper-class homes along the lakeshore bluffs north of the Menomonee Valley. After 1900 this same kind of private, rather than public utilization of the lake bluffs continued north of Lake Park as Milwaukee’s upper-class residential suburbs pushed outward with the advent of the automobile and individual commuting. The Olmsted design and Wahl’s painstaking supervision meant, however, that one fine section of the lakefront bluffs was committed to public use.[8] The Olmsted plan for Lake Park envisioned one main road that followed the lakeshore below the bluff, another road that followed the city streets along the top of the bluffs at the park’s western edge, and, finally, a connecting road from the base of the bluffs up through a ravine. Along the crest, meandering carriage roads crossed the ravines by the means of several bridges. The crest afforded a beautiful view of the lake. The ravine road led up to Newberry Boulevard which connected Lake Park with River Park. In addition to these thoroughfares, the plan showed a concert grove, music pavilion, refectory, belvedere, city street rail station, meadows and many walks.[9] The Lake Park plan demonstrated some of the basic concepts of Olmsted’s landscape philosophy. He was interested in undulating meadows fringed with grass, tranquil scenery, and groves which preserved the underbrush and the rough surface of the natural forest. The tree species were varied to give interest and tonality to the scene. The landscape provided quiet corners and shady nooks, features that were the antithesis of what people viewed on city streets and in work establishments. Olmsted had written, “A man’s eyes cannot be as occupied as they are in large cities by artificial things, or by natural things seen under obviously artificial conditions, without a harmful effect, first on his mental and nervous system and ultimately on his entire constitutional organization.” Olmsted put recreation into two general headings: exertive with active and passive games, and receptive with

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opportunities for fine art experiences, such as music. His Lake Park design, as so much of his work, stressed the latter. Olmsted hoped to bring together industrious, democratic people of all ages and classes in his parks; therefore, his plans stressed accessibility by public and private transportation.[10] A facet of Olmsted’s park design was the provision of many roads and paths through the park so as to make the landscape’s best features visible from several different perspectives. Another feature of Olmsted’s designs involved landscaping the site with trees, shrubs, and flowers which would contribute a strong sense of texture and contrast to the scenery. Implementation of these two qualities became the focus of the park commission’s work in the 1890s. From 1892 to 1894 Frank W. Blodgett, a park engineer, supervised the walk and road gradings, plus the bridge construction. Blodgett wrote to the Olmsted firm several times informing them of the progress and seeking advice. A total of four carriage bridges were built over the ravines during the next few years. Rustic wooden foot bridges were built across the brooks near the bottom of the ravines. The carriage roads were tile drained and bordered with cobble stone gutters. The commissioners also hired J. A. Pettigrew to be park superintendent with responsibility for landscaping. A major concern was the kinds of trees and bushes which would help secure the bluffs from erosion. In accordance with Olmsted’s plan one of the large ravines, 40 feet in depth, needed to be filled and laid with 250 feet of drainage tile. This created a ten-acre meadow, opening a vista through most of the park.[11] Before Lake Park could be freely traversed by the carriage road, it was necessary for the commissioners to make arrangements with the federal government in Washington, D.C. A coastal lighthouse surrounded by two acres of land divided Lake Park into two separate sections. In 1893 efforts led by the commissioners and Wisconsin Senator John L. Mitchell resulted in permission to complete the Olmsted plan without disturbing the lighthouse’s function. This meant a carriage road and two bridges could be built east of the lighthouse.[12] Negotiations for other elements in Lake Park did not always go so smoothly. That same year the commissioners wanted a triangular strip of land (1/8 acre) east of Terrace Avenue and immediately north of North Avenue to complete the main south entrance to Lake Park.


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The undeveloped land was the property of St. Mary’s Hospital. The representative of the hospital. Sister Julia, and Christian Wahl could not agree on a price for the land. Finally the city attorney condemned the properly at a price of $700. The hospital refused the money; nevertheless, the city took possession of the property and the park superintendent temporarily fenced it.[13] In 1894-95 the commissioners and the Milwaukee Street Railway agreed to build a station just inside Lake Park at the foot of Folsom Street (now called Locust). The architect, Howland Russell, designed an attractive wooden station with a large waiting and retiring room. The park commission and the Milwaukee Street Railway equally shared the $7,000 cost. The next year the railway company began offering free concerts at Lake and West Parks. Thus Olmsted’s hope for easy access by the public was fulfilled. Thousands of visitors on summer Sundays came to Lake Park, thanks in part to the new transportation facilities. At the lakeside, Milwaukee residents could enjoy the music on a shady, cool concert grove for the price of a street railway ticket.[14] In April, 1896, Warren Manning of Olmsted’s firm visited Milwaukee to review the firm’s work. Manning reported to Olmsted that work on the three parks was progressing slowly; nonetheless, in Lake Park the formal terrace and music court were already completed. Manning also indicated how closely Wahl had become involved with the park construction work. “Mr. Wahl has gone into moving large trees and done it well. Trees were carefully selected, dug with very large balls and planted in well prepared holes. Evidently Wahl decided not to trust the tastes of the current gardener [Mr. Pettigrew] and assumed some of the gardening.”[15] Christian Wahl’s letters to the Olmsted firm from 1892 to 1896 chronicle his concern that the carriage roads afford the best possible view of Lake Michigan without destroying the natural vegetation. Wahl’s interest in a grand system of boulevards which would eventually encircle the city was frustrated by the financial conservatism of Milwaukee. The common council had the authority to designate any street as a boulevard upon the recommendation of the park commissioners; however, they made no provisions for planting and maintaining the boulevards. Although the commissioners introduced legislation in Madison to remedy this in 1899, Olmsted’s plan and Wahl’s dream

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of boulevards linking the park system would never be realized. Only Newberry Boulevard was completed by 1898.[16] Besides the development of parks in the 1890s, the commissioners worked to secure a law which would ensure a public controlled lakefront from downtown Milwaukee beginning at the foot of Mason Street and extending 3.5 miles north to the city limits. Much time and money was spent securing 300 feet of lake-shore rights from property owners on the lakefront bluffs. These accomplishments by the farsighted commissioners made possible extensive filling of lakefront and the development of this land for public use in recent times.[17] In the twentieth century evolution of Milwaukee’s lakefront, Lake Park has maintained the distinctive character of an Olmsted plan. However, the ordinary visitor may miss the Olmsted design altogether because the park is usually seen as only part of a long green area which stretches from the base of downtown Milwaukee northward to Kenwood Boulevard. This long stretch of parkland encloses Lincoln Memorial Drive, a four-lane road which bears a large commuter traffic, but still is thankfully less noisy than a freeway. This road and the green land around it are built at the base of the Lake Michigan bluffs, and the extensive landfill has gradually extended the lakeshore eastward in several sections. Olmsted’s Lake Park lies above Lincoln Memorial Drive. The drive was connected to downtown by a bridge in 1927, and then its transformation into a commuter road was completed by a cut through the northern edge of Lake Park which brings the road back to the top of the bluffs. Part of Olmsted’s shore road for Lake Park has been incorporated into Lincoln Memorial Drive, but he certainly could never have envisioned it as a commuter artery. There is nothing in Olmsted’s plans to indicate he foresaw the development of the whole lakefront south of his park as a man-made lowland fill park; however, it is obvious that such ideas were part of the commissioners’ agenda from the time of their first appointment in 1889. Today this land is occupied, from north to south, by a water filtration plant, a site irregularly used for free rock conceits, a gun club, a soccer field, a man-made sand beach with beach house, a county-owned snack bar and parking lot, two or three open picnic and grass areas, a group of tennis courts, a large boating and sailing


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area including launching sections, a yacht dub, and a public marina. Today most of this lakefront including Lake Park is operated and controlled by the Milwaukee County park system. The southern portion of this lakefront is now occupied by the Milwaukee County War Memorial designed by Eero Saarinen and completed in 1957 and later expanded eastward to accommodate the growing collection of the Milwaukee Art Museum. The bluffs of the central and southern portion of this present green swath are occupied by a mixture of multi-storied apartments and older private residences. Only the northern most sections of the bluffs are wooded. These are part of the Olmsted park which most people see from their cars. Yet, once the bluffs are climbed, on foot or by vehicle, the original character of the park delights the visitor. In the case of Milwaukee, Olmsted’s plans gave the city designs for three unusually fine parks, Lake, River, and West. Lake Park came the closest to fulfilling Olmsted’s design plans, especially because of Wahl’s great personal interest in this beautiful site near his home. Still it was the local commissioners who had the broadest vision of Milwaukee’s lakefront. They used the famous landscape designer’s work as one piece of a larger conception of Milwaukee’s parkland. Similar efforts were also undertaken in Chicago. Today the main difference between the two cities is that the scale of all elements in Chicago is much larger, and consequently its Lake Shore Drive became a major automobile traffic artery as early as the 1940s. The result has been that the Chicago’s lakefront highspeed automobile road, like all freeways, formed a barrier which is difficult to cross. Fortunately Milwaukee’s scale is smaller. Moreover, efforts to convert Lincoln Memorial Drive into a freeway were blocked in several skirmishes with road planners in the past fifteen years. So, unlike Chicago, Milwaukeeans still have a convenient access to their lakefront.

Notes

[1] Landscape Research, Built in Milwaukee: An Architectural View of the City, (City of Milwaukee, 1981), p. 121. [2] Howard L. Conard, ed., History of Milwaukee County 2 vols., (American Biographical Publishing Co., Chicago), 1890. Vol. 1, Chapter XII, “Public Park System of the City” by Christian Wahl, p. 302. [3] Ibid.

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[4] First Annual Report of the Park Commissioners of the City of Milwaukee, 1892, p. 6. [5] The Frederick Law Olmsted Papers, the Library of Congress, Manuscript Room, Microfilm Container #32. [6] Olmsted Papers, the Library of Congress, Manuscript Room, Job File #1650. [7] First Annual Report of the Park Commissioners of the City of Milwaukee, 1892, p. 9. [8] Ibid., p. 13. [9] Brookline, Mass., Olmsted Associates, Lithograph Copy of a General Plan, dated 1895, by Olmsted, and Eliot. [10] S. B. Sutton, ed., Civilizing American Cities (Cambridge, Mass, The MIT Press, 1971), p. 243. [11] Olmsted Papers, the Library of Congress, Manuscript Room, Job File #1650. [12] Second Annual Report of the Park Commissioners of the City of Milwaukee, 1893, p. 18. [13] Ibid., p. 8. [14] Fourth Annual Report of the Park Commissioners of the City of Milwaukee, 1895, p. 16. [15] Olmsted Papers, the Library of Congress, Manuscript Room, Job File #1650. [16] Ibid. [17] Sixth Annual Report of the Park Commissioners of the City of Milwaukee, 1897, p. 6.

Endnote [1] The “pest house” was the common name for the city’s isolation hospital where

people with various contagious diseases could be quarantined until the contagious period of their illness e

4. Race and Ethnicity Introduction

W

Daryl Webb

hen a German immigrant family journeyed to nineteenth century Milwaukee, they may have arrived in a new city but it was not an altogether strange one. Milwaukee was the “German Athens.” It had the largest German population of any city in the nation. Teutonic culture was everywhere, from Germanlanguage theater and newspapers to beer gardens and bakeries. While Germans dominated the city in the nineteenth century, immigrants from all over the world came to Milwaukee. Irish, Poles, Italians, and African Americans brought their own traditions, customs, and cultures with them and created their own communities within the city. Poles established a southside neighborhood characterized as Polonia; African Americans created a community on the city’s near northside; and Italian-owned restaurants, shops, and homes dominated the Third Ward. By 1890, Milwaukee was the most foreign city in America with immigrants and their children making up eighty-six percent of the population. “Race and Ethnicity” contains essays on three of Milwaukee’s racial and ethnic groups: Germans, Poles, and African Americans. Each came to Milwaukee during a distinct period of migration and represents a typical group of newcomers from each phase. Germans are an example of those who arrived from northern and western Europe during the first three-quarters of the nineteenth century. German immigrants generally possessed some education, skills, and economic resources. Poles and other southern and eastern Europeans started a new wave of immigration in the 1870s. These new immigrants were less educated and had fewer skills and economic resources than those who preceded them. World War I and immigration restrictions passed in the 1920s ended mass migration from Europe. As these immigrants dwindled, African Americans from the rural south replaced them. Between 1910

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and 1930, over 1.5 million Southern blacks moved to northern cities, including Milwaukee whose black population increased from 980 to 7,501. After the Second World War, a more significant black migration to the city occurred and, by 1970, the city’s African American population surpassed 100,000. While these three groups arrived during very different periods, they shared the experience of being newcomers in a strange city. The articles selected for this section also highlight the commonalities in the lives of these and all racial and ethnic minorities. They emphasize the means new arrivals used to build their own racial or ethnic community and overcome discrimination. As ethnic and racial groups carved out places for themselves in Milwaukee, they established their own neighborhoods. These were places where a group’s values, customs, and traditions were embraced and celebrated. The focal point of the community was often the church which provided spiritual guidance and reinforced the ethnic or racial group’s values. Many churches even operated their own schools that taught children the groups’ cultural traditions along with the three R’s. Other organizations also helped transmit culture. Ethnic or racial newspapers, often times written in the people’s own tongue, helped shape community attitudes. Restaurants and bakeries sold native foods and delicacies, and music organizations, social clubs and civic groups celebrated cultural traditions and rituals. These ethnic and racial communities were not important just as cultural enclaves, but also served as safe-havens from racism. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, these newcomers experienced pervasive discrimination. While all immigrant groups experienced racism, prejudice against Milwaukee’s African Americans was particularly pronounced. Poles and Germans could anglicize their names, shed customs, and assimilate into mainstream Milwaukee. African Americans could not change the characteristic that separated them from the broader community-- their skin color. Discrimination against African Americans in jobs, housing, and other areas was particularly intense and long lasting. African Americans, however, demonstrate that while ethnic and racial minorities did experience injustices, they were not mere victims. To overcome racial hatred and move forward, Milwaukee’s blacks formed local chapters of the NAACP and Urban League, opened their own businesses that catered to the African

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American community, and created organizations to help blacks learn skills and find jobs. All of these experiences are highlighted in the articles that follow. The first two articles examine Milwaukee’s Germans beginning with Kathleen Neils Conzen’s study of their attempts to reform the city’s political system. Paul Woehrmann follows with a brief community history that concludes with the anti-German hostility during World War I. The next two articles present two contrasting aspects of the Polish experience between 1866 and 1920. The conflicts within the community’s leadership are explored in Anthony Kuziewski’s essay, while Judith T. Kenny’s concentrates on how the community improved their economic status. The African American experience in Milwaukee is the topic of the final two articles. An overview of black Milwaukee between 1915 and 1925 is provided by Robert E. Weems. Fielding Utz closes the section by examining the Northcott House, an organization at the forefront of the city’s civil rights movement. The racial and immigrant heritage explored in these essays remains strong in contemporary Milwaukee. While the city may no longer be known as the “German Athens,” it is still strongly identified with German traditions. Poles, Italians, and Greeks may no longer live in the ethnic enclaves, but the communities continue to embrace their ethnic heritage at Polish Fest, the Italian Community Center, and Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church. The negative aspects of this ethnic heritage also have endured. Persistent racial discrimination has made Milwaukee one of America’s most segregated cities and blacks continue to be one of Milwaukee’s most impoverished groups. With such a complex legacy, the essays that follow provide an understanding of the city’s ethnic and racial past and the many commonalities in that shared history.

(Portrait file)

Precocious Reformers: Immigrants and Party Politics in Ante-Bellum Milwaukee by

T

Kathleen Neils Conzen Historical Messenger, Summer 1977

he standard version of urban political history is a morality play with two protagonists, the corrupt boss milking the public till and the noble reformer blocking his conniving with procedures for honest elections and administration. When a third player, the immigrant, steps onto the historian’s stage of urban politics, it is usually on the side of the boss. As the theory goes, the impoverished and illeducated immigrant, lacking prior experience of democratic politics, was only too willing to exchange his valueless vote for services which only the boss could provide—a bucket of coal, bail for a prodigal son, a city job, or perhaps just a fiver on election day. It was the boss who initiated the immigrant into the urban political system, historians have argued, and the immigrant who made the boss possible.[1] Milwaukee admittedly has not enjoyed a history of notorious boss rule like Chicago’s or Boston’s, but here, too, immigrants have found their way into the city’s chronicles as cogs in a political machine: as “voting cattle,” to use a popular nineteenth century term, who were regularly herded to the polls to cast their votes unthinkingly for the Democratic party.[2] Certainly the Democratic party controlled Milwaukee politics for much of the antebellum period and generally captured the votes of its German and Irish residents. Certainly, too, there was much in early Milwaukee politics that had a strong whiff of corruption about it. In the mid-50’s, for example, the Sentinel would charge that “Boss” Jackson Hadley was accustomed to “muster his little army of graders, officered by his contractors, and march them to Democratic caucuses

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to receive his nomination, or to the polls to carry his election, or to Albany Hall to disturb and break up a taxpayers’ meeting.” Charges of corruption in the awarding of public works contracts were frequent enough to suggest that where there was smoke, there was fire, and jury duty and other public jobs were also rewards for voting correctly. Even priests, both Irish and German, were accused of voting their flocks machine-fashion for their own suspicious ends.[3] Nor is there any doubt that election fraud and intimidation at the polls were common. A favorite trick was the falsified ballot: since voters stuffed a printed ticket handed out by one or the other party into the ballot box, it was an easy matter to print the familiar party name and chief candidates on the top of a ballot, to be followed in finer print by the opposition’s candidates for lesser office. Even in a calm election, it was not unusual to station burly party members at the polling place to help inspire party loyalty, their moral authority reinforced perhaps with a bucket of tar and a bag of feathers. Nor was it unknown during nominating assemblies to pack a hall with members of the opposing party, to lock doors and windows, or to suddenly change the meeting place. When spirits ran higher, physical violence was a sufficiently normal part of electioneering that newspapers made a special point of commenting if the election was quiet. Perhaps the most spectacular, if not very typical, election disturbance of the period occurred in the first ward in 1853 when the election turned on prohibition. Despite the pouring rain, German anti-prohibitionists paraded through the streets with beer barrels strapped to wagons, and marched to the polls, so their opponents charged, drinking beer from arm-length ox horns. At the first ward polling place, a fight broke out with Yankee temperance supporters, and as the Banner reported it, “The weapons were mainly fists and umbrellas. It was raining hard, none would leave the polling place, and the peculiarly rapid billowing in and out of the many opened umbrellas [as combatants jabbed them at one another] presented a highly droll spectacle. The vanquished had a soft fall; the mud through which they waltzed back and forth was at least two inches deep.” The anti-prohibitionist ticket won the battle—and the election. More serious was a quarrel between German and Irish voters the following year in which numerous by-standers as well as


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participants, including Sheriff Herman L. Page, were injured by tossed paving blocks and several saloon windows were broken.[4] But blind voting, corruption, and violence on the machine model were hardly the full story of immigrant political participation in Milwaukee’s founding decades. What is more worth noting is that Milwaukee’s immigrant citizens in these years entered the political arena for reasons of their own having little to do with those specified by the political machine model and in fact—the chief point of my talk this evening—formulated an important, if partially abortive, attempt at political reform in the mid-1850’s which preceded the better-known Progressive reform movement of the end of the century in Milwaukee and elsewhere by a good thirty years. The model of the political machine is a far from adequate device for understanding the way in which Milwaukee’s early immigrants entered politics. To be sure, if one looks at early Milwaukee politics through the eyes of a Whiggish newspaper like the Sentinel, which Bayrd Still, for example, did, there would seem to have been little in the issues of relevance to an immigrant voter; thus it would be logical to conclude that only the offer of a job or a bribe could induce them to vote. The Whigs, whose early place as the economically conservative and morally crusading party was increasingly taken over by the new Republican Party after the mid-1850’s, after all considered important issues like banking, bonded indebtedness, and fiscal retrenchment, on which Bayrd Still saw most antebellum elections as turning. Yet the pages of the immigrant press, particularly the German newspapers, both Democratic and later Republican, often emphasized totally different issues in the same elections, realizing that their readers would be voting on the basis of very local neighborhood or ethnic loyalties. Why then might an Irishman or a German in frontier Milwaukee wish to exercise his right to vote? There were many practical ways in which the immigrant voter depended on the outcome of the political process. As a householder, he was concerned that his streets be drained, paved, and lit, and that he be charged equitably for the service. There are frequent accounts, beginning in the early 1840’s, of petitions from immigrants for such services and frequent ward and neighborhood meetings to protest their lack. In 1850, for example, when a Yankee citizens’ meeting complained of the expense of running streets through

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suburban “frog swamps,” the Volksfreund reminded its readers that “workers and poorer residents, whose little bits of property and homes are in these frog swamps, have already paid their contribution in taxes to the beautification and improvement of the inner city, where these nouveaux riches nabobs now live and which itself used to be swamp or little better.” The next year Germans complained of discriminatory city services which left bridges unrepaired and standing water undrained on the west side, creating ponds “which harbor ducks and geese, and almost swallow up horses and wagons” while improvements were lavished on other parts of town. Immigrant husbands who didn’t want their wives insulted on the streets or their houses broken into were encouraged to elect men who would establish a night watch; wives who wanted weekly open air food markets were encouraged to remind their husbands on election day. Of course, tax assessments then as now provided strong incentives to self-expression at the polls. Immigrants placed special demands on schools and hospitals, they needed postal clerks and other government officials who understood their languages, they had to use the courts to collect their debts and enforce their contracts like anyone else. In a city like Milwaukee, where significant proportions of the immigrants were not impoverished slum dwellers, but rather, steadily employed workers and homeowners, daily life led them to the political process and, since most were literate, their own reading as well as their own leaders, not an outside boss, largely directed their progress.[5] But there were also peculiarly immigrant reasons for non-machine style political participation, issues of self respect and what may be called cultural defense. While the Irish appeared to begin politicking almost as soon as they arrived in Milwaukee—probably because their political awareness had already been awakened elsewhere in the United States—it took several years for much German activity, despite the frantic efforts of early leaders like Francis Huebschmann, Matthias Stein, and Eduard Wiesner, to get out a German vote. Only when their new-found status as equal Americans seemed under attack in 1843, when the right of non-citizens to vote on a proposed state constitution was threatened, did they begin to organize, forming a “German Democratic Association,” cementing an alliance with the politically skilled Irish led by John White and inviting Moritz Schoeffler up


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from Missouri to edit the first German newspaper. The identification of the Democratic party with the immigrant cause in these years, in Milwaukee as across the nation during a period of anti-immigrant nativism, would be much more potent than any machine in keeping Milwaukee’s Germans, particularly, in the Democratic fold. And in the late 1840’s when memories of the suffrage issue began to dim, and German—though not Irish—voters began to drift away from the Democracy, a new issue appeared which reinforced all the old allegiances—prohibition. It was seen by the Germans as an attack on their god-given right to enjoy a beer or a schnapps and was soon linked in the German mind with Yankee attempts to enforce Sunday blue laws by prohibiting music, dancing, and other relaxation on the one day of the week which the immigrant laborers had free. Since the same party that supported such measures also was for the abolition for slavery, anti-slavery too came to be viewed as anti-immigrant. As soon as the Germans desert the Democracy and go with the abolitionists, they will elevate to power and prestige a sect which thinks to turn the entire country into a ‘Water Cure’; which wants to command what each citizen may and may not drink; which seeks to prescribe the Bible to him as the highest and only binding code of law . . . which wants to suppress Sunday relaxation as the work of the Devil; which wants to snatch the women away from their useful and influential sphere in the quiet domestic circle of the family.

Such political invective was continually drummed into the German voter by leaders like Huebschmann, Schoeffler, and Frederick Fratney of the Volksfreund. When such issues were primary, Germans voted heavily and remained strongly Democratic in what they saw as a defense of a way of life.[6] Germans were generally of one mind on such issues, but there were serious internal splits. The 1848 revolution had propelled a wave of radical Germans to Milwaukee, who found German Catholics and Lutherans as offensive to their beliefs as they did Yankee Puritans; the attacks of German anti-clericals were so harsh in 1851 and 1852 that some German Catholics, under the leadership of Father Joseph Salzmann, pastor of St. Mary’s, and August Greulich, one of the early

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German pioneers, financed a separate Catholic paper, the Seebote, and briefly sought an alliance with Rufus King and the Whigs as the lesser of two evils. On the other side, many liberal Germans found themselves unable to stomach what they regarded as the bourgeois self-satisfaction of the older leaders or their acceptance of slavery and also gravitated toward first the Whigs and then the Republicans.[7] But the number of such mavericks was small. The Democrats had offered themselves as the champions of Milwaukee’s immigrants’ honor and lifestyle, and they were generally rewarded at the polls, where Democratic returns of 70, 80 and even 90 percent were not unknown in German wards in the mid-1850’s. But Germans were increasingly realizing that loyalty at the polls was not bringing the rewards of full equality in party ranks. Germans were probably half of all voters by this time, and while they controlled politics in the wards they dominated (especially the second, sixth, eighth, and ninth)—as did the Irish in the third—they were not holding city or county office in great numbers. After early office-holding successes, a standard token ethnic division of spoils within the Democratic Party emerged by 1848 with immigrant wards electing their own aldermen, an Irishman as marshal, and a German in the treasurer’s post. By that time, also, immigrant wards generally sent one of their own to the state assembly. But with the exception of Mayor Hans Crocker, Irish-born but a New Yorker in education and associations, major offices eluded them, as did a real share of decision-making in the nomination process.[8] As early as 1854, the Banner had suggested that the direct primary, recently introduced in St. Louis, might be the answer to German powerlessness in nominating Democratic candidates, and in the fall of 1856 board meetings in the German second and sixth wards picked up the suggestion after what they regarded as a particularly blatant example of a fixed nominating convention for county offices. The time seemed ripe for such a move, since earlier German splits had been healed and the prohibition elections had demonstrated how important German votes were to the Democrats; Democrats were also securely in office with the opposition completely dissolved. The mass meeting in the Market Hall which these two ward caucuses called for November 5 attracted some 500 to 600 voters and marked the start of a campaign that would first divide Germans from the regular Democratic party


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and then divide Germans among themselves before they temporarily joined forces with a separate but related reform movement among city businessmen of all political and ethnic persuasions during the 1857-59 depression. By 1860, however, the German reformers would be the only ones still fighting in an effort that only the greater drama of the Civil War would finally extinguish.[9] That first Market Hall meeting attracted some allies—Charles F. Bode, an 1848 arrival and justice of the peace, occupied the chair but an Irishman named O’Mahoney was secretary. The meeting resolved to push the party to hold direct primary elections in all wards on a set date before every election as a way to eliminate the influence of bosses in smoke-filled rooms. It is difficult to argue that any but Germans took the resolution very seriously, however, since nothing was done after memories of the mishandled county convention dimmed, and since one member of the committee charged with facilitating the reform was none other than Boss Hadley himself![10] But the Germans kept pushing, and before the following spring election another reform meeting was called, again with Bode in the forefront. Here Schoeffler fought hard for the adoption of the previous fall’s resolutions for the direct primary, but opponents charged that it would weaken the party organization just when it was in a good position to consolidate the spoils of office, and defeated both that resolution and a German fallback resolution that asked that each ward be permitted to send delegates to the nominating convention in numbers proportionate to its Democratic vote in the previous election—if Germans couldn’t use their voting strength to directly nominate candidates, then at least they wanted to be able to dominate the nominating conventions. The most they could get from this reform assembly, however was a mild proposal that ward voters could issue binding instructions to their delegates and that at the convention voting would be open so that attempts to influence delegates would be evident. Thereafter, while German reformers would still push for the direct primary, they increasingly fell back on proportional representation and even found themselves more frequently than they wished just struggling to insure open conventions.[11] Their chief opponents within the party, of course, were established leaders like Hadley and James B. Cross, but also Irish Democrats who

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benefited from the status quo, and probably had a stronger place in the party than their even smaller proportion of the city population warranted. At the spring reform meeting just discussed, for example, every Irish delegate present voted against the reform proposals. Some Irish Democrats like John Dolan did play an active role in the reform movement. As a consequence, when he was nominated for county treasurer in 1858 another Irish politico, John Horan, announced at a raucous courthouse indignation meeting that Dolan—whom he said should be sent to the third ward elementary school to learn to spell his own name—had gained the nomination with money put up by Republicans like John F. Potter and Sherman Booth to split the Democrats. This was the first time, Horan dramatically announced, that his duty to his adopted country would lead him to oppose the Democracy![12] The German reformers managed to elect some of their candidates in the spring 1857 elections, but received no support at the polls from any non-German ward. The issue of a reformed nominating system continued to fester all summer kept alive particularly by a new German newspaper, the Grad’Aus, which championed the reform cause. Then that fall the state nominating convention turned down Huebschmann’s candidacy for governor, and the fat was in the fire. Charging that the regular Democrats for corrupt motives had refused to grant the “legitimate claims of the German majority,” many of the reformers bolted the party, set up their own ward committees and framed their own slate, and succeeded at least in reducing the normal Democratic majority in Huebschmann’s second ward and sending Alex von Cotzhausen to the state Assembly. The bolt, however, panicked many earlier reform leaders like Schoeffler, who insisted that reform was justified only if kept within the party and charged that the bolt was engineered behind the scenes by the novelist, Otto Ruppius, editor of the Grad’Aus, for Republican pay.[13] Before feelings hardened and a separate German reform party became a permanent reality, however, events overtook both bolters and regular Democrats. Financial hard times caused taxpayers to take a second look at both the heavy tax levied by the regular Democratic mayor James B. Cross and at his spendthrift administration. The result was the creation in early 1858 of a non-partisan Reform or People’s


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Ticket dedicated to economy and honesty in government which was willing to ally itself with the German reformers. To keep them in the fold, the regular Democrats finally agreed at least to committed delegates, open conventions, and proportional representation, but since the compromise still rejected primaries, many German reformers threw their support to the Republican-tinged People’s Ticket which swept both spring and fall elections and took a good deal of support away from the Democrats in German wards. German reformers thus played a much stronger role in the anti-corruption politics of the late 1850’s than earlier scholars like Bayrd Still recognized, and for quite different reasons. It was not that Germans had abandoned Democratic principles, they explained; it was just that they didn’t like the forms in which they were embodied.[14] By 1859, the Democrats were able to regroup and recapture the city government, having now learned that they could play with German loyalty only at their own peril. Nevertheless, German discontent remained close to the surface, as ward meetings continued to insist on direct primaries and the extension of the reformed nominating system to the state level. But while some Americans attended a city-wide reform meeting in August, 1859, for example, and even participated in the rowdy debate, they insisted on treating the issue as something brand-new, unprecedented, and therefore requiring kid glove treatment, exasperating Germans who had been struggling with the problem for three years by that time. The following spring Germans were still disaffected, charging that a managed nominating convention had kept all but one German off the city ticket. Democratic majorities were greatly reduced in that mayoral election as several German Republicans found themselves in office for the first time.[15] After four years, German reformers had thus made relatively little impact in their thrust for power, effecting minor changes in local nominating procedures, but succeeded mainly in clouding the image of the Democrats as protectors of the immigrants and sending ever greater proportions—though still only a minority—into the arms of the Republicans by 1860. This, of course, is of interest in itself, given the controversy over the role of the Germans in electing Lincoln. But of greater significance are two related aspects of the affair: first, the Germans were not simply playing machine politics but instead were

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consciously attempting to reform the political process in a creative manner; and second, they were doing so not primarily for direct personal gain but as in their initial entrance into city politics, because they felt that their honor as equal American citizens was being attacked. Of course, no one can argue that self-interest was involved, that they were aroused only because they were not getting a full share of machine spoils. But the manner in which they sought to realize that self-interest was in the style of the reformer rather than the machine and suggests an early example of what Bayrd Still has called the “distinguishing integrity” and “practical and honestly managed solutions to the problems of urban living” characteristic of Milwaukee. As Dr. Gallo, Banner editor, put it in 1859, In the German element lies the true strength of the democratic party in Wisconsin. It is hardly unjustifiable if this element attempts to make that strength count. This is not to be thought of as German nativism; German influence doesn’t consist of just electing as many Germans as possible to public office—from that, God protect us—Germans by nature are too shy for much public activity. No, it is through the realization of democratic principles only that the German viewpoint seeks to come into its own.

The self-serving nature of the reform cannot obscure the fact that some, at least, of Milwaukee’s immigrants pioneered another kind of politics than machine politics and deserve more credit for it than they have thus far received.[16]

Notes

[1] For a strong statement of this interpretation, see Elmer E. Cornwell, Jr., “Bosses, Machines, and Ethnic Groups,” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 353 (1964), 28-39; see also Oscar Handlin, The Uprooted (New York, 1951), 201-26. It should be noted that while scholars increasingly are stressing the complexity of the interrelationship between bossism and reform (cf. the articles collected in Alexander B. Callow, Jr., ed., The City Boss in America: An Interpretive Reader [New York, 1976] , esp, [sic] pp. 173-261), little attention has been paid to autonomously generated movements for structural reform within immigrant groups functioning outside the machine context. [2] Bayrd Still, Milwaukee: The History of a City (Madison, 1948), 134, 144-49. [3] For general accounts of politics in antebellum Milwaukee, see Still, 33-41, 13355; Kathleen Neils Conzen, Immigrant Milwaukee, 1836-1860: Accommodation and Community in a Frontier City (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1976), 192-224;


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Daily Sentinel, 17 March 1858, as quoted in Still, 148; See James S. Buck, Pioneer History of Milwaukee, vol. II (Milwaukee, 1890), 102, 217, and his Milwaukee under the Charter, from 1847 to 1853, Inclusive (Milwaukee, 1884), 356; Wisconsin Banner, 11 August, 5 October, 1 November 1852. [4] Wisconsin Banner 12 November 1851, 10 March, 16 November 1852, 16 November 1853, 15 March 1854, 8 November 1855, 10 November 1859; Seebote, 2 March, 8 November 1853, 8 March 1854; Banner und Volksfreund, 12 November 1856, 4 April 1860; Atlas, 18 July, 31 September 1860. “Fanatics from the green island” led by Edward McGarry, for example, were charged with disturbing a Republican mass meeting in the summer of 1860 by carrying in a coffin labeled “Abraham Lincoln,” after Democratically minded volunteer firemen from Hose Co. #2 were accused of breaking up a procession of Germans on their way to the meeting; Atlas, 13 July 1860. [5] Volksfreund, 10 January 1850; Wisconsin Banner, 7 May, 6 August, 10 September 1851, 1 September, 21 December 1852, 31 May 1854, 3 January 1855; Minutes of the Milwaukee Common Council for almost any early session; Banner und Volksfreund, 11 June, 27 November, 21 December 1858, 15 January, 21 April, 3 May 1859; for the social and occupational characteristics of antebellum Milwaukee’s immigrant population, see Conzen, esp. 44-84. [6] Conzen, 1, 192-98, 210, 215; As a German editor noted in response to a complaint about German habits of Sunday enjoyment, “Milwaukee Germans will not let their enjoyment be disturbed. They are by far the majority of the population and if they have ever been united on any point it is on this: that they want to celebrate Sunday in their own fashion. If we ever descend upon the salamander rows of worshippers in the Plymouth and St. Paul’s churches during the sermon with our beer steins and pinochle cards, then and only then can the Sentinel begin to speak of disturbing Sunday worship. It is boring enough to the ‘Intelligent German’ that he is disturbed in his studies on Sunday by the very unmelodical and weary clamoring of the church bells and that he is met on his Sunday walk by the squarely pious faces of well-known workday usurers. We don’t make an issue of it, since the law permits the ringing of bells and church-going. But nor do we want to be disturbed ourselves. It’s very simple: you go to the prayer-halls [Bietkneipen] and we go to the beer-halls [Bierkneipen] . Each has a right to be his own kind of fool.” Banner und Volksfreund, 2 August 1859; Wisconsin Banner, 16 August 1854. [7] Conzen, 211-13. [8] Conzen, 16, 202-06. [9] Wisconsin Banner, 2 August 1854; Banner und Volksfreund, 22, 29 October, 5 November 1856. [10] Banner und Volksfreund, 5 November 1856. [11] Banner und Volksfreund, 17 December 1856; 25 February, 18 March 1857. [12] Banner und Volksfreund, 18 March 1857, 22 October 1858. [13] Banner und Volksfreund, 15 April, 9, 16, 30 September, 28 October, 11 November 1857. [14] Still, 145-50; Banner und Volksfreund, 18 January; 3, 16, 17 March; 5, 8 April, 21 July, 4 November 1858. [15] Banner und Volksfreund, 11 February, 7 April, 18, 20 August, 10 November 1859; 6 April 1860; Atlas, 8 November 1860.

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[16] Frederick C. Luebke, ed., Ethnic Voters and the Election of Lincoln (Lincoln, Nebraska, 1971); Still, 568, 566; Banner und Volksfreund, 8 August 1859. As the Seebote had noted earlier, “It is striking that the Germans who so freely praise American freedom have such difficulty deciding to use the freedom that is theirs by law and lack the courage to speak up in election assemblies even though they are often completely dissatisfied with what occurs and how it occurs. Year in and year out they yield to decisions contrary to their interests rather than grasping the courage to speak out and say no. To this we attribute the fact that Germans prefer not to attend the assemblies and let happen what will.” Seebote, 26 February 1853.

Manner Chor Eichenkranz picnic (Musical Groups file)

Milwaukee German Immigrant Values: An Essay by

Paul Woehrmann Milwaukee History, Autumn 1987

W

hile people from geographical Germany constitute one of the most important Milwaukee immigrant groups, little has been done to trace the values of local German-Americans held over time, subsequent to their coming to the city. The purpose of this paper is to impose a historical structure on the development or attrition of these values and make some related analytical comments. Hopefully these remarks will stimulate more definite findings on Germans in Milwaukee. That more history of the modern type is not written on this topic is at least in part understandable. The local German language press has not been thoroughly searched for relevant materials (nor is it used here). Beyond these newspapers, there are few paper survivals of the local German immigrant culture. We lack primary sources. Locally, Germans were not an inarticulate people. However, outside of that newspaper collection, we as a community have done an indifferent job of saving the letters, unpublished essays, fugitive printed pieces, and official documents that would have made the present effort fuller and richer. Further, the supporting national German historical scholarship has not been voluminous. Going by numbers of writings, Blacks, Indians, Jews, and even Norwegians have received more attention. This is important for our Milwaukee problem, because no German community was born, lived, or died in a cultural vacuum. Germans are in Milwaukee in part because of the Prussian Union, because the local Catholic diocese assisted German Catholic immigrants, or because the 1848 Revolutions in Germany failed, among other causes far removed from the present.[1]

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To proceed we need definition of terms. I use the word “German” to mean residents of Milwaukee who by the place of birth, name, speech, or other behavior were identified with Germany or German culture. Germans in Germany or elsewhere are indicated. Time coverage is from the late 1830s, when large scale German immigration began, to about 1920, when mass German consciousness in Milwaukee had largely disappeared. This paper focuses first on three ideologically directed groups and lastly on German involvement with World War I. Contrary to mythology still accepted as true, German emigrants were not poverty stricken, or greatly oppressed, although a few might have been jailed if they left Germany a little more slowly. Those with firm personal will who had prospered and enjoyed some personal liberty were most likely to be the ones willing and able to improve themselves by emigration. There are exceptions. William George Bruce, in his autobiography, I Was Born in America, tells of immigrant vagrants, Irish in addition to Germans, in his Milwaukee neighborhood in the 1860s and 1870s. Generally, however, those who emigrated were those who had rising expectations or feared the loss of what they had, not the impoverished and oppressed. We have hard evidence of immigrants with money, ability, and will; three groups to which I would now like to turn.[2] Substantial numbers of German immigrants came to Milwaukee from the late 1830s on. By the 1850 federal census, one-third of Milwaukee’s population was of German background. Immigration continued, broken or reduced by adverse American conditions such as depressions in 1857, 1873, and 1893, or by the Civil War. Starting in 1852, Wisconsin state government and then railroads promoted immigration from western Europe by economic enticements. Most who renounced their homeland came as individuals, by push and pull, dissatisfied at home and attracted by these promotions, or “home letters,”—messages from friends or relatives already in Wisconsin—the testimony of returnees or other information. Like most immigrants of any era, they left to better their economic state. But two bodies of local immigrants, while not neglecting their material well-being, came from ideological reasons and made a difference in Milwaukee. These were the Old Lutherans and the 48ers. Immigration is often the story of rapid integration of individuals into the mainstream of


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American life. Immigrants adapt to their new environment, rather than maintain themselves unaffected by it. With these two groups we must take some exception.[3] The Old Lutherans started coming to Milwaukee in 1839. For the next decade German arrivals averaged about 1,200 a week during the ice-free months on the Great Lakes. Some Lutherans stayed in Milwaukee, going into trade, brewing, or tanning, but most moved into farming, notably around Freistadt. They paid their way, their gold helping to revive the Milwaukee economy following the Panic of 1837. They were Old Lutherans in the sense that they followed the old Lutheran faith in what they saw as a literal interpretation of the scriptures found in the Augsburg Confession. They had preserved their beliefs through the break with the Roman church, against Rationalism and Secularism, the beliefs of the Reformed neighbors, and the Pietistic reaction to all of the above. When the King of Prussia set about to merge the Reformed and Lutheran churches in 1819, the Old Lutherans faced one more threat to their orthodoxy. During the next twenty years the state made life increasingly uncomfortable through state certification of pastors, by the new bland standard compromise liturgy, expulsion of dissenters from the churches, arrest and jailing of lay and clerical malcontents, and police intervention in old style services in private quarters. Finally, some decided to leave Prussia and other German states rather than give up their religious values. Most came to the United States, principally to the Midwest; many of those came to Milwaukee under the leadership of their pastors. In secularized society, behavior governed by close adherence to religious ideals may seem strange, as does the idea of the pastor leading his flock to better ideological and material pasture. Secular as well as sacred reasons help to explain: Parishioners—farmers, small merchants, skilled artisans—knew their pastor was an educated man. The Lutheran pastor could read the scriptures in the original language, and he also influenced lives by an ordered, responsive liturgy, by preaching, and by his life example. The layman turned to Herr Pastor to solve family disputes, legal problems, and other relations with the state. The only professional person the layman might deal with, he was a Mr. Fixit [sic] , a role which continued when it came time to emigrate and then

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deal with “the English” in America, the land of strange language, and peculiar laws and customs.[4] In the end the Lutherans were able to preserve their values in a new American establishment, setting up individual churches and establishing a national congregational/espiscopal blend church centering in the Midwest, the eventual Missouri and related Wisconsin Synods. These Lutherans refused to align themselves with eastern Lutherans on doctrinal grounds, staying largely an immigrant church, with two million members by World War I, and half of its services still in German. A seminary reflected and perpetuated the aims of the church. As time and finances allowed, a system of parochial schools began, as did auxiliary organizations, children’s and old people’s homes, hospitals, insurance societies, and other relief agencies. The “Altenheim” home for the aged on North Avenue in Wauwatosa is an example.[5] The immigrant church conducted all these activities in German, which commentators inside and outside the church, local and not, saw as a bulwark that retarded assimilation. To these Lutherans, especially the clerics, this was not a primary goal; language was mainly a means to transmit and preserve the faith. Some of the values that followed from that faith were unattractive then and now. In politics Lutherans tended to support a quick enfranchisement of immigrants, not always favored by nativists. To older Lutheran clergymen slavery was not immoral: St. Paul said “Servants, obey your masters,” and sent the slave Onesimus back to his master. Lutheran laymen were not enamored with the abolitionists, and only a minority voted for Lincoln. Lutherans supported the federal union, having come from a politically fractionalized Germany. August Frank, a member of the Frank-Kerler business and farm family of Milwaukee and Greenfield, privately lamented the “unnecessary war” brought on by “the political agitations of the Republicans in regard to the slavery humbug, to the misfortune of the entire Union.” An 1897 essay by local attorney Ernst Bruncken, “How Germans Became Americans,” written when time and circumstance had opportunity to work on these values, affirms that the language, doctrinal steadfastness, and elaborate organization tended to make the Lutherans self-sufficient and retarded acculturation: “The ministers, priests, and teachers in these institutions, as a class, appear to be but slightly influenced by the Americanizing tendencies


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surrounding.” The laity were similarly if somewhat less affected. A member of the Frank-Kerler family drew up a marriage contract in which the bride and groom agreed to raise any children according to the Ausburg Confession.[6] Given the organizational and doctrinal similarities, one expects like developments in the local Roman Catholic Church. Both churches were hierarchical, with the Catholics being the more prescriptive. For example, the Catholic priesthood, which Bruncken was referring to, urged local Catholics to provide parochial schooling; attendance at the public school “generally results in the ruin of the tender soul.” Instruction in the faith had to be provided, or the parents risked denial of absolution for their sins. Both churches seem untouched by the controversy over evolution that racked other American churches in the nineteenth century. Leaders of both were aware of the higher criticism as applied to scripture, and rejected it with appeal to the teaching office of the church or a literal view of “thus saith the Lord.” As Bruncken observed, there were no “liberal” German churches. If a man became doctrinally liberal, he dropped out of the German Church or joined an older, more mainline American church, probably a Reformed body. In John Martin Henni, Milwaukee German Catholics had from 1844 an energetic bishop who wanted German-American priests for his diocese where he catered to the German laity. Again, language was to help preserve the faith: parochial schools taught in German; lay societies held their meetings in German. Local Catholics initially were separatistic also, alienated from the Lutherans as the worst of heretics, the heathen 48ers, and then the often anticlerical, if not anti-Christian, Socialists, a Milwaukee political force from the 1890s. However the Roman Catholic Church in America was not a single-group immigrant church. Although German-Catholic immigrants wanted little to do with the Irish, and then the Poles, both were numerous in American Catholicism. After Henni died, the local bishops were less sympathetic to separate German parishes, and some Germans came under the shepherding of Irish priests, as Poles were brought under German clerics. An international movement for ethnic Catholic churches proposed in the Cahensly memorial did not get far.

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German Catholicism tended to break down: Irish and German Catholics could cooperate early on in Milwaukee history in voting against what they perceived as English interests, the franchise question again. When the issues died down, political unity disintegrated. The divisive issue generally was prohibition. To the German drink in moderation was viewed as part of his ordinary sustenance; but drink in excess was a curse to the Irish, who were often willing to restrict its production or consumption. What the native Americans and the Irish in the 1840s to the superpatriots of World War I failed to see, as probably German separatists—whether Catholic, Lutheran of 48ers—perceived, was that Americanizing thoughts could be conveyed in German as easily as in English. The natives also did not appreciate the religious purpose of language as barrier against the world for the Catholics and Lutherans. Additional German churches existed: German Baptist, Methodist, and other Reformed bodies. They were evangelistic and unionistic, so assimilation came quicker. By World War I they had merged with English-speaking parent bodies. German Pietists, Mennonities, and Amish played a part in rural but not urban Wisconsin history.[7] A third immigrant group with distinct values were the 48ers, the Ach-tund-Viersiger. Their contributions in transferring German and European music and theater to Milwaukee were considerable. (And sometimes innovative: Haydn’s Creation was staged on the site of a former Indian camp.) They could be anticlerical and antireligious. Unlike the religious groups, they did not sustain themselves except in the Turner and Freethinker movements. Emigrating as individuals from Germany in the wake of the failure of the democratic revolutions there and in several other European countries in 1848, they initially were much miscast in their roles. Young, energetic, and well educated, some wanted to revive the revolutions from exile, a futile exercise among their fellow Germans. Others, facing the need for daily bread, sustained themselves by means at variance with their background. The most famous of these probably were the Latin farmers—not all 48ers—in the Milwaukee area and elsewhere, who attempted to wrest a living from the soil from a background of linguist, student, political agitator and various other nineteenth-century white collar callings, and failed. There were urban


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counterparts: lawyers turned school teachers, military officers in trade, revolutionaries in journalism. Sometimes poor, their assets lost in the revolution, a few flirted with the idea of an American German state. As did the Lutheran and Catholics, they set up schools. Most 48er schools proved short lived; the German-English Academy is a notable exception. Most 48ers would have taken state school-support money. Many experienced downward social mobility, reverse Yuppies with a language problem, at least initially. Some adjusted and prospered but lost their ideologies in the process. Bernhard Domschcke failed three times to establish a Milwaukee newspaper of editorial opinion and literary criticism. When he switched to news and hired a business manager, he succeeded financially if not aesthetically. There were some fellow travellers, such as Dr. Francis Huebschmann, a local near-Renaissance man who helped 48er aims.[8] Long true to their intents were the Turners, a gymnastic society with social and political overtones, who came out of the 48er element. The Turner idea of healthy body and healthy mind is as old as the classical Greeks. But the Turners also provided an intellectual forum that developed agnostic and anticlerical pronouncements, advocated tax reform, welfare legislation, direct election and recall of public officials, and other prescient ideas. The vehicles for these were lectures, discussions, reading rooms, concerts, plays, and adult education classes. Evangelistic in a secular sense, they ran a Turnerlehrer, where teachers were trained to teach Turner athletic methods in public schools and Turner clubs. The school graduated over 300 teachers.[9] A sense of Germanness persisted in the Milwaukee Lutherans, Catholics, and Turners into the twentieth century. Maintenance of group interdependency, participation in discussion and decision-making, and shared priorities defined and nurtured their communities. Other Germans took part in something else, German lifestyle enclaves, where similarities in the group action were largely confined to dress, consumption, and free-time activities. Kathleen Conzen and others have delineated how first and second generation Germans lived close to each other to a large degree in Milwaukee. During this time Germans residing in these German-saturated neighborhoods had the ability to perform all their activities within the geographic German settlement. Strictly German areas did not long survive, nor did a number of the

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pan-German cultural societies that sprang up within them. Group adjustment to the larger non-German community was made less wrenching by the German enclave. Those German settlements that lasted the longest tended to perpetuate a selective set of static German-flavored activities that became ends in themselves. The singing societies, shooting clubs, card clubs, and German provincial societies, the buildings that were functional German architectural monuments, the restaurants, and the beer gardens could carry Germanness of a basic denominator only so far. The beer garden rather quickly was unable to stand the competition of the undemanding public park. On the individual level, ambitious German professionals or businessmen moved by choice from the German enclave into the “native areas,” learning English before they went. The poor German lived where he could, often outside the German areas. John Kerler is an example of one who left a surface Germanness without regret: “The German skin must be removed and American skin put on instead—then it will be fine,” he declared in 1851. George Brumder kept his feet in both worlds. According to the hagiographic biography by Herbert Brumder, George (1839-1910), a book binder, publisher of Lutheran books and religious and secular newspapers, then banker, came to Milwaukee in 1857, invoking God’s help in his labors and working as if worldly success depended on him. He engaged a tutor to teach him English, studied business administration at night, met his future wife at church, and prayed with her over business and marriage decisions. In business he hired good subordinates, notably editor Geroge [sic] Koeppen, was a good delegator in spite of a strong character, and prospered. His Lutheran printings, supervised by a clerical editorial committee that avoided confessional controversy, and his newspapers that rightly caught many a mood of the Germans made him influential and rich. He ran the financial affairs of Grace Lutheran Church, and his wife was the “chief financial accountant” of the church Frauen Verein. The extended family married into the families that ran two shoe companies, the Schlitz brewery, and the Concordia Fire Insurance Company. George and his wife tried to keep family members close to the family homestead. His family biographer concludes “Grandfather was an example of the God fearing, sturdy pioneer that played a vital


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part in the building of this nation,” something the author for whatever reason did not assign to the next two generations.[10] The young Germans as a whole proved more independent than the parents desired. The youth or portions thereof joined geography, personal ambition, and “English” contact as assimilating forces. Ernst Bruncken reports that parents had “meagre” success in preventing children from adopting English as the language outside the home. By 1897 some German churches had begun English services. Social intercourse with “the English,” discouraged in many German families, went on anyway as did attendance at the great assimilator, the public schools. New marriages and consequent new families further removed the young adults from community Germanness. Some became ashamed to speak German, trying to forget what they knew. Probably the influence of the largely housebound German women and the persistence of church and parochial school were the main countervailing forces. Occasionally a political development would pull the German element together, as seen in the suffrage and prohibition issues. The Liberal Republican movement of which Wisconsin’s Carl Schurz was an important part attracted some Germans in the 1870s. More widespread had been the joy expressed by local Germans when Germany united and defeated the French in the Franco-Prussian War, the local celebration allegedly rivaling that in Berlin. Before 1871 the immigrants from the various independent German states had often looked on each other as foreigners. With Germany unified, Wisconsin Germans increased in importance to themselves and in pride for a Fatherland growing more important in the international community. Whereas the 48ers were the avowed enemies of many of the old petty German states, and the Old Lutherans demonstrably suffered in them, the late nineteenth-century German immigrants, less idealistic, spoke less critically of the new Reich. The social programs soon instituted in Germany, partly business and partly government financed pensions and social insurance, would by the 1890s be taken up by Milwaukee Socialists, many of whom were Germans, like Victor Berger (Jewish, born in present Romania, speaking German). Only in the early 1890s were the Germans politically united long enough to be a deciding factor in state politics as the Irish immigrants

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had been time and again. In the Edgerton Bible case German Lutherans improbably joined with Catholics in applauding the State Supreme Court’s ruling that prayer and Bible reading in public schools was unconstitutional. In the Bennett law controversy two churches combined to help turn out in state and national offices those Republicans who had supported this measure in the 1889 state Assembly that required a state elementary school to teach several basic subjects in English. Backing this bill was Republican Governor William Dempster Hoard, who had become alarmed upon learning from the state education superintendent that 40 or 50,000 Wisconsin children went to no school at all and that contradictorily there were no enrollment figures for the parochial schools. The Bennett Act easily passed the legislature, including the Assembly Education Committee chaired by a Milwaukee German Lutheran. Objections soon came from German Lutherans and German Catholics alike, who contended that the law interfered with parental conscience and right to educate their children. The three Wisconsin Catholic Bishops took the same stance. The new German pride, fear of the clergy that language as a means of holding the layman to the church was again being compromised, and the midwifery of the state Democrats led to a Catholic-Lutheran anti-Bennett convention at Milwaukee in June 1890. Shortly before the fall elections, Koeppen, Eugene Luening, George Wahl, Christopher Bach, and about forty other leading Germans planned a GermanAmerican Day. Its motto was “We are not strangers in this land.” George Meyer wrote in a preface to the program for the day that the local Germans had been too politically phlegmatic and narrow minded in business, allowing “natives” to suppress them. Their means were laws proscribing German customs and language, immigration restrictions, and ridiculing language. Nonviolent self-assertion was the remedy. In the election many Germans carried out their threat to support the Democrats, who promised to repeal the Bennett law. George W. Peck, the Milwaukee mayor, defeated Hoard, and only one state Republican retained his Congressional seat. John C. Spooner, turned out of the U.S. Senate, groused “The school law did it—a silly, sentimental and damned useless abstraction, foisted upon us by a self righteous demagogue.” Spooner meant Hoard. Spooner was half right, theological considerations aside. The Bennett law seemed a dead letter


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from Hoard’s signature, evoking little action toward conformity by most school districts and private counterparts. It probably is the best example of “the English” failing to recognize that Americanization was taught in German. Most private schools instructed some classes in English anyway. The protectionist McKinley tariff of the same time, disliked by western Wisconsin farmers, helped turn out the Republicans, as did the anti-Bennett shift from Republican to Democratic in the eastern counties, including a number of Milwaukee wards. The two Georges, Brumder and Koeppen, voted Democratic, the latter scorning Hoard’s tender of a seat on the University Regents Board. The Bennett debacle also destroyed much of the remaining influence of the Freethinker-Turner political coalition that supported the law. It could hardly appear longer as an unqualified protector of German language and culture.[11] The still large local German press attempted to survive while navigating through these cultural and political shoals. The most viable examples were operated as businesses, printing news and features, not long sharply ideological editorials. Advocating German culture after the German unification sustained newspaper life for a time but caused difficulty as was seen during World War I. W. W. Coleman’s Kinderpost had a long existence, with moral stories and features for those under sixteen. Few a little older would read in German what they could peruse in English. Most German editors tried to appeal to both the old and the new immigrants, including news of both Milwaukee and of Germany. Some tried to satisfy with romantic German short stories and serialized novels. A few appealed to the German intellect. Stands by some local German papers against the perennial threat of prohibition and warnings against women’s suffrage helped fight against assimilation. The papers generally took the tack that the woman was held in high esteem in the home for her services to the husband, children, and household, all of which would suffer if she degraded herself in the struggle for political power.[12] But it was a rear guard action. By the late 1870s some of the Germanic Kerlers and Brumders had succeeded in penetrating the ranks of Milwaukee leadership. The Pabsts, Bests, and Uihleins were becoming as important as the Wards, Allises, and Plankintons. By the 1880s, when the “New Immigration” from southeastern Europe appeared,

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the Germans were at the “head of the [immigrant] pecking order.” They were considered by some as native, stable, industrious, and frugal. In the factories English and German owners and their foremen worked together to organize and control the labor of the more recent immigrants. German separatism was not being well maintained by the end of the century. In 1904 the Milwaukee Sentinel editorialized that the German had lost his Germanness but had transformed the larger community. The Sentinel was too final and did not adequately define the nature of the change. It would take World War I to do that.[13] There are two basic positions on the effect of the war (1914-1918) on local German values: that the war merely hastened an inevitable Americanization process or that the assimiliation was not all predestined and that the methods to achieve it should be held up as unfair and illegal. Perhaps the antagonism to things German can be laid in part to the surprise to both Germans and non-Germans at the outbreak of war and, after American entry in April 1917, to a natural suspicion developing in a city with so many people with German names, visible activities and symbols. There is no indication in the local German press that the war was anticipated. In the period before the American declaration of war most Germans tended to be quiet about the conflict. There were exceptions, of course, notably in the preparedness movement, in private and government attempts to get the United States in a military posture to defend herself against the European belligerents or to intervene there. On one hand, Augustus Vogel was president of the Wisconsin section of the National Security League, a leading preparedness organization. On the other, the Milwaukee Free Press, owned by local German businessmen, favored a naval buildup to October 1915, then reversed itself. When the United States intervened in the Mexican Revolution, the Press rejoiced in the problems of the Wisconsin National Guard on the border, which did not endear the paper to most of the local public. Mutually antagonistic German and American militants tended to drag everyone else in their controversies. Virtually all war news came from Allied sources, Britain having cut the cables out of Germany. English efforts proved quite successful in painting the European German as a barbaric “Hun.” The search for the home Hun followed. Actually few Germans had any stake in a military victory of Germany. Some


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did feel that as Americans they had a right to practice German-related cultural activities. “Germany our mother; Columbia our bride,” some proclaimed. For others Germany was both and more. Leo Stern, a public school administrator, Dr. Bernhard Dernberg, Attorney Robert Wild, and Charles Hexamer locally publicly defended German rightness in the war, or a German cultural superiority. Hexamer trumpeted that Germans must raise other Americans to the superior German culture, not compromise the latter. On the mass scale, 175,000 attended a 1916 bazaar to raise German relief funds.[14] This behavior ran head on into a negative patriotism, little defined and little demanding for non-Germans, summarized by the Milwaukee Journal shortly after American entry into the War: “We want no more German-American banks or Deutscher Clubs .... This is America. America it must be, wholly and unitedly, and any club, society, company or organization that retards or conflicts with that spirit should change its purpose, close up, or be put out of existence. Appeals to racial or alien ties must be forever banished from American soil.” The Journal got its way, not Hexamer. With Theodore Roosevelt decrying the “Shadow Hun” in his midst at Racine and Wilson worrying before the conflict about Midwest German loyalty in case of war, repeatedly scoring the “hyphenate American,” these national figures were bound to have local imitators, assisted by the Wisconsin Loyalty Legion, militant Liberty Loan speakers, and de facto anti-German government regulations in the name of national defense. It was widely believed that Wilson removed Bruncken from his position in the national Copyright Office for statements contrary to the president’s policies. It is not therefore surprising to find Germans anglicizing their names, buying Liberty bonds they did not understand, want, or could not afford, German being dropped from the public schools, local Socialists being criticized as unfit to hold office for their Germanness as well as their socialism, postmasters censoring German publications, the closing of the German theaters, Schiller statues being veiled, and just as the Journal wished, German banks taking English names, and the Deutscher Club at Ninth and Wisconsin becoming the Wisconsin Club. Seriousness vied with silliness. A Wauwatosa student had to apologize to her assembled classmates for labelling a Wilson picture “The Living English Jackass.” German clubs and newspapers suffered

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the most, the latter often quitting, unable to supply postmasters who were not bilingual with English texts for review before mailing.[15] Church-related institutions fared better, member commitment to them often being deeper. Roman Catholic Archbishop Sebastian Messmer prayed privately for German victory at first but tried to keep his priests neutral. A few spoke at pro-Germany rallies. His Irish and German parishioners might have liked public pro-Germany prayer, but the Polish, hoping for a restoration of their nation out of the war, would not. A Protestant-Catholic anti-war meeting in Milwaukee proved a fiasco, the Catholics (after a warning from Messmer) staying away, as did the German Lutherans. These Germans became the most criticized churchmen for their war stands, pietistic pacifists excepted. Basically the future Missouri and the Wisconsin Synods wanted business as usual in an unusual atmosphere. Carefully staying out of partisan politics, these Germans likewise had no desire for a German victory but felt compelled to defend parts of German culture, particularly their German language church services. Their Lutheran Witness regularly called the war foolish, found sin in all the participants, opposed the American arms trade to the Allies, but called for obedience to the law. Many members sympathized with Germany and, when called to fight, soldiered responsibly but without enthusiasm. Messmer echoed this value shortly after April 1917, when he said the war effort should be supported by the faithful “willing or unwilling,” adding perhaps oddly, “for that is God’s will.” Having been exposed to ridicule for ethnocentricities during military service, Lutherans returning home became prime movers for the expansion of English language services and for English instruction in the parochial schools. By 1925 90 percent of Missouri publications were in English, and German instruction was virtually eliminated from their elementary classrooms. Some pastors feared that with the language buffer gone, parishioners would fall into new sin out among the English—jazz dancing, evolution in the school, godless novels, and birth control. But the language bridge was crossed and the altered church survived, unlike the culturally militant secular club that radically changed its purpose or died.[16] In spite of lack of sources, it is clear that German values were strongest locally when the immigrants set foot in Milwaukee. Values historically connected with Germany were retained by a minority of


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Germans and German institutions. German values and the experiences they came from were too diverse for Germans as a whole to unite very much for very long. Few wanted a German state here, and assimilation was largely voluntary, World War I being an exception. The deeper the ideological commitment of institution and individual, the slower the assimilation. But assimilation did come virtually to all. Much Germanness seemed to exist in the eye of the non-German beholder who tended to lump Germans together, rather than be indigenous to the German himself. Again, World War I marks the end of mass local German immigrant values and furnishes the best, if not most rational example of what those false images were, but other stereotypes could be supplied: the German as dour, hardworking, or beer-loving. There are persistent assertions that these were Germans characteristics. Post1920 themes that could be pursued included the refusal to recognize Hitler properly in the 1930s because of the effect of British World War I propaganda, the Joseph McCarthy phenomenon as sympathy for a defeated Germany, and a comparison of the Americanization of the post-World War II refugee and the 48er. German immigrant values in Milwaukee can serve as more than historical pathology; the implementation of those values is important as part of history for its own sake and can be both a lesson and an inspiration.[17]

Notes

[1] Frederick C. Luebke, Bonds of Loyalty; German Americans in World War I (Dekalb, Ill., 1974), p. 329. [2] LaVerne J. Rippley, The German Americans (Boston, 1976), p. 89; William G. Bruce, I was Born in America (Milwaukee, 1937), p. 35. [3] Rippley, German Americans, pp. 90, 84. [4] LaVerne J. Rippley, The Immigrant Experience in Wisconsin (Boston, c. 1985), pp. 4-5. [5] Luebke, p. 39. [6] Kathleen N. Conzen, Immigrant Milwaukee, 1836-1860 (Cambridge, 1976), p. 206; Rippley, Immigrant Experience, p. 129, 32; Bayrd Still, Milwaukee: The History of a City (Madison, 1948), p. 160; Rippley, German Americans, p. 64; Harry H. Anderson, ed., German-American Pioneers in Wisconsin and Michigan, The FrankKerler Letters, 1849-1864 (Milwaukee, 1971), p. 469; Ernest Bruncken, “How Germans Became Americans,” Wisconsin Historical Society Proceedings (1897): 109; Anderson, p. 185. It would be interesting to investigate the ties between the Democrats and the Reformed Churches in Milwaukee on this issue. Can the rhetoric of Calvin at Geneva be found?

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[7] Susan Jean Kuyper, The Americanization of German Immigrants: Language, Religion and Schools in Nineteenth Century Rural Wisconsin. (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 1980):95 [sic] ; Bruncken, p. 109; Anthony J. Kuzniewski, Faith and Fatherland: The Polish Church War in Wisconsin, 1896-1918 (Notre Dame, 1980), p. 9; Luebke, German Americans, p. 27; Gerd Korman, Industrialization, Immigrants, and Americanizers: The View From Milwaukee 1866-1921 (Madison, 1967), pp. 48-9; Rippley, German Americans, pp. 109, 112; Still, p. 126; Bruncken, pp. 109, 110. [8] Conzen, p. 101; Bruncken, p. 110; Carl Wittke, The German Language Press in America (Lexington, KY, 1957), p. 98; Carl H. Knoche, “The German Immigrant Press in Milwaukee” (Ph.D. Dissertation, Ohio State University, 1969):59 [sic] ; Ties between the 48ers and the Socialists could be further investigated. [9] Horst Uberhorst, “Turners and Social Democrats in Milwaukee: Five Decades of Cooperation 1910-1960.” Lecture to the discussion group “Politics and Science” at the research institute of the Friedrich Ebert Endowment of Bonn, March 26, 1980. Translated by Joseph Hahn, 8; Rippley, German Americans, p. 118, 123; Whether Turners took up political concerns in rest periods of exercise or whether politics became more important as the members aged and their waistlines expanded is worth looking into. [10] Robert Bellah, Address, Milwaukee, transcribed by Thomas Altmann, March 25, 1987; Conzen, pp. 149, 176, 225-226; Howard A. Botts, “Commercial Structure and Ethnic Residential Patterns in the Shaping of Milwaukee, 1880-1900,” (Ph. D. Dissertation, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 1985):229, 233 [sic] ; Still, p. 257, 265; Luebke, p. 43; Bruce p. 38; Anderson, p. 100; Herbert P. Brumder, The Life Story of George and Henriette Brumder (Milwaukee, 1960). pp. 10, 19, 36, 38, 33, 89-90. According to the Dictionary of Wisconsin Biography, Brumder controlled the local German press by 1906. (Madison, 1960). p. 55. [11] Rippley, Immigrant Experience, pp. 19, 44, 45, 48; Bruncken, pp. 109, 110, 111, 121-2; Wittke, pp. 7, 199; Rippley, German Americans, p. 120; Paul Kleppner, The Cross of Culture: A Social Analysis of Midwestern Politics, 1850-1900 (New York, 1970), pp. 253, 257; Kuyper, pp. 128-9, 203; George Meyer, The German American Dedicated to the Celebration of German-American Day, Held in Milwaukee Oct. 6, 1890.… (Milwaukee, 1890) Preface, np; Roger E. Wyman, “Wisconsin Ethnic Groups and the Election of 1890,” Wisconsin Magazine of History 51 (Summer, 1968): 287; Brumder, p. 53; Knoche, p. 149. [12] Knoche, pp. 134, 156, 255, 266; Rippley, German Americans, 161, 162, 164; Luebke, 45; Rippley, Immigrant Experience, 65. [13] Korman, pp. 16, 42-3, 96; Still, pp. 129, 263. [14] Still, pp. 455-6; Herbert Marguiles, The Decline of the Progressive Movement in Wisconsin 1890-1912 (Madison, 1968), p. 207; Wittke, p. 236; John P. Pamegan, “The Preparedness Movement in Wisconsin,” (MA thesis, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 1961): 106-7; Luebke, pp. 207, 89, 48, 100; Robert Wild, 1916 speech, Wild mss, State Historical Society of Wisconsin (UWM/ARC); Riplpey, Immigrant Experience, p. 99. [15] Herry [sic] A. Huber, “War Hysteria,” unpublished paper, edited by Joseph Schafer (Evansville, WI, The Antes Press) UWM/ARC, p. 118; Marguiles, pp. 210, 5; Woodrow Wilson to William E. Dodd, Cambridge, October 7, 1909, Agricultural History 20 (xxxxxxx): 252; U.S. Congress, Senate, Committee on the


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Judiciary, Hearings on the National German Alliance, 65 Cong., 2 Sess., 1918, 286; Luebke, pp. 208ff., 249, 250, 270-71, 282; Karen Falk, “Public Opinion in Wisconsin During World War I,” Wisconsin Magazine of History 15 (June, 1942): 403; Still, pp. 460, 462; Marguiles, p. 207; “Ernest Bruncken,” Dictionary of Wisconsin Biography, p. 55; Rippley, German Americans, p. 223; Rippley, Immigrant Experience, p. 109; Brumder, p. 66. [16] Kuzniewski, pp. 117, 118; Rippley, Immigrant Experience, p. 117; Luebke, pp. 186, 107, 315, 207, 102, 103, 233; Allan Graebner, Uncertain Saints: The Laity in the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod 1900-1970 (Westport, CT, 1975), p. 224n. [17] Kathleen N. Conzen, “Patterns of German American History,” in Germans in America: Retrospect and Prospect…(Philadelphia, C. 1983): 15. nd

Michael Kruszka (Portrait file)

Milwaukee’s Poles, 1866-1918: The Rise and Fall of a Model Community by

Anthony J. Kuznlewski Milwaukee History, Spring-Summer 1978

O

ne of the bits of folk wisdom which America’s Polish immigrants brought from the Old Country was the maxim: lepszy zelazny pokoj niz zlota wojna. [An iron peace is better than a golden war.] It is one of the most interesting features of the first generation of Polish life in Milwaukee that the proverb was never tested. Instead, the newcomers moved from a golden peace to an iron war which nobody wanted and nobody, it seemed, could stop. In the heyday of their hyphenated life—the half century between the Civil War and the First World War—Milwaukee’s Poles built a community of harmony, unified interest and shared leadership which was the pride of Polish America. Then dispute entered and transformed the settlement so completely that its chief characteristics became verbal (and even physical) violence, bitter antagonism, and chronic alienation. By 1916, not even the shared concern for Polish relief and the restoration of Poland could bring the factions together. Thirty years of careful building had been spoiled by twenty years of division. The tragedy of the situation was not that the division had taken place—disharmony of one sort or another was characteristic of most Polish immigrant communities. Nor was it that the disputes helped to foster Polish-American national consciousness and separatism, for that, as Victor Greene has shown,[1] was also widespread. In Milwaukee, the special feature was the transforming effect of the disputes on the people: brothers became enemies, and rancor replaced optimism as the dominant mood. Years later, people still refused to speak to the disagreements. Filiopietists, they believed that the prewar episodes jeopardized the good names and pious memories to which the found-

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ers of the community were entitled. After experiencing cooperation as an attainable goal, the Milwaukee Poles could never quite forgive one another for letting go [of ] the golden peace. In their anger at themselves, they could not see that confrontation also has its opportunities. At first, the prospects were good for building a prosperous Polish community in Milwaukee. Poles began arriving in the 1840’s but more rapid growth took place during the 1870’s and 1880’s. By 1890, local estimates placed the number of Polish Milwaukeeans at 30,000. In 1902, the number had risen to 58,000; and by 1920, the best estimates listed 90,000 Polish-Americans in the city of Milwaukee with perhaps another 10,000 in the suburbs. These hundred thousand first- and second-generation immigrants were unusual in two respects. First, they arrived relatively early in the movement of Poles to the United States. The majority probably came to Milwaukee before 1900. This early arrival enabled Milwaukee’s Polish settlers to take precedence over other Polish immigrants in establishing the forms of community life and gaining an economic footing. And secondly, Milwaukee’s Poles were remarkably homogeneous in terms of partition of origin. According to the federal census of 1900, 88.3 percent of Milwaukee’s Poles traced roots to the German Empire; the state census of 1905 yielded a figure of 80.2 percent. Several years later, investigators for the Dillingham Committee found that 80.7 percent of the Polish households surveyed had originated in the German Partition. By comparison, Chicago’s group was more balanced: 39 percent were from Russia; 36 percent from Germany; and 25 percent from Austria.[2] As in other places, the formation of Catholic parishes marked the progress of the Polish districts. In 1866, thirty families living on Walker’s Point formed the first congregation, St. Stanislaus. Five years later, North Side Poles founded St. Hedwig’s, the first of three parishes in that area. By 1920, there were ten Polish Roman Catholic parishes in the city, and one each in West Allis, Cudahy, and South Milwaukee. In addition, the county contained three Polish National Catholic churches and a congregation of Polish Baptists. Because these congregations were so important in providing a sense of continuity and affording recognition to individuals, many people identified closely with their parishes. A newcomer most often thought of himself as living in St. Casimir’s or St. Stan’s, rather than in Milwaukee, or even on


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the South Side. As elsewhere, the Poles made great sacrifices to raise splendid structures which provided suitable settings for worshipping the God of their forebears and for observing the milestones of life. In its quadrennial report to the Vatican in 1923, the Chancery Office of the Milwaukee Archdiocese included four Polish churches among the seven singled out as exceptional in construction and furnishing. Occasionally, such extravagance led to unfortunate results. Contributors to St. Josaphat’s Basilica, some of who mortgaged their homes to raise money for the structure, received only partial repayment as their parish hovered near bankruptcy in 1910. But the episode did not deter other Poles from the task of church building, nor did it substantially alter the high value they placed upon religion.[3] Economic and political success marked the early years of Polish life in the city. Although they did not rank among Milwaukee’s great industrialists, Poles did operate a large number of neighborhood groceries, bakeries, drugstores, butcher shops, saloons, and the like. Most of the immigrants worked in the city’s heavy industries; few were professionals. A survey published in 1895 found only two each of lawyers, doctors, and architects among the Poles. After 1878, Poles were regularly elected to city and county offices from the Polish wards, particularly the Fourteenth. The first Polish assemblyman was sent to Madison in 1887, and in 1892 the first Polish state senator in the nation was elected from Milwaukee. In 1890, Roman Czerwinski was elected city comptroller, a position which became generally identified with the Poles in subsequent years. Although the successful Polish politicians were mostly Democrats at first, Socialist Leo Krzycki was elected to the city council several times and Republican John C. Kleczka was elected congressman by the voters of the Fourth Congressional District in 1918. Thus, in economic and political life, Milwaukee’s Poles were well established before the turn of the century.[4] One form of community effort unique to the Poles of Milwaukee was the formation, in 1874, of the Kosciuszko Guard, a military organization which soon became Company K of the Wisconsin National Guard. The Guard was a source of interest and local pride, particularly when it was mobilized during the Spanish-American War. Its armory, built in 1886, was the standard gathering place for every

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sort of public meeting and national celebration. And the captains of the Guard enjoyed considerable prestige.[5] Finally, the press also marked Milwaukee’s Poles as distinctive. Although there were efforts to establish Polish newspapers in the city as early as 1880, the real beginning of the city’s Polish press may be marked from the arrival of Michael Kruszka in 1883. Kruszka, then in his early twenties, had been forced to leave the German Empire for his political activities. After spending three years in New Jersey, he was attracted by the opportunities in Milwaukee. In 1885, he bought a printing press for $28 and began to issue an unsuccessful weekly. Abandoning that project after three months, he formed a partnership to issue a pro-labor weekly, Krytyka [The Critique] . The paper became a source of controversy after the Bay View riots of May, 1886—a Knights of Labor demonstration in which five of the eight victims were Poles. Some blamed the paper’s editorials for the demonstration, but it prospered until financial mismanagement led to its demise early in 1888. Undaunted, Kruszka borrowed $125 and began to publish Kuryer Polski [The Polish Courier] , the first successful Polish daily in the United States. The Kuryer followed a more moderate course than Krytyka, particularly in cooperating with the community’s religious leaders, and it boosted Kruszka to a preeminent level among prewar Polish-American journalists. In time, he was able to move his offices from Mitchell Street to the Montgomery Building downtown, then also the home of the Milwaukee Journal. The central location gave the Kuryer standing with the city’s other large English- and Germanlanguage dailies.[6] Kruszka’s fortunes were aided enormously by the Bennett Law controversy in 1890. Cooperating actively with the Polish clergy of the city and state, he repeatedly attacked “the bismarckian school system.” In October he was nominated to the State Assembly by the Democrats, winning by a large margin in November. In Madison, Kruszka identified community interest with personal gain by helping to enact legislation requiring the municipal notices of the city of Milwaukee to be printed in Polish. The Kuryer earned a profit of about 20 percent on the work during the first year of the law’s effect. But the legislation also boosted the pride of many for whom the Kulturkampf and Bismarck’s laws against the Polish language and culture were still fresh


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memories. In 1892, when Kruszka was elected to the Wisconsin Senate as the first Polish-American state senator, he received congratulatory telegrams from Poles all over the country—even Republicans! He was re-elected in 1894 but defeated two years later when a redistricting plan eliminated many of the Polish areas from his district.[7] Kruszka’s clerical counterpart in community leadership was Hyacinth Gulski, pastor of St. Hyacinth Parish. Gulski had been a Franciscan priest in German Poland until his monastery was closed during the Kulturkampf. After spending several years in hiding, he emigrated to Wisconsin in 1875. Widely known for his oratorical abilities and his mild disposition, he became the unofficial spokesman to the Polish Catholics for Archbishops Heiss, Katzer, and Messmer. His name was often mentioned as an ideal candidate to be the first Polish-American bishop, and in 1891 he served as first president of a short-lived national organization of Polish priests. At every public meeting involving Poles, Gulski appeared on the platform to give a blessing, and sometimes the main address. He worked well with Michael Kruszka, and together they helped guide the community through a period of unparalleled success during the early 1890’s.”[8] Marks of optimism were everywhere in those days. In 1891, when Cardinal Gibbons came to Milwaukee to assist in the installation of Archbishop Katzer, he was given a tour of the South Side. Impressed with the community’s vigor, the prelate commented: I have seen many colonies in America, even many Polish settlements, but I have never seen anything like this. Recognition is granted to your industry, harmony, unity, and adherence to the faith of your fathers…[9]

Another visitor observing the same features, attributed the success of Milwaukee’s Poles to their widely-based leadership. The point was clearly demonstrated in the exhibit on Polish life in Milwaukee which was prepared for the international exposition in Lwow in 1894. Twelve photographs, enlarged to four by five feet, were sent to show the six Polish churches, portraits of the Polish priests, of the various church societies, and of the Kosciuszko Guard. Also included were a history of the Polish Dramatic Circle, the first yearbook of the Kuryer Polski,

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and copies of the Kuryer for the first three months of 1894.[10] By implication, the carefully selected items indicated the elements in the community’s success. Careful balancing of interests, mutual respect between clerical and lay leaders, and enthusiasm about the future all found their echoes in the exhibit. Loyalty to America, to Poland, and to Catholicism were the hallmarks of their lives, and these priorities were understood on all sides in essentially the same terms. By 1895, self-conscious pride in local accomplishments was beginning to result in an attitude of happy independence from Polish settlements located outside the state. Late in the year, four thousand Polish Milwaukeeans withdrew from the Polish Roman Catholic Union to form the Polish Association of America. Disturbed at what they regarded as belittling treatment from their countrymen in Chicago, Milwaukee’s Poles had become increasingly less influential in the PRCU during the early 1890’s. Finally, they simply withdrew to form a similar organization which was to be directed from Milwaukee. Hyacinth Gulski and Kruszka’s Kuryer encouraged the representatives from sixteen local chapters which met at the organizational convention in January 1896.[11] It was the bold action of a community which now felt confident enough to stand on its own. But immediately afterwards, something went wrong. Perhaps the success of the early 1890’s engendered a reckless attitude which ignored the fact that harmony cannot be taken for granted in community situations. Perhaps the security and acceptance resulting from several decades of life in America weakened the Poles’ sense of interdependence. Perhaps it was just a case of Robert Frost’s observation that “nothing gold can stay.” Whatever the reasons, Milwaukee’s Poles entered a new phase of their community life during the first half of 1896. In January, the Kuryer announced the formation of the Polish Educational Society, a group dedicated to the “betterment of school and other educational facilities for children of Polish descent.” The group included a number of prominent secular leaders, including Michael Kruszka and School Commissioner Edwin Slupecki. By April its first goal had clearly become to persuade the School Board to introduce Polish instructions into the curriculum of Milwaukee’s public schools “subject to the conditions and restrictions as obtain with regard to the German language.”[12] The proposal split the community in half.


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The first reaction came from pastors and curates of the city’s largest Polish parishes. They prepared counter-memorials signed by thousands of parishioners to argue that the parochial schools were already meeting the need for adequate Polish instructions. As the dispute warmed up, the rhetoric indicated the sharpness of the disagreement. Kruszka pressed the PES proposals in his paper. The priests, having no journalistic outlet of their own, took to the pulpit in a series of sermons on May 31. One denounced the Kuryer as a “horrible, atheistic, and lying paper,” while another pastor characterized the members of the PES as dogs, fools, rogues, and devils. When asked for an explanation by a delegation from the PES, Msgr. Augustine Zeininger at the archdiocesan Chancery Office, denied that the archbishop had requested the sermons to be preached.[13] Basically, then, the matter was internal. The debate was drawn on two levels. The surface issue was the extent to which the community should recognize the public schools as an acceptable option for Polish children. For Catholics obedient to the decrees of the Third Baltimore Council, the answer would ordinarily have been negative. But the PES and Michael Kruszka were beginning to argue that the Polish children who attended public schools were still Polish, even if their nominally Catholic parents were flouting the conciliar decrees by sending them there. Such children, they argued, were entitled to Polish instructions. The pastors, fearful perhaps that the addition of Polish to the public school curriculum would enhance the attractiveness of those schools as alternatives to the parochial system, argued that their schools were already meeting community needs. Beneath the surface, however, the issue was leadership. Nobody quarreled about the necessity of preparing the children adequately for life; but increasingly the leaders were disagreeing about the sort of life which was the goal. Those who envisioned a re-created Polish village with the parish as the central institution and the pastor as leader, answered one way. Those who favored more rapid integration and a broader definition of Polish-Americanism proposed alternate solutions. In the meantime, the School Board had to arbitrate between the sides. In June, the Textbook Committee voted an indefinite postponement of the matter. But in July, the full Board, responding to a recommen-

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dation from Slupecki, agreed to consider the appointment of a Polish teacher as soon as at least 250 Polish children were enrolled in any one public grammar school. PES members proclaimed the decision a great victory, but it was years before the number of children reached the minimum number. Church-related schools remained the preference of Polish parents, and for a long time it remained the norm to attend those schools only until the time of first communion.[14] The School Board’s compromise did not produce peace; rancor remained and spread to other issues. One of the clearest signs that the division was permanent was the establishment of a succession of Polish newspapers to oppose the Kuryer. In 1896, Wilhelm Grutza, pastor of St. Josaphat’s Parish, began to issue the weekly Katolik so that religious material would be available. Although the paper expired with Grutza’s death in 1901, it broke ground for a more serious effort, Dziennik Milwaucki [The Milwaukee Daily News] , which appeared between 1899 and 1905. The paper was associated with a number of formerly close friends of Michael Kruszka. Dziennik Milwaucki presented a more strictly church-oriented editorial policy and was Democratic in its allegiances after Kruszka shifted his Kuryer to a Republican stance because of his dissatisfaction with Mayor David Rose and his enthusiasm for Republican national policies. The papers engaged in a harsh rivalry which often centered on personalities. Their dispute was exacerbated by the fact that the Dziennik, for a time, obtained the contract for municipal printing.[15] By the time of Dziennik Milwaucki’s demise, several new issues solidified the divisions of 1896. Like the school issue, the new disagreements had to do with the centrality of the Church in the lives of the Poles. Crucial in the debate was Wenceslaus Kruszka, a half-brother of Michael who had come to Milwaukee in 1893 and was ordained a priest in 1895. From his pastorate in Ripon, the younger Kruszka launched a career as a historian and crusader for Polish participation in American life. Just after the turn of the century, he began to publish serially in the Kuryer the draft of what eventually became a thirteen-volume history of the Poles in the United States. The work won a good deal of recognition for Kruszka; and the data he had collected interested him in the effort to obtain bishops for the Polish-speaking Catholics in America. After writing several articles on the topic, he was elected


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a delegate of the second Polish American Congress to petition the pope for bishops. The Congress also secured, the help of Archbishop Katzer, who journeyed to Rome in 1902 with Father Gulski in the hopes of obtaining a Polish auxiliary bishop (presumably Gulski) for Milwaukee. When Katzer returned empty-handed, Kruszka himself went to Rome, where he obtained a promise from the newly elected Pius X that the matter would be settled as the Poles wished.[16] But the Church did not act quickly enough for Kruszka. In 1905 he began writing a series of articles for the Kuryer to attack the lack of enthusiasm for the Polish project among American church authorities, especially Archbishop Sebastian Messmer, who had succeeded Katzer in 1903. Drawing upon his experiences in Bismarck’s Germany, Kruszka couched his attacks in terms of the Kulturkampf, appealing to a whole set of potentially disruptive responses, given the origins of Milwaukee’s Poles. When Messmer’s warnings went unheeded, he silenced Kruszka in 1907. But he showed his sympathy to the Poles by agreeing to petition Rome for a Polish auxiliary in 1908. The following year, he assigned Kruszka to a Milwaukee pastorate at St. Adalbert’s, where he remained until his death in 1937.[17] The increasingly harsh attacks on ecclesiastical authority in the Kuryer led Messmer and a group of Polish priests to form a new paper shortly after the demise of the Dziennik. Nowiny Polski [The Polish News] , as the new paper was called, appeared as a weekly in December 1906, and became a daily in April, 1908. Edited by Boleslaus Goral, a professor at St. Francis Seminary, the new paper engaged with the Kuryer in journalistic battles which grew increasingly polemical and personalityoriented as the months stretched into years. In the emotional battle which was developing, the Kuryer’s editors had the edge in experience and circulation, but they alienated themselves increasingly from the people and leaders who were sympathetic to the bishops.[18] In the years between 1910 and 1912, matters reached a climax. Several factors contributed to the situation. The first was the issue of the St. Josaphat debt, which had risen by 1910 to more than $600,000 on property worth $350,000. The Conventual Franciscans agreed with Messmer to take over the parish and $400,000 of the debt; the rest was to be paid by an assessment on each parish of the archdiocese for three years. The assessment embarrassed many Poles; and some anger

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was added when the Franciscans asked the parishioners who held the debt on the parish to accept repayment of 75 percent as the only possible way to avert a total loss. This unhappy development gave the Kuryerites additional grounds for imputing financial mismanagement to the archbishop and his loyal Polish priests.[19] A second issue was the continued frustration of the desire for a Polish bishop. Although Katzer and Messmer had both requested Polish auxiliaries, the first such appointment went to Chicago’s Paul Rhode in 1908. In 1911, Messmer’s office announced the appointment of the Czech-born Joseph M. Koudelka of Cleveland to be auxiliary bishop in Milwaukee. Although Koudelka spoke Polish fluently, there was no joy among the city’s Poles at the announcement. Twenty-four of the Polish priests, including Gulski and Goral, signed a petition to Messmer rejecting the appointment as inadequate “to pacify the present pernicious agitation.” Instead, they asked for a Pole. Wenceslaus Kruszka went still further, implying to an audience in Kenosha late in 1911 that, because the pope’s promise had been blocked, all nonPolish bishops were unacceptable in his parish.[20] Also in 1911, Michael Kruszka helped form a new organization, the American Federation of Polish Catholic Laymen, to challenge the pastors for control in the parishes. The Federation had a number of goals which included securing greater lay involvement in the financial administration of church property and efforts to improve the allegedly faulty conditions of the Polish parochial schools. Through the Kuryer, Kruszka circulated questionnaires about the quality of parish life. He also counseled non-cooperation with unsympathetic pastors by means of a “Don’t Pay” campaign.[21] By 1912, the situation had become what Michael Kruszka described as “The Polish Church War.” And Gulski’s death on Christmas Eve of 1911 intensified the antagonism by removing the one figure whose stature had enabled him to stand above the fray and exercise a moderating influence. In the effort to reassert authority, Messmer and his associated bishops in Green Bay, La Crosse, Superior, and Marquette issued a pastoral letter to place the Kuryer on the Index and to forbid Catholics to belong to the Federation. The letter, read in every Polish church in Wisconsin and Upper Michigan on February 11, 1912, was a dramatic move, but its impact was somewhat limited by the fact that


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many loyal Catholics had already stopped subscribing to the Kuryer. In addition, Wenceslaus Kruszka was forced to issue a public retraction of his Kenosha statement. But the bishops also granted some concessions. Koudelka was soon transferred to the vacant Diocese of Superior, and the mild-mannered Edward Kozlowski was installed as the first Polish auxiliary bishop in Milwaukee in January 1914. In his short, eighteen-month tenure as Messmer’s assistant, Kozlowski held special responsibility for the Polish Catholics and helped to ease the tension considerably.[22] For some, however, Messmer’s concessions were too few and too late. Kruszka’s Kuryer remained critical of the clerical leadership. And, in March 1914, the capable Father Francis Bonczak succeeded in establishing in Milwaukee the first units of the Polish National Catholic Church. Although previous efforts to form independent congregations in Milwaukee had failed, Bonczak’s work provided the nucleus of three parishes in Milwaukee County. The Kuryer’s lawsuit against the bishops for loss of business occupied the community for several years, and Messmer himself was summoned to Judge Leonard Halsey’s courtroom; but his verdict, which was upheld by the Wisconsin Supreme Court in 1916, exonerated the bishops.[23] The outbreak of the European war helped turn attention to new efforts, but in the long run the community remained divided. Fundraising bazaars for the European Poles were held on separate days, with the Kuryerites sending their receipts to one international organization, and the loyalist Catholics to another. When Jan Paderewski played a benefit concert in Milwaukee early in 1916, he had to receive separate delegations from the local community; the factions vied afterwards in their claims about who had been favored with the warmer greeting. Even Messmer’s statement on behalf of Polish relief was belittled by his opponents.[24] There was only one discernible advantage in the situation: the funds collected in this spirit of competition were probably higher than they would have been if the effort had been united. The announcement of the Armistice and the proclamation of Polish independence in November 1918 delighted all of Milwaukee’s Poles. For Michael Kruszka, the sense of satisfaction must have been

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especially strong. Now he could expect to turn his energy to the role which Polish-Americans could play in the reconstruction of Poland and concentrate less, presumably, on the church war at home. Thus, there was a certain poignancy to the report, carried by a black-bordered Kuryer on December 2, 1918, that Michael Kruszka was dead. Mayor Hoan ordered flags in Milwaukee to be flown at half-staff until the funeral, and even the Nowiny stated charitably that a judgment of his life was in the hands of the Almighty. To his heirs, Kruszka left an estate of $18,000—a small amount, considering the extent of his contribution to the first generation of Polish life in Milwaukee.[25] By the time of Mike Kruszka’s death, the golden peace had become an iron war. Vital in the building of the peace, and crucial in its destruction, Kruszka stood at the center of Milwaukee’s Polonia from 1885 to 1918. With him, until 1911, stood Hyacinth Gulski, ever the symbol of the community’s better self. Together, these founding fathers of Polish Milwaukee guided and guarded the religious, political, and economic well-being of their people. Spectacularly successful in their common efforts before 1896, their ways parted thereafter. As more people entered the fray, polite disagreements gave way to tawdry disputes, demeaning confrontations, and finally the church war. And because of the early success, the leaders on both sides could never quite regard the chronic disputes as normative or even acceptable. Those who have experienced a golden peace find anything else hard to accept; and so they continued to seek the unity which had become impossible, instead of exploring means of achieving balance in the tension. As a result, they missed many of the creative possibilities which were present. The iron peace which might have been, was lost.

Notes

[1] Victor Greene, For God and Country: The Rise of Polish and Lithuanian Ethnic Consciousness in America, 1860-1910 (Madison, 1975). [2] Robert G. Carroon, “Foundations of Milwaukee’s Polish Community,” Historical Messenger of the Milwaukee County Historical Society, vol. 26, no. 3 (Sept., 1970), pp. 89, 91, 94-95; Kuryer Polski, July 10, 1890, June 11, 1902; Anthony J. Kuzniewski, Jr. “Faith and Fatherland: An Intellectual History of the Polish Immigrant Community in Wisconsin, 1838-1918” (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1973) [hereafter cited as dissertation copy] , pp. 92, 95-96, 117; U.S., Department of the Interior, Census Office, Twelfth Census of the United States, 1900: Population, I. clxx, clxxii, clxxiv-clxxv; Wisconsin, Department of State, Census Enumeration, 1905, pt. 1, Enumeration of the Inhabitants, pp. 266-267;


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U.S. Congress, Senate, Reports of the Immigration Commission, vol. 26, Immigrants in Cities (S. Doc. 633, 61st Cong., 2d sess., 1911), pp. 266, 692. [3] Dissertation copy, pp. 115, 317-320; “Relatio Dioecesana pro Archidioecesi Milwaukiensi, 1919-1923 incl. “Milwaukee Archdiocesan Archives, f. 127. [4] Kuryer Polski, January 1, 1895, June 27, 1908. [5] Dissertation copy, pp. 120-121. [6] Stanislaw Osada, Prasa i Publicystyka Polska w Ameryce (Pittsburgh, 1930), pp, 21-40. See also Edmund G. Olszyk’s study, The Polish Press in America (Milwaukee, 1940). Waclaw (Wenceslaus) Kruszka, Historya Polska w Ameryce (13 vols.; Milwaukee, 1905- 1908), vol. 5, pp. 20-32, 34-51; Kuryer Polski, June 23, 1898; dissertation copy, pp. 147-149. [7] Dissertation copy, pp. 149-157, 193. [8] Dissertation copy, pp. 162-167, 172. [9] Kuryer Polski, September 18, 1891. [10] Kuryer Polski, May 3, 1894. [11] Dissertation copy, pp. 173-176. [12] The Poems of Robert Frost, (New York, 1946), p. 235; Kuryer Polski, January 6, 13, May 6, 1896. [13] “Kazanie Ks. Szukalskiego, 31, Maja. [1896] ” Milwaukee Archdiocesan Archives, Kruszka Correspondence; Kuryer Polski, June 1, 3, 1896. [14] Milwaukee, Board of School Directors, Proceedings, May, 1896-May, 1897 (Milwaukee, 1897), pp. 37, 89-90; Kuryer Polski, July 3, 1896, June 26, Aug. 8, 1900. See also Jozef Miaso, Dzieje oswiaty polonijnej w Stanach Zjednoczonych (Warsaw, 1970), chs. 4-6. [15] Kruszka, Historya, vol. 5, p. 77; dissertation copy, pp. 197-200, 256-261. [16] For these years, see W. Kruszka’s autobiography, Siedm Siedmioleci czyli Pol Wieku Zycia: Pamitnik i Pryzczynek do Historji Polskew Ameryce (2 vols., Poznan, 1924), vol 1. [17] The articles are reprinted in Kruszka, Siedm Siedmioleci, vol. 2, pp. 206-577. Kruszka describes the archbishop’s reactions on pp. 370-371, 577, 623, and 672. [18] Dissertation copy, pp. 274-278. [19] Dissertation copy, pp. 316-321. [20] Kuryer Polski June 18, July 29, 1908, December 11, 1911; Kruszka, Siedm Siedmioleci, vol. 2, pp. 611-612, 628-630, 729-730; Aleksander Syski. “Wodz Duchowy Wychodztwa Polskiego W Ameryce, J. E. Ks. Biskup Rhode, na Tle Wspomien Osobistych,” in Przeglad Katolicki, vol. 9, pp. 32, 34, 36; dissertation copy, pp. 337-338, Milwaukee Archdiocesan Archives, unnumbered file on Polish affairs. [21] Dissertation copy, pp. 331-337, 342. [22] The statement was dated March 4, 1912 Milwaukee Archdiocesan Archives, Messmer Correspondence; dissertation copy, pp. 397-408. [23] Dissertation copy, pp. 409-410, 436-444, 459. [24] Dissertation copy. pp. 417-423. [25] Nowiny Polskie, Dec. 2, 1918; Rolnik [Stevens Point] Dec. 20, 1918.

Working-class housing in Milwaukee. (Photo from original article.)

The Homebuilders: The Residential Landscape of Milwaukee’s Polonia, 1870-1920 by

Judith T. Kenny* Milwaukee History, Summer 1999

W

riting for a national audience in 1891, Milwaukeean Charles King claimed a distinction for his city:

The German and Polish population outnumber (sic) the native probably three to one, and in nine cases out of ten this might be a cause for alarm, but—not in Milwaukee. Polack, Hungarian, Prussian, Bavarian, Wurtemburger, it make’s no difference. There is not of its size in all America a city that contains a population more self-respecting, more law-abiding, more cheerful and content than Milwaukee.[1]

During a period when immigration and cities were synonymous with problems of national concern, Milwaukee ranked high among those urban centers with large immigrant populations. By 1910, Milwaukee would share first place with New York in terms of the percentage of population that was foreign-born.[2] How then did this Milwaukeean explain the peaceful character of his city? He boasted: “. . . you have only to ride or drive through these great sections to see the reason—there isn’t a real tenement house in the town.” Furthermore, Milwaukee could claim the highest percent of owner-occupancy in the country. Home ownership is a virtue, he concluded, because “no matter how humble it may be, it is the home that makes the citizen who has the public interests at heart.”[3] This Milwaukeean’s glowing depiction of the quality of life in the city’s immigrant neighborhoods provides an interesting contrast to

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the accounts of contemporary urban reformers and social scientists who wrote of cities in terms of foreign values, social deterioration and slum conditions.[4] Drawing primarily on a few major cities’ tenements and slums, the reformers’ image of the city supported the public’s frightened fascination with the densities of America’s major cities. While national literature focused popular attention on the tenement building as the contemporary equivalent of the Tower of Babel, standard reform texts equated urban housing with overcrowding, disease and despair. King’s explanation of his city’s superior circumstances followed accepted assumptions regarding the significance of home ownership for all Americans—and particularly for immigrants. As urban reformer Edith Abbott phrased the commonly held belief, the immigrant took a step towards becoming an American when the first house payment was made.[5] Given this premise, Milwaukee’s Polish population might be expected to have drawn favorable attention since it had the highest rate of home ownership among the city’s immigrant communities by the early twentieth century.[6] The Poles came as members of a late nineteenth and early twentieth century wave of immigrants from Eastern and Southern Europe that provided an important source of unskilled labor in the development of the industrial, lake belt cities of the Midwest. Despite their relatively low position in the contemporary labor hierarchy, the Pole’s values aligned closely with the American dream of home ownership and they achieved this goal in remarkably high numbers. Their low wages, however, required that the Polish homebuilders adapt the standard city lot and standard housing unit—the worker’s cottage—to their needs. The alley-house and the distinctive house form known as the “Polish flat,” as shown in Figure 1, became standard choices for acquiring initial home ownership. Creative methods of finance, such as taking in boarders, further advanced their goals and influenced the character of their neighborhoods. Interpretation of building and real estate practices in the Polish immigrant neighborhood contributes to an examination of both their needs and values while suggesting the impact of their practices on contemporary housing density and their legacy in regard to Milwaukee’s current urban form.[7] Before focusing on the Polish homebuilders’


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role in creation of turn-of-the-century Milwaukee, however, attention must be given to the role played by the ethnic community in the city’s industrialization. In this discussion we return to contemporary commentaries to suggest the mixed review of the city’s various immigrant neighborhoods and particularly the concerns associated with the quality of life in the Polish neighborhoods. Throughout we will raise questions regarding what was ethnically distinctive about the landscape of the Polish neighborhoods by considering both the values brought with the immigrants and the conditions that they dealt with in Milwaukee. Immigrants, Industrialization and Homebuilding The Polish immigration into Milwaukee paralleled the city’s postCivil War transformation from a commercial trade center to an urban economy based on processing and heavy industries. The city became a metropolis increasing five-fold between 1870 and 1910, growing from 71,000 to 374,000.[8] Over a similar period, Milwaukee’s Polish community grew almost ten-fold, reaching approximately 70,000 in 1910. In that year, Milwaukee contained more persons of foreign birth than at any other time in the city’s history, the Poles constituted twenty percent of the foreign-born population and accounted for a much higher percentage of the recent arrivals. Jerome Watrous underscores the significance of the relatively new arrivals in his Memoirs of Milwaukee County by devoting an entire chapter to the Poles. Throughout he explains the major features of their community, reassuring the larger population of their positive character and commitment to America. Watrous sums up a significant aspect of the population by noting: “The bulk of the Polish immigration is composed of humbler classes of workmen who have to earn their daily bread by the sweat of their brow.”[10] The timing of their arrivals as well as their peasant, agricultural background had significant implications for establishing themselves in industrial Milwaukee. Compared to the Scandinavians and Germans, the Poles could not rely on a significant group of predecessors to help them adjust to their new life. Gerd Korman’s work on the city’s industrial and immigration history argues effectively the conclusion that early employment practices shaped occupational patterns along ethnic lines, especially for the Poles.[11] Although Ger-

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man-speaking Poles receive some initial benefit from the managerial positions of Germans and German-Americans in Milwaukee’s labor hierarchy, advancement above the rank of foreman was difficult to achieve. Poles became “typed” as common laborers and unskilled and semi-skilled industrial workers. It was understood that Poles, defined as a racial group, were best fitted for “dirty tasks” and jobs that required strength.[12] Despite limitations on economic mobility, the Poles’ ability to achieve the common goals of home ownership and the establishment of community in the form of the parish was acknowledged by their contemporaries as a remarkable achievement. Although a north side kepa (camp) was established in the Brady Street area almost simultaneously, the major Polish neighborhood was on the southern periphery of the city during this period (see Figure 2). This residential geography can be understood by considering both employment and real estate opportunities. Due in part to Milwaukee’s river-divided topography, industrial growth resulted in urban expansion and decentralization of the city’s manufacturing jobs. Prominent new development occurred along the Milwaukee River, in the Menomonee River Valley and at the mouth of the Kinnickinnic River. Judged as a less desirable section of the city, the area south of the Menomonee River Valley had lower land values and proved to be attractive real estate for the prospective working class homeowner. There the worker could benefit from lower land costs while being close enough to walk north to the industrial jobs in the Menomonee River Valley and Walkers Point or east to industrial jobs in Bay View. In our traditional understanding of the industrial city, immigrant neighborhoods do not tend to be associated with urban fringe locations. Oliver Zunz’s study of the Poles in Detriot, however, describes a similar situation.[13] There the Poles moved directly to sections of the urban fringe that attracted neither the public services nor the attention of early real estate promoters that were associated with the middle-class residential development. This appears to be the case in many Great Lakes and Midwest industrial cities where the residential demands of urban growth gave Slavic immigrants access to newer housing on the outskirts of urban development as well as in the transitional zone of the inner city.


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William George Bruce, publisher and one of Milwaukee’s leading citizens, recalled a boyhood memory when he recounted the sight of Polish immigrants arriving at the railroad station in the 1870s: These were anxious immigrants men and women and abashed children nestled among the boxes, bundles and bedding of an old-world household, awaiting transfer from the railway station to a more permanent abode. Usually a rickety wagon, drawn by one horse, took them to the southern limits of the city, which, up to this time, had only been sparsely populated. They were travelstained, poor, and uninformed, but they were hopeful, courageous, and ambitious as they looked toward the wooded lands south of Greenfield Avenue,—which they later transformed into a vast area of cottages with high basements, each accommodating two families, with gardens in the rear and some shrubbery and a rest bench in the front.[14]

As shown in Figure 2, the growth of their South Side community can be traced by noting the construction dates of their Roman Catholic churches and the establishment of new parishes. Parochial school registration figures provide a striking means of imaging the densities found in the heart of the Polish community. Enrollment figures for the elementary schools in 1905 are as follows: St. Stanislaus—950; St. Hyacinth—1,300; St. Vincent DePaul—903; St. Josaphat—1,700; and St. Cyril & Methodius—1,250.[15] In secular terms, Wards 11, 12 and 14 became the core of the Polish South Side (see Figure 2). Ward 14 contained over fifty-three percent of all Poles in Milwaukee in 1905 with seventy-five percent of the heads of households born in Poland and an additional ten percent that were born to Polish parents.[16] Returning to contemporary accounts of the city’s immigrant neighborhoods, interesting insight is provided in a 1906 account titled “The Housing Problems of Milwaukee.” This government report addressed the majority of the city foreign population by describing the typical homes of German and Polish laboring men.[17] Commenting on the neighborhood of the large and dominant German population the author stated:

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Milwaukee Stories ... these people are thrifty and industrious, and seek as soon as possible to own the house and land which they occupy. The houses are so situated on the lots to allow for a small yard at the front and a garden at the rear . . .The houses are substantial structures furnished with all modern conveniences.[18]

The study’s statement regarding the houses of the German working class was illustrated by Figure 3, which portrays a quiet street of cottages devoid of people with the exception of a lone (blurred) pedestrian. Contrasted with the description of German skilled laborers’ homes the Polish neighborhood was described in more modest terms: With few exceptions these people live in small frame houses sometimes two stories high, but more often one story with or without basement . . . There is usually either one or two families in these houses; but frequently four or five live in one house and take boarders…The rear of the lot is occupied either by another cottage similar to the one in front, or by a small barn, a chicken coop and a garden.[19]

The caption associated with the photograph (Figure 4) noted the abundance of children playing in the street when the photographer drew their attention. The descriptions of the two neighborhoods and their illustrations are rather casual in presentation, thus naturalizing stereotypes associated with the groups. Compared to the conditions in German neighborhoods, Polish homes were more densely crowded. The density of the housing was further intensified by large household sizes. Finally, given the degree of ethnic segregation, ethnicity was perceived as the primary variable related to standards of environmental quality. The 1906 report concludes with the observation that: “The German desire of ownership and the Polish custom of inhabiting small frame houses is probably what has given Milwaukee the reputation of being a city of homes.”[20] The important American value of home ownership was attributed to the Germans while not being associated with the Poles in this description. Arguably, cultural assimilation was not judged to be as significant an issue for the dominant German group due to their longer history


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in Milwaukee, as well as their relative numbers.[21] However, was ethnicity necessarily the significant distinction to be made between these neighborhoods? In the majority of cases, the contemporary observer would have answered affirmatively. The response becomes more complicated and qualified when efforts are made to disentangle economic and ethnic considerations. Building Practices in Polish Neighborhoods For the most part, land division and architectural practices were obviously influenced by economic considerations. Milwaukee’s residential landscape, whether in the Polish South Side or other working class districts, reflected the dominance of the speculators land division system and America’s modern construction technologies including balloon-frame construction, machine cut timber and mass-produced nails.[22] During the late 1870s and the 1880s, the South Side began to assume its present physical form.[23] In Ward 14, most land was subdivided during the real estate boom of the 1880s. Since the State of Wisconsin had virtually written the grid plan into law in 1857, the subdivision plat was standard throughout most of Milwaukee. Individual variation was generally limited to the width of the lot. Based on practices employed in other large American cities, the standard lot in working class neighborhoods was long with a narrow street frontage. As shown in Figure 5, the South Side lots typically measured thirty feet by one hundred-twenty feet. Wider lot frontage almost always indicated more expensive property and suggested a more substantial structure on the site. The diversity of lots sizes shown in Figure 5 was exceptional but offers an interesting contrast to the generalizations offered thus far and in discussing the Kuczynski subdivision, introduces a well-known and appreciated individual in the late nineteenth century Polish community. As indicated in an 1894 Sanborn Insurance Map (Figure 6) the vast majority of Ward 14 had been subdivided by that date with the exception of park land purchased by the city for Koscuisko Park. As boundaries were drawn for the park development in the early 1890s land along the perimeter became available for development. Thomas Kuczynski, a grocer turned real estate developer, took advantage of the

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sale and began building small cottages along Grant Place (currently South 10th Place), an alleyway promoted to status as a frontage road. Reproduced six wooden cottages with brick basements during 1898 and 1899 at a cost of $450 to $500 each (see Figure 7).[24] Kuczynski, who had arrived in Milwaukee from Posen, Poland in 1871 at the age of seventeen, spent eleven active years in real estate from 1891 to 1902 before returning to his grocery trade.[25] During that period, he sold a large amount of South Side property, including empty lots and buildings. In his role as speculator, Kuczynski constructed housing appropriate to the neighborhood’s market. The small lots and cottages provided a low cost housing opportunity in a market where demand far out-weighed the supply. Poles of more substantial means, including Kuczynski himself, sought newly constructed, larger duplexes and single-family structures east of Kuczynski subdivision cottages and facing the park. Historian Watrous described his contemporary as an individual who had “long taken a keen and sympathetic interest in the work of uplifting and assisting the people of his own race.”[26] Although Kuczynski received attention for civic activities, he earned this praise in large part due to his efforts to offer affordable housing to his countrymen.[27] Kuczynski’s cottages are similar to those that the successful Chicago real estate developer S. E. Gross sold in the working class neighborhood known as the Back-of-the-Yards, which was also a neighborhood of unskilled, Polish immigrant workers and their families.[28] Gross’s advertisement, shown in Figure 8, illustrates the features of these simple workers’ cottages. In plan, the single-family dwellings were generally small three-to four-room structures. Similar real estate advertising, written in German, suggests that they appealed to immigrants of various nationalities who sought a relatively, inexpensive housing solution. Although there were few developers as successful as Gross in his heyday, his clients’ favorable response to his product is suggestive of the appreciation given to real estate developers who addressed the needs of the working-class family. Late in the nineteenth century, the Chicago Labor Party offered to endorse his candidacy for mayor as a friend of the working man.[29]


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The cottage, one of Milwaukee’s earliest speculatively built houses, provided a housing solution that was quickly built and relatively inexpensive. Over time, however, the two-family flat began to replace the cottage as the most common form of working-class housing in Milwaukee. This duplex, one flat upstairs and one downstairs, was described as the “rule” throughout Milwaukee in a 1911 housing study. An advantage of this house form was the rental income of the second unit, which was useful for paying off the mortgage. Recently arrived immigrants created a market for rental housing that often strained the supply. The desire for home ownership combined with the need for rental apartments in a growing industrial city to create a densely populated landscape. Underscoring this point with an example, Kuczynski’s cottages have been used as duplexes for the vast majority of their history. The structure commonly referred to as a Milwaukee duplex was of sturdy construction and designed from the initial stage of construction to provide housing for two families. Yet, the benefits of a duplex could be obtained through an incremental construction strategy as well. As described in a 1911 State of Wisconsin study: In the South Side district, where a large class of the poorer section of the Poles live, the custom is to erect first a four-roomed frame dwelling. When this has been paid for, it is raised on posts to allow a semi-basement dwelling to be constructed underneath . . . This basement or the upstairs is then let by the owner, who, as soon as his funds permit, substitutes brick walls for the timber of the basement . . .[31]

The raised cottage form became known in the local vernacular as the Polish Flat. Instances of one family eventually occupying the new structure indicate that this house building strategy accommodated various demands without relinquishing the dream of a single-family home. Property once owned by the Glazewski family on South 10th Avenue (currently South 15th Street) provides an example of this process and suggests the financial strategy that made such efforts desirable. The Sanborn Fire Insurance maps show a cottage at 678 10th Avenue in 1894 (now 1726 South 15th Street). By approximately 1905, a second

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residential structure was added to the lot.[32] Owner Ignatz Malig took out a building permit in 1908 to underpin one of the cottages with a brick foundation. The $400 cost of the addition suggests the kind of remodeling associated with the transformation of a single-story cottage to a “Polish flat.” Four years later, a second building permit was acquired by Mrs. Helen Glazewski. Although she and her husband had bought the property, his death required that she consider new means of obtaining income. In 1912, she spent $700 converting the rear cottage to a two-family flat. By expanding her rental property, she maintained ownership for another eight years when she sold 678 and 678 1/2 10th Avenue to her brother-in-law. Careful management of the property allowed Vincent Glazewski, his wife Lucia and their children to move from one of the units in the rear flat after several years to sole occupancy of the house on the front of the lot. Vincent Glazewski’s daughters recalled the long tenancy of at least one of the rear house residents, who rented the unit from their parents because they came from the same village in Poland. After more than twenty years as their tenant, he claimed status as a second father in the family. The Polish community on Milwaukee’s South Side shared many elements of the American dream, including the goal of home ownership and commitments to civic participation and neighborhood. Contemporaries would have expected that such traits of citizenship would be linked to the domestic rewards of home ownership. What was not generally anticipated was the Poles’ rate of success. Even in a city where it became an undisputed belief that no other city of its size in the world contained as many workingmen who owned their own homes, the Poles’ desire for property ranked them highest among Milwaukee’s ethnic groups in terms of residential ownership. A foreign researcher noted this commitment, saying: Amongst the Germans and Poles this habit is more marked than is the case with any other nationality, the determination to possess their homes leading them to practice great self-denial, and to accept considerable risks in the confidence that the rapid and continuous development of the city will greatly increase site values.[34]

This same researcher made the rather un-American conclusion that given their low wages and the efforts of the entire family, perhaps the


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Poles made sacrifices for home ownership that should be discouraged. Other analysts cited the density of the Polish residential landscape as unhealthy. One social worker wrote a damning description, saying: “on each side of every street or avenue is an almost continuous line of basements, miles and miles of gloomy, poorly lighted, damp, unventilated, overcrowded rooms . . .”[35] The prejudice of the period was reflected in this same social worker’s assessment of the “ethnic” quality of the landscape when she concluded: “the basements are occupied from choice and long fixed habit, as well as, in some cases, to reduce the cost of living . . . ”[36] The reduction of the cost of living and the purchase of a home motivated many families to sacrifice for a period of time.[37] With improved financial circumstances, however, many chose to eliminate extra boarders and densities decreased. Polish or Working-Class Practices? Zoning regulations introduced in the city’s first comprehensive plan in 1920 brought to an end many of the building practices that facilitated home ownership and typified South Side constructions, including the Polish flat and the alley-house. By the time such housing restrictions were enforced, however, Milwaukee’s Polish community was fairly well established and the effects of building and planning regulations were not the impediment to meeting goals of home ownership that they would have been at an earlier time. Yet, we can ask—how Polish was the Polish flat? Certainly, the desire to provide for several generations of family was not uniquely Polish. It is not difficult to cite examples of Italian, German and Slavic families of various kinds residing in Polish flats or even incrementally constructing a “poor man’s flat” to accommodate an extended family or to become landlords. As the advertisement from Chicago shown in Figure 8 indicates, the raised cottage was not distinctive to Poles or to Milwaukee. Although the raised cottage house form is not unique to Milwaukee, the attachment of “Polish” to the Milwaukee name for the raised cottage construction is unique. It apparently reflected a regional judgment on this house type and the residents of the new Polish immigrant neighborhoods by Milwaukee’s dominant society. Certainly the land hunger of the Poles and their incremental approach

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to financing and building their homes made this relatively inexpensive house form particularly prevalent in the neighborhoods of Polish unskilled workers. Many of the sacrifices, including that of density were considered necessary to achieve stability and a certain status in their community. This particular house form, however, become the means of analyzing the social and economic processes at work in the construction of a workers’ landscape. In the case of the Polish flat much is revealed about the class and ethnically segmented landscape of the industrial city. At the same time, it provides a means of addressing an immigrant group’s values and beliefs as well as those of dominant society. In Jerome Watrous’ Memoirs of Milwaukee County and later in W. George Bruce’s personal memoirs, these two advocates for Milwaukee’s “Polish Colony” argue on behalf of the immigrant community, noting the contribution made by its members and their commitment to building a place in America—without misplacing their love of Poland. Note: Research for this article was conducted with the support from an Urban Research Initiative Grant from the University of WisconsinMilwaukee. I wish to acknowledge the contribution of Tom Hubka, the project co-director, in the design of the project’s research program—and thank him for the comments on drafts of this article. Thanks are also given to the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Cartographic Center for map preparation and Russell Camp for help with figure preparation. I gratefully acknowledge the permission of the American Geographic Society Collection and the Milwaukee Public Archives of the Golda Meir Library to reproduce illustrations for this paper. *Editor’s Note: Visual images referred to as “Figures” in this essay were included in the original publication of this essay but were not reproduced for this collection.

Notes

[1] Charles King, “The Cream City,” Cosmopolitan Vol. X No 5, March 1891, p. 556. Son of Rufus King and a noted author in his own right, Captain Charles King served in the United States Army and later as Brigadier-General of the Wisconsin Army Reserve. [2] See United Kingdom, Board of Trade, Cost of Living in American Towns (London, 1911), pp. 258 and John Gurda, A Separate Settlement: A Study of One Section of


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Milwaukee’s Old South Side (Milwaukee United Community Services of Milwaukee, 1974), p. 5. [3] King, p. 556. [4] Through an analysis of a vast literature, David Ward examines the central position that the immigrant held in urban reform discussions of poverty and urban problems during this period in Poverty, Ethnicity and the American City, 18401925 Changing Conceptions of the Slum and the Ghetto (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Studies concerned with the assimilation process, such as W. Thomas and F. Znaniecki’s The Polish Peasant in Europe and America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1927), gave particular attention to the social deterioration experienced by immigrant groups. The serious attention given to The Polish Peasant offended Polish-Americans who thought the study biased in its representation of the community. [5] Edith Abbott, Tenements of Chicago, 1908-1935. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1936), p. 381. [6] Roger Simon, “The City-Building Process Housing and Services in New Milwaukee Neighborhoods, 1880-1910,” Transaction of the American Philosophical Society, Vol. 68, part 5, 1978. For a general discussion of the value attached to home ownership by Slavs in general, and Poles in particular, see also John Bodnar, “Immigration and Modernization: The Case of the Slavic Peasant in Industrial America,” Journal of Social History 10 (1976). [7] I wish to acknowledge previous studies that contributed to this analysis, including: Craig Reisser, “Immigrants and House Form in Northeast Milwaukee,” Unpublished M.A. Thesis, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee (1977); Roger Simon (1978). Olivier Zunz, The Changing Face of Inequality: Urbanization, Industrial Development, and Immigrants in Detroit, 1880-1920. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982); Dominic Pacyga, Polish Immigrants and Industrial Chicago: Workers on the South Side, 1880-1922, Columbus, (Ohio: Ohio State University Press, 1991). [8] Bayrd Still, Milwaukee The History of a City. (Madison: State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1948), pp. 570-571. [9] Jerome Watrous, Memoirs of Milwaukee County, Vol. 1 (Madison: Western Historical Association, 1909), pp 610-633. [10] Watrous, p. 623. [11] Gerd Korman, Industrialization, Immigrants and Americanizers: The View from Milwaukee, 1866-1921. (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1967). [12] United Kingdom, Board of Trade, p. 266. [13] Olivier Zunz, The Changing Face of Inequality: Urbanization, Industrial Development, and Immigrants in Detroit, 1880-1920. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982). [14] William George Bruce, “Contacts within the Polish-American Elements,” I Was Born in America. (Milwaukee: The Bruce Publishing Company. 1937) p. 322. [15] Watrous, pp. 614-615. [16] Simon, p. 258. [17] “The Housing Problems in Milwaukee.” Wisconsin Bureau of Labor and Industrial Statistics, 12th Biennial Report, 1905 (Madison 1906) p. 315. [18] WBLIS, p. 313. [19] Ibid.

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[20] WBLIS, p. 315. [21] See Gurda, p. 5. [22] For an extended discussion of the standardization of building practices, particularly related to the worker’s cottage, see Thomas C. Hubka and Judith Kenny, “The Worker’s Cottage in Milwaukee’s Polish Community: Housing and the Process of Americanization, 1870-1920.” In People. Power, Places/Perspectives in Vernacular Architecture VIII, S. McMurrary & A. Adams eds., pp. 33-52, (Knoxville University of Tennessee Press, 2000). [23] Simon, p. 258. [24] Detail provided by building permit information obtained at the City of Milwaukee Department of City Development. [25] Watrous, Memoirs of Milwaukee County, Vol. 2, pp. 472-473. [26] Ibid. [27] This insight was provided by former Milwaukee realtor, Henry J Wojcik (Wojcik Realty Company) in an interview conducted during June 1994. [28] See Gwendolyn Wright, Building the Dream: A Social History of Housing in America. (New York: Pantheon Books, 1981.)[sic] [29] Chicago Historical Society. [30] United Kingdom, Board of Trade, p. 266. [31] Ibid. [32] Information regarding the Glazewski property was obtained in part through an interview with Rita (Glazewski) Michalek and Regina (Glazewski) Bohusch (daughters of Vincent and Lucia Glazewski) of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, May 1994. Supplementary information was gained through Sanborn Insurance Maps and building permits. [33] Interview with Rita Glazewski Michalek and Regina Glazewski Bohusch, May 1994. [34] United Kingdom Board of Trade, p. 266. [35] Wisconsin Public Documents, “Basement Tenements in Milwaukee,” Fifteenth Biennial Report Vol. 5, 1912. p. 174. [36] Ibid. [37] For additional examples of strategies for attaining home ownership or expanding a house incrementally to provide for the needs of a family, see Judith Kenny, “Polish Routes to Americanization: House Form and Landscape on Milwaukee’s Polish South Side,” in Wisconsin Land and Life, R. Ostergren & T. Vale, eds., (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1997), pp. 263-81.

Pullman Car staff and patrons (John Jones file)

Black Working Class, 1915-1925 by

Robert E. Weems, Jr. Milwaukee History Winter 1983

T

he Years 1915 to 1925 witnessed the dramatic growth of the black working class in Milwaukee. Accompanying this significant development was the birth and establishment of both the Milwaukee Urban League and Milwaukee NAACP, as well as the start of black oriented business enterprises, the most notable being Columbia Building and Loan Association. Before 1915 Milwaukee’s black population was employed primarily in domestic and personal service positions. The city’s sizable European immigrant population had a monopoly on the industrial occupations, and blacks had to content themselves with being servants and cooks.[1] World War I offered black Milwaukeeans a unique opportunity to enter the industrial labor market. As a result of that conflict, European immigration declined considerably, and a number of foreigners residing in Milwaukee returned to their respective homelands to fight. The resulting shortage in the white labor force increased the value of the black workers in the eyes of Milwaukee industrialists. This pragmatic interest in black labor prompted the hiring of local blacks in Milwaukee industries and more importantly, it led to the recruitment of southern blacks to resettle and work in the city.[2] Active recruitment of outside black labor during the war years more than doubled the city’s black population from 980 residents to 2,229. The “typical” black migrant to Milwaukee and the state during this period was an unmarried black man. Data for Wisconsin reveal the overwhelming predominance of single black men who were recruited to Milwaukee and the state during the years 1915 to 1918. In 1910 there were 1,476 black males and 1,424 black females in the state

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(103.7 black males for every 100 black females). By 1920 there were 2,965 black males and 2,236 black females (132.6 black males for every 100 black females).[3] Despite the earnest recruitment of black laborers in Milwaukee during the war, the overwhelming majority of business did not use blacks at all. Out of the city’s more than 2,000 manufacturing establishments, no more than eleven hired black workers. Six companies—Plankinton Packing, Albert Trostel & Sons Company, Pfister & Vogel Leather Company, Allis-Chalmers Manufacturing Company, the Falk Company, and the Milwaukee Coke and Gas Company—hired a little more than 75 percent of all black workers in the city’s industries. Other companies hiring blacks included Illinois Steel, A.J. Lindemann & Hoverson Company, National Malleable Iron, Solvay Steel, and B. Hoffmann Manufacturing.[4] The vacancies blacks filled at these companies were at the bottom of the occupational ladder. However, the range of occupations in the unskilled area was wide. A 1920 study of black occupations in Milwaukee during World War I revealed the following: They were packing house employees, muckers, tannery laborers, street construction workers, dock hands and foundry laborers. Their wages were for foundry laborers, 32 1/2 cents to 15 cents an hour; for muckers, $28 a week; dock hands, 60 cents an hour; and for packing house laborers, 43 cents an hour (male) and 30 1/2 cents an hour (female). There were also porters in stores and janitors whose weekly wages averaged between $15 and $18 per week.[5]

Even though jobs were relatively plentiful for Milwaukee blacks during World War I, housing was not. The black community at the outbreak of the war was confined to a single residential district bounded by Walnut Street on the north, State Street on the south, Third Street on the east, and Eighth Street on the west. With the addition of nearly 1,300 newcomers during the war, Milwaukee’s black community grew in numbers, but not much in geographical space. Racial discrimination kept the migrants, as well as the older black citizens, confined to one section of the city. As more and more black migrants arrived, the black residential area began to deteriorate from the overcrowded conditions. To make matters worse, landlords in the


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black community simultaneously raised rents and cut back on services to maximize their profits. They were able to do this because of their monopoly on housing available to blacks.[6] Besides the serious problem of inadequate housing, Milwaukee’s black workers also faced hostility from their white counterparts. Frank J. Weber, organizer for the Milwaukee Federated Trades Council, an affiliate of the American Federation of Labor (AFL), publicly voiced his disapproval of the importation of black workers into Milwaukee. He felt the recruitment of outside blacks by local industries represented a scheme on the part of management to keep wages low for all working men.[7] Moreover, the growing black working class was viewed by many white Milwaukeeans with racist condescension. An article appearing in the Milwaukee Free Press for June 17, 1918 graphically illustrated this viewpoint. The Free Press described the “average” black Milwaukeean as follows: He just rolls down the street! His eyes roll, his hips roll, his head rolls! He shuffles along happily whistling or smiling or gazing with interest on all sides of him. He doesn’t know where he is going particularly, and what’s more, he doesn’t care. When wealth has favored him, he dons the most variegated costume the city affords—a mouse-colored derby, high stiff collar, broad-striped shirt, checked suit, brilliant socks and tan slices—and of course, a cane. If he hasn’t any money he will be wearing the most raggedy, fantastic nondescript costume.”[8]

In the midst of this difficult situation, two black men, the Reverend Jesse S. Woods, pastor of St. Mark A.M.E Church and founder of the Milwaukee-based Booker T. Washington Industrial and Social Center, and George H. DeReef, a local attorney and dedicated “race man,” stood out for their efforts to improve black life in the city.[9] The Washington Center, located at 318 Cherry Street (now 324 W. Cherry), served as both an employment bureau and social settlement agency. The industrial component of the Washington Center acted as an intermediary between Milwaukee industries seeking workers and blacks here and elsewhere seeking work. The social component of

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the center provided living quarters for nearly one hundred men and conducted classes in industrial skills.[10] DeReef was a 1905 graduate of the Howard University Law School. After a distinguished tenure within the District of Columbia judiciary system, he moved to Milwaukee in 1913. During the war years, DeReef worked closely with black interests in Milwaukee and skillfully led the successful battle to win blacks the right to serve on Milwaukee juries.[11] Despite their admirable accomplishments, by early 1918 both Woods and DeReef realized that their individual efforts were failing to solve the black community’s problems. After much soul-searching, they decided to take a bold step. In February, Woods and DeReef presented a brief to the Milwaukee Central Council of Social Agencies stating the need for a National Urban League chapter in Milwaukee. The Central Council, a relatively new organization established in 1909, heartily endorsed the proposal. For the next several months, preparations were made to organize a Milwaukee Urban League. The efforts of Woods, DeReef, and the Central Council came to fruition on November 4, 1919 when the Milwaukee Urban League was incorporated by the State of Wisconsin. The purpose of the organization, as stated in its charter, was “to promote, encourage, assist and engage in any and all kinds of work for improving the industrial, economic and social conditions among Negroes in Milwaukee and vicinity.”[12] While the Milwaukee Urban League was being established, other groups concerned with the plight of Milwaukee’s black community were also being conceived. The most notable of these was the Milwaukee chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). The NAACP was organized here January 23, 1919 at St. Mark A.M.E. Church (located at 497 Fourth Street). The Reverend Robert W. Bagnall of Detroit, Michigan, national organizer for the Great Lake’s Region, was responsible for the beginning of the local chapter.[13] Despite the formation of the Milwaukee Urban League and the Milwaukee NAACP, the immediate post-war years ushered in a period of crisis for black Milwaukee workers. Locally, as well as in other cities throughout the country, scores of returning white servicemen re-entered the industrial labor force, and corresponding numbers


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of black workers were laid off. Furthermore, white labor leaders in Milwaukee were heartened by this development, because it seemed to be their wish that blacks be completely driven from the industrial labor force. Nonetheless, in 1922 black workers were again offered a unique opportunity to enter the industrial labor force.[14] On July 1, 1922 a nationwide railroad strike began, and despite optimistic statements by President Warren G. Harding concerning the length of the strike, it was soon apparent that the grievances of the railroad workers were serious and that negotiations would be long and bitter. In Milwaukee workers for the Northwestern Road and the Milwaukee Road participated in the strike. In order to lessen the impact of the strike, these companies brought in black strikebreakers. The black community expressed displeasure with the decision to import black strikebreakers into Milwaukee. This was undoubtedly motivated by the fear that if striking white employees reacted violently to the strikebreakers, all blacks in Milwaukee would be exposed to possible danger. Mayor Daniel W. Hoan, also sensing the volatile nature of the situation, sent letters to both W.H. Finley, president of the Northwestern Road, and H.E. Byam, president of the Milwaukee Road. In these letters Hoan expressed the following concern: Ordinarily the last thing I would do is interfere in a matter of this kind, nor do I wish to be understood as even suggesting what class of labor to employ during ordinary times, but I do want to inform you that the importation of colored laborers in time of strikes as in St. Louis, Kansas City, New Orleans and a dozen other cities brought about bitter race hatred and led to disgraceful race riots which have blackened the names of those cities everywhere. The people of Milwaukee have taken great pride in the fact that not only has there been little or no disorder in labor difficulties but that we have been the most peaceful city in the entire world. We have been wholly free from any racial riots of any sort whatsoever, and I feel certain that when this matter is brought to your attention, your company would no [sic] intentionally bring about a condition of affairs which will injure the splendid reputation we have gained for peace and order.[15]

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Despite the alarm caused by the importation of black strikebreakers, Milwaukee remained peaceful. The beginning of another period of relative prosperity for Milwaukee’s black working class arrived in 1923. Increased manufacturing activity in Milwaukee and a concurrent shortage of European immigrant laborers due to a federal immigration restriction law passed in mid-1921, enticed blacks to Milwaukee at an even greater pace than during the war. By the end of the decade the black population had grown to 7,501.[16] The rapid growth of Milwaukee’s black community during the mid1920s stimulated the development of the Milwaukee Urban League as well as the expansion of black-oriented business ventures. The Urban League met the challenge of a growing black population by increasing its programs. Black businessmen of the mid-1920s, unlike their counterparts of an earlier era, chose not to ignore their people, but to cater to what they hoped would be a profitable consumer market. Before 1915, the majority of black businessmen in Milwaukee catered exclusively to white trade. The black community was so small that no ambitious black enterprise could sustain itself on black trade alone. Therefore, many black businessmen abandoned the black community completely.[17] A central figure in the black business movement was J. Anthony Josey, editor of Wisconsin’s chief black newspaper, the Wisconsin Weekly Blade, later known as the Wisconsin Enterprise-Blade. Blade editorials during the mid-1920s extolled the virtues of black-oriented business, as well as racial unity.[18] Perhaps the most significant black enterprise launched at this time was Columbia Building and Loan Association, today known as Columbia Savings and Loan. Columbia was the first black financial institution in Milwaukee. Ironically, the founders of Columbia, Wilbur and Ardie Halyard, were newcomers to Milwaukee. The Halyards had come from Beloit, Wisconsin in early 1923 and were immediately shocked by the deplorable housing available to blacks in Milwaukee. The Halyards were especially sensitive because, unlike the majority of black migrants to Milwaukee, they were middle class. Both we’re graduates of Atlanta University; Ardie was a teacher and Wilbur had done social work in Beloit, helping newly arrived blacks


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find housing. One of the primary reasons they moved from Beloit was Wilbur’s belief that he could be of more service to his race doing similar work in Milwaukee.[19] Before the formation of Columbia, central to the basic housing problem of black Milwaukee workers, aside from racial segregation, was a lack of capital to improve real estate. It was nearly impossible for black workers to get loans from city banks. Also, most landlords in the black community were obsessed with receiving maximum profit from minimum investment. After examining the situation, the Halyards decided that organizing a savings and loan would be the best plan to relieve these symptoms. Preparations to open a savings and loan office for black workers began in April, 1923. The Halyards underwent nineteen months of special technical training, supervised by the Department of Banking, in order to gain the qualifications and authority to operate a savings and loan.[20] Columbia Building and Loan Association was officially born on September 26, 1921. The organizational meeting was held in the chapel of Daniel Raynor’s Funeral Home, located at 414 Cherry Street (later 418 West Cherry Street). At this meeting, officers and directors were elected and the purpose of the corporation was outlined. During its first few months, Columbia operated from temporary quarters at the funeral home. However, on April 4, 1925, the Columbia Building and Loan Association moved into a permanent office at 486 Eighth Street (later 1516 North Eighth Street ).[21] With the establishment of Columbia Building and Loan, Milwaukee’s black community had reached a level of visibility and status that would have been unlikely ten years earlier. The primary cause of this development had been the migration of many black workers to Milwaukee during the economic boom periods of 1915 to 1918 and 1923 to 1925. Through the subsequent general prosperity of the later 1920s and the dreadful depression of the next decade, Milwaukee’s black community would continue to develop the internal business structure of blacks serving blacks which the Halyards had so ably heralded.

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Notes

[1] Thomas Buchanan, “Black Milwaukee, 1890-1915” (Master’s thesis, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, 1974), p. 16. [2] Nancy J. Weiss, The National Urban League, 1910-1940 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1974), p. 98; Robert W. Wells, “Negro Migration Came Late” Milwaukee Journal, Nov. 8, 1967. [3] Buchanan, “Black Milwaukee,” p. 3; Charles E. Hall, Negroes in the United States, 1920-1932 (Washington, DC: United States Bureau of the Census, 1935), p. 82. [4] Joseph William Trotter, Jr., “The Making of an Industrial Proletariat: Black Milwaukee, 1915-1945” (Ph.D. diss., University of Minnesota, 1980), pp. 123-124. [5] Emmett J. Scott, Negro Migration During the War (New York: Arno Press, 1969. Originally published in 1920), p. 114. [6] Buchanan, “Black Milwaukee,” pp. 7-8; Scott, Negro Migration, p. 118; Wells, “Late Migration.” [7] Trotter, “Proletariat Black Milwaukee,” p. 129. [8] As quoted in the Wisconsin Weekly Blade, June 27, 1918. [9] Wisconsin Weekly Blade, Nov. 1 and 22, Jan. 4, 1917 and Apr. 25, 1918. [10] Wisconsin Weekly Blade, Nov. 1 and 22, 1917. [11] Wisconsin Weekly Blade, Jan. 4 and Aug. 9, 1917, Apr. 25, 1918, and Feb. 27, 1919. [12] Trotter, “Proletariat Black Milwaukee,” p. 298. Register, United Community Services of Greater Milwaukee Papers, 1903-1965, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Area Research Center, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Milwaukee Urban League Charter, Nov. 4, 1919, Milwaukee Urban League Papers, Wisconsin State Historical Society, Madison, Wisconsin. [13] Wisconsin Weekly Blade, Jan. 30, 1919. [14] Phillip S. Foner, Organized Labor and the Black Worker (New York: International Publishers, 1976), p. 132; Trotter, “Proletariat Black Milwaukee,” p. 130. [15] Wisconsin Weekly Blade, Aug. 5, 1922. [16] Wells, “Late Migration;” Charles H. Wesley, Negro Labor in the United States, 1850-1925 (New York: Russell & Russell, 1967), pp. 290-291; Trotter, “Proletariat Black Milwaukee,” pp. 116-117. [17] Milwaukee Urban League, Board Minutes, Apr. 26, June 14, Oct. 5, 1923, Apr. 9, May 14, June 12, and Dec. 10, 1925. [18] Wisconsin Enterprise-Blade, Apr. 18 and Sept. 5, 1925. [19] Milwaukee Courier, Feb. 21, 1976; Milwaukee Sentinel, Dec. 11, 1962. [20] Negro Ethnic Files, Milwaukee County Historical Society, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. [21] Milwaukee Courier, Feb. 21, 1976; Wisconsin Enterprise-Blade, Jan. 10andApr. 4 [sic] , 1925.

Northcott Neighborhood House by

Fielding Eric Utz Milwaukee History Winter 1983

A

n increased awareness in the 1960s of problems facing blacks gave birth to a neighborhood center which was destined to become a vibrant force in Milwaukee’s black community. The evolution of Northcott Neighborhood House’s contribution to this struggle and the concomitant response of the community at large are significant to Milwaukee’s history. In order to fully understand the need for an organization like Northcott, we need to examine the black community in Milwaukee in 1960. The inner core was concentrated in an area bounded by Juneau Avenue on the south, Twentieth Street on the west, Holton Street on the east, and Keefe Avenue on the north, and it housed the vast majority of the city’s 62,000 black residents. By 1970 the black population approached 90,000 and the core’s boundaries had spread north of Capitol Drive and west to Sherman Boulevard. Much of the increase in the black population during the 1950s resulted from emigration to Milwaukee from the rural south. Due to a variety of reasons, blacks tended to concentrate in the area which afforded the lowest rents. However, 40 percent of this area consisted of deteriorated and dilapidated housing. Northcott House opened its doors at the southern edge of the core in the Hillside Housing Project, the city’s first public housing project which had opened in 1948. Northcott eventually also served the nearby Lapham Park and Highland housing projects.[1] Northcott Neighborhood House was incorporated in April, 1961 by the East Wisconsin Conference of the Woman’s Society of Christian Service of the United Methodist Church. Mrs. Wilma Hampel, a member of the society, worked as a census taker in 1960 and also

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served on the Mayor’s Committee for Urban Renewal. Through exposure to the poverty evident in this area of the city, Mrs. Hampel concluded that these residents needed an organization to provide for their needs. After consulting with Mayor Frank Zeidler, community leaders and the Methodist Board of Missions, the group decided that a settlement center could best fill the requirements of the community. A feasibility study by the Women’s Society showed that social services in the Hillside Housing Project were inadequate for the large number of families with children who lived there. The Housing Authority agreed to provide an office in Hillside rent free, and Northcott located at 1523 North Sixth Place.[2] According to Article III of the Northcott by-laws, the agency was created for “. . . religious, charitable, and education purposes. Such purposes are to lessen neighborhood tensions, combat community deterioration and juvenile delinquency, and perform other social work among and on behalf of persons in the Milwaukee, Wisconsin community.”[3] With this as a guide, Northcott began its work in the black community. The first order of business was to secure the services of an executive director. The director of the Milwaukee Christian Center recommended the Reverend Lucius Walker, who was in charge of the boys’ activities there. Walker received his B.A. from Shaw University, B.D. from Andover Newton, and a M.S.S.W. from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. His qualifications and the fact that he was black made him a logical choice to head the new agency.[4] When Walker agreed to accept the position, he did so with the stipulation that the agency would not have to provide formal services for at least one year. This would enable him to approach residents at the housing project and talk with them about their needs. It also would give the people an opportunity to accept the Northcott Neighborhood House and a sense of ownership of the operation. In a relatively short time, residents told Walker they wanted a tutoring program for adult illiterates and activities for their teenagers which were more constructive than those provided at the playground by the recreation department. The people responded so positively that actual programming began four months after Northcott opened. A day camp was started by the following summer and other projects were considered. These activities


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and others like them became the backbone of Northcott’s operation and allowed organization of the black community from a solid base of traditional group social work services.[5] Starting with an initial grant of $8,000 from the Board of Missions of the Methodist Church, Northcott’s budget grew to $35,000 in 1963 with most of the funds still coming from the church. Traditional program areas expanded and others were added. The Next to New Shop opened at 1734 North Seventh Street and sold donated clothing with the proceeds given to Northcott. The shop also provided emergency clothing to those who could not afford to buy the items. Another project was the Doll Library which lent dolls to the neighborhood children every Tuesday afternoon and went to great lengths to secure black dolls. Children who borrowed dolls three times were eligible to keep the last one. The day camp increased in size and could manage ninety children each week. In May, 1964 Northcott cooperated with Milwaukee Hospital, Milwaukee County General Hospital, and the Milwaukee Chapter of the American Cancer Society to conduct a comprehensive screening in the neighborhood houses’s [sic] service area. Other Northcott programs focused on social education and action, individual and family counseling, clubs for boys and girls and special adult classes. The various projects facilitated the agency’s objective of assisting neighborhood residents in the exercise of responsible citizenship. It did not aim to tell people what was good for them, but to listen and to help them develop a voice to speak to the larger community.[6] Whites also participated in Northcott’s programming and learned first hand about problems which confronted blacks. The Milwaukee Summer Service Project of the Methodist Student Movement sent students to assist in Northcott’s day camp and also provided a training ground for those who planned to enter a professional field that helped people. Another such outlet was the weekend work camps. Teens and college students donated a weekend to help a family paint and repair its living quarters. The work camp, educational in an informal manner, was also aimed at direct action. The project served as a vehicle that emphasized the young people’s feeling of helping others, supporting healthy socialization, and providing direct involvement at a personal level.[7]

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With its more traditional programs functioning smoothly, Northcott was now in the position to deal with more controversial issues. Its May, 1964 annual report outlined important new directions for the agency. Two new goals were 1) to assist in the struggle of the neighborhood for dignity and equal opportunity and 2) to work for changes in the institutions and the power structures of the community which would best realize its stated goals of equality and justice. To meet that challenge, Walker emphasized that Northcott would work not just for the people, but with them behind the scenes or wherever necessary. Together they would seek to develop the power needed to gain the dignity and self-respect required for self-determination.[8] In June, 1965 Walker was arrested with a group of other clergymen for forming a human chain around a school bus. They acted in conjunction with MUSIC, the Milwaukee United School Integration Committee, which protested intact busing of black children to less crowded schools. While at these schools, the classes were segregated from the rest of the student body. The bused children could not eat lunch or play with the other students. MUSIC protested the intact busing because the children lost valuable time when the bus arrived late at the host school and left early, suffered psychologically by such treatment, were objects of curiosity for children in the host schools, and were denied their constitutional rights to a free and equal education.[9] According to the ministers, they engaged in civil disobedience to awaken Milwaukee citizens to the shocking injustices perpetuated by school board policy. The clergymen believed that that policy inflicted psychological harm upon the children and also negated the brotherhood of man under the fatherhood of God.[10] In July, 1965 Northcott joined twenty-one northside churches, civic and civil rights organizations to form the Organization of Organizations—the Triple O (OOO) to combat alleged injustices to inner core residents by the Social Development Commission (SDC) in the antipoverty program. It had its beginnings at Northcott Neighborhood House when local anti-poverty staff refused to involve the poor in their planning. Northcott organized a Poverty Advisory Council to study the anti-poverty program and determine ways to get area residents involved. This council called a meeting of area residents at Christ Presbyterian Church, 1729 West Walnut. With the cooperation of the Department


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of Urban Affairs at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Triple O began to question the organization of Milwaukee’s anti-poverty program. Triple O had several objections to the poverty program: the lack of resident participation at the policy-making level as spelled out by the Economic Opportunity Act; the small number of poverty level people in jobs created through poverty programs; the illegal veto power of the SDC on plans approved by the Economic Opportunity Board; and the highhanded manner in which those two organizations refused to listen to residents of the black community.[11] As Triple O’s power base became more secure the organization demanded representation in other agencies which affected the poor in Milwaukee. Its members wanted to be placed on the boards of the United Community Services, the YMCA, YWCA, Urban League, Boy’s Club, and USO. Triple O was becoming a thorn in the side of the city’s political establishment. By September, 1965 Triple O had forced the Social Development Commission to include the poor in the anti-poverty program. That action probably put Milwaukee in the nation’s forefront by setting a precedent whereby the people served by anti-poverty program also actively participated in its decision-making body. The coalition of Triple O and the other agencies illustrated that the poverty program could not be effective without active concern and pressure from affected groups.[12] Later that year, Northcott became involved in the attempt by the Lapham Park Organization (LPO) to have a stoplight installed at the corner of Sixth and Brown Streets. Since the expressway feeding downtown ended a few blocks north of this intersection, school children who lived in the Lapham Park Housing Project had to cross this very busy street during rush hour. The students’ parents expressed their concerns to the Northcott staff, and the LPO was formed. Demonstrations focused attention on the problem, and petitions were circulated urging the city to install stoplights at this heavily-used crossing. The petitions were to be presented to the Milwaukee safety commission January 13. However, the need was so obvious that the city agreed and scheduled a ribbon-cutting ceremony January 12, 1966 with members of LPO. The organization was told the ceremony would take place at 11 a.m. and had planned a large turnout for that time. The city called the leader of LPO at 9 a.m. with a rescheduled time of 10 a.m.

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When LPO members arrived, they were denied participation in the ribbon cutting. It was alleged that Alderman Vel Phillips decided to take credit for the project even though she had not been involved in the struggle.[13] Northcott Neighborhood House began its work in early childhood education in 1963 after a committee of parents decided that such a program was necessary. It started with a limited staff of volunteer teachers meeting one day a week for two hours. During the 1964-65 school year, the program served twenty-five three- to five-year olds three days a week. Taking advantage of this foundation, Northcott was the first to apply to the Community Relations-Social Development Commission for a Head Start Program. Northcott was funded for a program in the summer of 1965 and again in 1966. That September, Northcott received approval to operate a year-round program which subsequently became an integral part of the agency’s goals to serve and educate the whole family. In November, 1970, threatened with a 10 percent cut in funds by the federal government, Northcott staff organized a group of Head Start students, parents, and teachers to protest in front of the Milwaukee federal building. Representatives from Northcott, E. P. Phillips, Guadalupe, and Zion Head Start participated. Once again, Northcott stood up for the young and the poor in the face of a challenge by the powers that be.[14] The Milwaukee County Department of Public Welfare contacted the Reverend Mr. Walker in 1966 to discuss the disproportionate number of minority group children available for foster and adoptive placement. Black children were kept in the hospital six to seven months after birth awaiting placement. In the previous year, the county placed only five black babies in adoptive homes. Faced with these statistics, Walker agreed to submit a proposal whereby Northcott would provide the staff to make the department’s initial screenings. The county welfare board agreed to the proposal and voted to appropriate $12,000 for the project. During the six-month life of the effort, Northcott referred sixty-eight people to the Department of Public Welfare; however, only one couple was able to adopt a child and four others were licensed as foster parents. Northcott blamed this lag on the attitude of the welfare department staff, a lack of understanding, and rampant racial prejudice.


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Northcott dropped out of the program because the department was unwilling to substantially change its procedures for placement.[15] In early 1967, Northcott helped establish the Opportunities Industrialization Center of Greater Milwaukee at two sites, 2947 North Third Street and 308 West North Avenue. Following the example of a similar venture in Philadelphia, the Milwaukee project was started to motivate, train, and find jobs for some of Milwaukee’s unemployed. Program participants received training in methods to seek and hold jobs, basic reading, writing and arithmetic, consumer education, grooming and hygiene and black history. Once the operation began to function with its own funds and director, Northcott withdrew to the background and concentrated on other endeavors.[16] Throughout its first ten years, Northcott looked toward the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee for assistance in program development. At the same time, UWM had the advantage of using Northcott as an urban classroom. One of the first examples of this teamwork was the Paint Box Art Center. Sponsored in joint cooperation with UWM, Northcott, and UW-Extension, the Paint Box provided art programs and painting for children in the Hillside housing project. In the summer, this effort was moved to Lake Park and became part of Northcott’s day camp. UWM graduate students in social work were assigned to Northcott to learn community organization techniques as part of their requirement for the degree.[17] Northcott solicited the support of academia to fund Triple O. Thirteen UWM social science professors, who specialized in community analysis, sent a letter to the director of the Office of Economic Opportunity. Because of their concern with community problems, they expressed strong support for the community development project submitted by Northcott and Triple O. Under the leadership of Jimmii G. Givings, Northcott cooperated with UWM’s Department of Urban Affairs to draw up a plan to revitalize Upper North Third Street. It also hired a consultant for the group work program from the university’s Exceptional Education Department.[18] In August, 1967, Walker announced his resignation in order to pursue his first love—community organization. He was named executive director of the Inter-Religious Foundation for Community Organization. His replacement, Jimmii G. Givings, had been an organizer for the

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Southern Christian Leadership Conference in Chicago and came to Northcott in April, 1966. While Givings did not have the academic qualifications Walker did, the board of directors of Northcott wanted to hire within and saw his potential. A change in personalities usually brings a change in direction, and this was no exception. While Walker’s first love was community organization, Givings emphasized education and economic development.[19] In the year and a half prior to Walker’s departure, the community organizing aspect at Northcott got more and more attention. The net result was to shortchange the more traditional programming. Upon Givings’s appointment as executive director, the group work and day camp programs again received emphasis. A program was implemented to stress the development of the individual from early childhood into and through adult life. A master plan coordinated programming from Head Start through to adult life, and children learned to take pride in themselves and to control their own destinies.[20] Along with this expanded emphasis on education, a new program started in early 1968. The University of the Streets, 333 West North Avenue, was initiated as an alternative to the standard high school curriculum. The school aimed to provide its students with a relevant educational experience in preparation for a high school equivalency test or for referral to other vocational training.[21] Other goals intended to give students academic, social, and political skills as counter conditions to the impediments of racism, unequal education, economic deprivation, and political powerlessness. Initially funded by the Department of Labor, the University of the Streets eventually became part of Northcott’s operating budget. After the election of Richard M. Nixon to the presidency in 1968, federal funds to the inner city did not flow as freely, but Northcott was determined to continue this program as an alternative to conventional education.[22] Late that same year, in an effort to expand its traditional programming and to secure better facilities, Northcott cooperated with the Inner-City Development Project and Triple O in a proposal to provide social services in the city’s public housing projects. ICDP wrote the proposal with Northcott and Triple O as subcontractors. City officials were upset that Triple O was a subcontractor because of its repeated attacks on them, Mayor Maier, city programs and proposals. Richard


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Perrin of the Housing Authority announced that a reputable and experienced social agency would be retained instead of the groups proposed by the ICDP. Tenant organizations, on the other hand, reaffirmed their choice of Northcott and Triple O. They refused to accept Perrin’s stance and prepared to fight for their stated choice. In the end, the Inner-City Development Project lost the battle, and the city ignored the demands of the people in the projects.[23] The most important work that Northcott did in economic development was to establish Basic Black, Inc. Basic Black was the nation’s first black women’s apparel design and manufacturing firm. Through an initial grant from the Episcopal Church and loans from the First Wisconsin National Bank, it attempted to break into the national clothing market with a line of designer clothing. Production problems doomed it to failure by 1971, but the experience gained made it easier to counsel others in their business ventures.[24] Some of the important projects in which Northcott Neighborhood House participated included the establishment of a Planned Parenthood Clinic in the Hillside Housing Project, the appointment of Donald Sykes as executive director of the Community Relations-Social Development Commission, the establishment of the Common View Group following the 1967 civil disorder, construction of an overpass for pedestrians at Sixth and Galena, assistance to various inner city groups in the writing of proposals to fund their activities, securing funds for the Latin American Union for Civil Rights, consultations with the Black Panther Party to assist them in setting up a breakfast program and counseling and placement of conscientious objectors to the Vietnam War. From its humble beginnings in 1961, Northcott Neighborhood House became a dynamic force in the Milwaukee community that decade. It is impossible to measure the agency’s impact, but it cannot be denied that Northcott contributed significantly to the well-being of Milwaukee’s inner city residents.

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Notes

[1] Charles T. O’Reilly, Williard E. Downing, and Steven I. Pflanczer, The People of the Inner Core-North (New York, 1965), pp. 5 and 43. [2] Wilma Hampel, a founder of Northcott Neighborhood House, telephone interview, Milwaukee, November 23, 1981. [3] Northcott Neighborhood House By-Laws, revised 1976, Article III. [4] Reverend Lucius Walker, Jr., 1967 resume, Lucius Walker collection, Milwaukee County Historical Society (hereinafter referred to as LW). [5] Reverend Lucius Walker, Jr., Executive Director, Inter-Religious Foundation for Community Organization, telephone interview with author, Milwaukee, November 25, 1981. [6] Northcott Neighborhood House Annual Report, 1963-1964. [7] The Milwaukee Star, Jan. 25, 1964 and The Milwaukee Courier, July 13, 1964. [8] Northcott Neighborhood House Annual Report, 1963-1964. [9] The Milwaukee Courier, May 29, 1965. [10] The Milwaukee Journal, June 4, 1965. [11] “The Situation in Milwaukee,” a position paper, LW; The Milwaukee Star, July 3, 1965. [12] The Milwaukee Star, Sept. 4, 1965. [13] Ibid., Dec. 25, 1965 and Jan. 15, 1966. [14] Northcott Neighborhood House, “Staff Program Report,” 1966, LW, and The Milwaukee Courier, Nov. 21, 1970. [15] The Milwaukee Journal, Jan. 4 and July 30, 1967. [16] Ibid., Feb. 12, 1967. [17] Ruth Milofsky, Assistant Professor of Art, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, personal interview with author, Milwaukee, November, 1981. [18] The Milwaukee Courier, May 21, 1966. [19] Reverend Quentin Meracle, former president of the Board of Directors of Northcott Neighborhood House, telephone interview with author, Milwaukee, Dec. 2, 1981. [20] Jimmii G. Givings, former Executive Director, Northcott Neighborhood House, telephone interview with author, Milwaukee, Nov. 9, 1981. [21] The Milwaukee Courier, Jan. 27, 1968. [22] Ibid., March 2, 1968. [23] The Milwaukee Journal, Dec. 1, 1968 and The Milwaukee Courier, Dec. 7, 1968. [24] The Milwaukee Courier, Jan. 18, 1969, and Jimmii G. Givings, interview.

5. Labor and Industry Introduction John McCarthy

F

or much of its history, Milwaukee was among the most industrialized cities in the United States. Tanneries that produced leather hugged the banks of the Milwaukee River, breweries such as Pabst, Schlitz, and Miller abutted the city’s railroads, and equipment manufacturers like Allen-Bradley, Falk, Bucyrus-Erie, and Harnischfeger employed thousands of workers. This industrial heritage remains alive in many people’s perceptions of the city. Milwaukee was typical of the industrial Midwest, brimming with German and Slavic immigrants and African American migrants who worked in factories that propelled America to global industrial dominance. However, Milwaukee’s industrial prominence did not prove to be permanent. In the second half of the twentieth century, cities of the Midwest reached an economic crossroads. Deindustrialization gave the region a new and unflattering nickname: “The Rust Belt.” Indeed, similar to Cleveland, Detroit, and Cincinnati, Milwaukee experienced a difficult transformation from an industrial to a service-oriented economy, losing tens of thousands of well-paying jobs in the 1970’s and 1980’s. If the urban Midwest once epitomized America’s industrial might, perhaps Milwaukee most clearly personified the region’s unique economic function. Throughout the twentieth century, Milwaukee consistently employed among the highest proportion of manufacturing workers in the nation. If worker solidarity and unionism became by-products of the urbanization and industrialization of America, then Milwaukee emerged distinctive as the quintessential city of the workingman. Strong and well-organized trade unions were a part of the social fabric of the city. Workers also formed the bulk of Milwaukee’s Socialist Party, which in the twentieth century was powerful enough to produce three mayors who governed the city for a total of thirty-eight years. The industrial heritage of Milwaukee has permeated the city’s collec-

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tive historical memory. The Historical Messenger and Milwaukee History contain numerous accounts of the lives of industrial barons like Frederick Pabst and Patrick Cudahy as well as ordinary workers. The following articles reflect Milwaukee as a city both typical and atypical of the history of labor and industry in American cities. They provide windows through which we can examine distinct eras in urban history in general and Milwaukee’s history in particular. Whites first moved to southeast Wisconsin in large numbers during the 1830’s, a decade that saw land speculation in the West reach unprecedented heights. Ambitious entrepreneurs who dreamed of creating vast cities invested in many town sites throughout the Midwest. In this national context, Milwaukee was born. Barbara Whalen’s “The Lawyer and the Fur Trader: Morgan Martin and Solomon Juneau” discusses the important role that profit-seeking individuals played in Milwaukee’s early development as a frontier town. Juneau, a fur trader, became one of the largest landowners in Milwaukee. Martin helped Juneau finance the subdivision of his lands as well as gain access to public funds that built roads to the new settlement. Both were crucial early steps in the process of “city building.” Those who were the most successful at these ventures often laid the foundation for towns to grow into cities. Due in large part to the efforts of these entrepreneurs, Milwaukee’s population passed 9,000 by 1846, the year it was incorporated as a city. Milwaukee initially grew through the ambitions of real estate speculators, but it emerged as a city for two main reasons. First, its commercial leaders were able to harness the rapidly developing agricultural hinterlands of southeastern Wisconsin. Secondly, the city’s location near the mouth of the Milwaukee River and Lake Michigan provided an ideal location for transacting business with Eastern cities. Roger Simon’s “Foundation for Industrialization, 1830-1880” chronicles Milwaukee’s growth, first as a key commercial port and later as a burgeoning center of manufacturing. Like other frontier cities, Milwaukee’s primary economic function in its early history was to furnish the farmers of its fertile hinterlands with goods as well as export their produce. When southern Wisconsin emerged as great center of wheat production in the nineteenth century, Milwaukee became one of the largest shippers of wheat in the United States.

5 • Labor & Industry

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We are also reminded that nature’s bounties alone did not determine Milwaukee’s rise to urban prominence. Through the efforts of individual civic leaders like Alexander Mitchell, railroad networks were created. Rail connections—especially the Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul Railroad (The Milwaukee Road)—paved the way for manufacturing to emerge as a key component in the local economy by 1880. Simon notes that by 1879, manufacturing and mechanical trades accounted for over 40% of Milwaukee’s employment. Milwaukee’s industrialization during the decades after the Civil War also produced dire social consequences. Bernard Korn provides a vivid account of the most violent labor confrontation in the region’s history in “Pick Out Your Man—and Kill Him—the Riots of 1886.” In his article, Korn emphasizes the “weakening of individual independence” that factory workers experiences as a result of the wrenching shift from rural to industrial labor. Accompanying the rural-urban transformation was an increasing disparity in wealth among Americans that was most easily observable in larger cities. Wealth disparity hardened class lines and industrial workers, conscious of these problems, increasingly turned to collective action. Skilled craftsmen joined trade unions and unskilled workers joined more general organization like the Knights of Labor. The modern American industrial labor movement reached its maturation in cities like Milwaukee. The radical nature of many of Milwaukee’s industrial workers becomes apparent in Korn’s story. The Bay View Strike became a “riot” because workers in Milwaukee—many of them German Polish immigrants—became disillusioned with the moderate platform of existing unions like the Knights of Labor and sought to persuade all workers throughout the city to strike for shorter work days. Even though the Bay View Strike ended in tragedy, industrial workers in Milwaukee continued to support political ideologies decidedly to the left of mainstream American politics. In 1912, they helped elect the first Socialist mayor and Congressman in American history: Emil Seidl and Victor Berger. Four years later, German and Polish working class communities formed the core of support for Milwaukee’s second Socialist mayor, Daniel Hoan, who governed the city from 1916 to 1940. It was Mayor Hoan’s administration that encountered the Great Depression, the most serious economic crisis in American history. Like

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many other cities in the United States, Milwaukee faced fiscal collapse. Thousands of property owners could no longer afford to pay their taxes, leaving the city without revenue and on the brink of financial ruin. The Hoan administration addressed the crisis by initiating one of the most creative reforms in the Depression-era United States. Max Raskin, the city attorney under Mayor Hoan in the 1930’s, authored the fourth piece in this section, “Milwaukee and its Baby Bonds.” In it, Raskin provides a firsthand account of the city’s issuance of municipal script, backed by delinquent properties. Initially, the baby bond program was extremely unpopular with local banks and met with great skepticism in Milwaukee’s local newspapers. However, the bonds proved to be a big success with the public, as stores came to accept them as currency, hundreds of city employees were able to hold their jobs, and—perhaps most remarkably—Milwaukee retained its impeccable credit rating, staying virtually debt-free throughout the Depression. Daryl Holter closes this section with his portrayal of Milwaukee’s industrial workers in the late 1940’s. Holter presents the more confident, politically mainstreamed, and decidedly less radical labor movement that emerged form World War Two determined to hold onto its place in America’s middle class. The contrasts to the workers of the Bay View Strike are obvious. While major strikes broke out in both 1886 and 1946, workers in post-World War Two Milwaukee were part of the city’s political and social fabric, as they marched in the city’s Labor Day parade and occupied key appointive commissions in both local and state governments. Nevertheless, mainstreaming took its toll in other ways. Holter notes that the Socialist Party’s influence in local unions declined after 1945 when a virulent anti-Communist era forced organized labor to purge subversive groups form their ranks. The city’s manufacturing sector slowly changed during the 1960’s and 1970’s. Suburbs attracted industry, helping communities such as Wauwatosa, Glendale, and Oak Creek increase their competitive advantages over the central city. Locally owned companies became publicly-traded or were sold to out of town and out of country conglomerates, brining the harsh realities of globalization to Milwaukee. As factories along the city’s industrial corridors shut down, office and light industrial parks sprouted up near freeways, filled mostly with white collar workers. Deindustrialization, whether it came in the form


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of mechanized labor or jobs lost to lower wage regions, forced a painful and unfinished economic transformation. However, as these five selections help remind us, economic transformation is very much a part of the story of the American city; indeed it has been a constant for Milwaukee since Morgan Martin and Solomon Juneau forged a partnership in a rural trading post in the 1830’s.

(Milwaukee Early Views file)

The Lawyer and the Fur Trader: Morgan Martin and Solomon Juneau by

Barbara Whalen Milwaukee History, Spring-Summer, 1998

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arly Milwaukee was in many ways typical of the cities that grew up along the Great Lakes in the mid-nineteenth century. The initial settlement of these cities—Buffalo, Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, and Milwaukee—occurred before their outlying areas were cultivated, and their subsequent rate of growth was dramatically faster than that of the surrounding territory. Inevitably, townsite speculation was a factor in the settlement of each city but Milwaukee experienced speculative development in its purest form, since there was no fort or settlement, as in Chicago or Detroit. In 1833 the white population on the banks of the Milwaukee River consisted of one fur trader employed by the American Fur Company, and a handful of his relatives; in 1837 there were a thousand residents. The city of Milwaukee not only grew, but was created by speculation.[1] The trader on the banks of the Milwaukee River was Solomon Juneau. In October of 1833, a Green Bay lawyer, Morgan Lewis Martin, haying recently made an exploratory tour of the Lake Michigan shoreline, went into partnership with Juneau, and they began developing and marketing land in the city-to-be. Other large-scale speculators soon became involved as well: George Walker on the South Side and Byron Kilbourn on the West Side of the river. All did much to influence the growth of the city, but Martin and Juneau are particularly interesting because their partnership, conducted at a distance and over a period of years, left a trail of correspondence that illustrates much of the day-to-day mechanics of townsite speculation. It also reveals changes in the relationship between the two men as their circumstances and the conditions of the town changed.

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Interpretations of the partnership of Juneau and Martin have been shaped by ethnic stereotypes and by what urban historians have called the doctrine of natural advantage. Martin has been pegged as the sharp, analytical, aggressive Yankee lawyer the brains of the operation, and Juneau as the emotional, personable, innocent Latin. There is an element of truth in this. Martin was better educated, and Juneau more family-oriented, but rigid application of the stereotypes has made the relationship seem overly paternalistic. Martin himself stressed, in later memoirs, Juneau’s honesty and his own role in protecting the older man from “land sharks.” One example of contemporary exaggeration which served to perpetuate the stereotypes is the story of Juneau and his tall hat full of money, which appears in several early accounts. Juneau, taking the day’s receipts home from the store stuffed in his hat, had the hat knocked off, and $ 10,000 was scattered about while Juneau watched in amusement. “In short,” remarked Alexander Pratt, who claimed to have witnessed the event, “money seemed to have been of no earthly use to him.” Juneau’s rapport with Indian people has also been stressed, as if to emphasize his non-Anglo thought processes. This innocence/experience, reason/emotion dichotomy obscures the real dynamics of the relationship. Juneau was a businessman, as happy with the profits of the land boom as Martin. The two worked as business partners, each contributing skills to the arrangement. Until the Panic of 1837 and the ensuing depression, both men were involved in profit-making speculation with equal enthusiasm and acumen, Juneau on the spot, and Martin conducting deals at a distance. After the economic collapse their interests began to diverge, not from differences inherent to their natures, but from different perceptions of their places in the new community.[2] The doctrine of natural advantage refers to the idea, common in the nineteenth century, that the success of cities was determined largely by their location, through complex interrelationships of factors relating to topographical features, climate, and distances. This geographical determinism declared that some places would inevitably be the sites of great cities, and that successful speculation was simply a matter of skillfully analyzing the forces of geography. In this way, William Gilpin, a student of the doctrine, declared that St. Louis and Independence, Missouri were destined to rule the continent because:


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The peculiar configuration of the continent and its rivers and plains make these two natural focal points. This will not be interfered by any railroads or other public works which may be constructed by arts, as these latter are successful and permanent only when they conform with the water grades of nature and the natural laws which condense society.[3]

Such thinking has been carried down to subsequent analysis of the growth of cities. In the case of Martin and Juneau, it has served to obscure the deliberate exchange of values in their partnership. The story presented has been that of a simple fur trader, sitting on the most valuable piece of real estate north of Chicago, when a canny New York lawyer, recognizing the potential of the land, took the trader under his wing, and together they supervised the growth of the city that was bound to rise up on the spot. Juneau’s passivity is emphasized here; his contribution is a matter of circumstance, and place is all-important. The trouble with this interpretation is that it can be used to explain anything. Milwaukee is the city on Wisconsin’s lakefront because it has the best location. We could as easily be sitting in Sheboygan, discussing its natural primacy. Milwaukee was a good site for a city, but it was certainly not the only good site on the lake. Juneau’s presence in what was to be Milwaukee was at least as important to the partnership’s success as the site’s harbor or its position midway between Chicago and Green Bay.[4] The partnership between Juneau and Martin was based on the goal of developing a city on the east side of the Milwaukee River. As the place grew from quarter section preemption claim to village, the means of developing it changed too, along with the methods and tasks of the partnership. The roles of the two men shifted over time; through those shifts something of the changing needs of young cities can be glimpsed. Morgan Martin grew up in Martinsburgh, in northern New York State. Born in 1805, he was one of four sons, all of whom left their home town; Martin’s father found it strange in 1827 that with so many sons there was no one to help run the farm. Martin began to think about going west after graduating from college, during his first year of clerking for a lawyer of New York. In letters to his cousin, James D. Doty, he asked for advice about opportunities for a hard-working

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young man in the Michigan Territory. Doty, also from Martinsburgh, went to Michigan in 1818, and in 1823 was appointed superior court judge in the western part of the territory, an appointment which entailed holding court in Prairie du Chien, Green Bay, and Mackinac by turn. Armed with letters of introduction from his influential cousin, Martin traveled across the lakes to Detroit.[5] Martin’s motive for going west was clearly and explicitly stated: there were too many lawyers in New York. He wrote to Doty, “The business here is exceedingly dull and besides some addition has been made to the professional corps—the number is now one to a thousand population in this country.” In Detroit, Martin finished his clerkship in the law office of Henry S. Cole. Finding that Detroit also was oversupplied with lawyers, he set out farther west, to Green Bay. Friends in New York had doubts “that in so wild and thinly populated a country” a lawyer could succeed, but Martin remained in Green Bay for the rest of his life, except for time served in territorial government in Detroit, Madison, and Washington.[6] Martin knew of Solomon Juneau well before their first business meeting in 1833. Martin had lived in Green Bay since 1827, and Juneau had family and friends in that city with whom he visited and corresponded. Juneau established his trading post in Milwaukey, as he preferred to spell it, in 1818, taking over the business from his father-in-law Jacques Vieau. Originally from Repitigny, a small village near Montreal, he had been in the fur trade all his adult life, although with no great success. Juneau, his brother Pierre, his wife Josette, and his many children were the entire white population of Milwaukee when Martin stopped there on his exploratory tour. (There was an Indian village to the south.) As if to get ready for the events to come, probably in response to changing conditions in the territory, Juneau took out United States citizenship papers in 1831, and started to learn English. Juneau was in Chicago during Martin’s visit in August of 1833, but the two men met in October and set up a partnership. For $500 and the agreement to help with the filing of Juneau’s preemption claim, Martin received an equal undivided half interest in Juneau’s claim.[7] In a reminiscence written late in his life, Martin recalled what brought him to Juneau’s outpost: the search for a good harbor on the


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lake. Juneau, Martin said, had no idea of the value of the land he was living on. “His first hint of the value of his location came from me, and he was so incredulous that it was sometimes difficult to prevent his sacrificing his interest to the sharks who soon gathered around him. Himself the soul of honor, and unaccustomed to the wiles of speculators, without a friend to caution him he would have been an easy prey of designing individuals.” Strangely, Martin went out of his way to deny Juneau’s permanent residence on the site, citing that the trader and his family had not been home when he visited, that they had not cleared the land and only cultivated a small garden. He also claimed that there was never a written memorandum of their arrangement, although such a document exists in Martin’s papers. The account minimizes Juneau’s contribution to the partnership by stressing his unworldliness and casting doubt on Juneau’s very real asset—his long term residence. Later histories followed Martin’s lead.[8] Milwaukee had a fairly good harbor, but it was by no means extraordinary. In a few years, a Milwaukee newspaper would claim it “the best and safest on the lake,” but the more impartial Green Bay Intelligencer said otherwise: “A good harbor can be constructed here [Milwaukee] at comparatively small expense and those most interested are already beginning to talk about a railroad to the Mississippi... There is also much to be said in favor of Root River [Racine] and Pike or Pickerel River [Kenosha] , where settlements are already established.” Sheboygan also had its defenders. Milwaukee harbor’s chief disadvantages were a shifting sandbar at the mouth of the river and a lack of protection from relatively rare, but damaging, northeast storms.[9] Although Milwaukee’s site had its virtues, its chief advantage was not natural but manmade. To Martin, Milwaukee’s principal advantage was Solomon Juneau and his very solid claim to the area between the Milwaukee River and Lake Michigan. The area had not been surveyed when Martin and Juneau struck their deal; it was not sold until the summer of 1835, by which time trading in town lots had already begun. Although the previous preemption act had expired, Martin, as a representative in the legislature at Detroit, was in a position to know that a new one was in the works, and actively campaigning for its passage. The preemption act extension of 1834 allowed those who had settled before 1833 to buy their quarter section at the minimum

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price of $1.25 per acre. The preemption act of 1830, extended in 1834, was the last of such acts to include a provision for floating claims, also called “preemption once removed.” The floating rights provision meant that if two settlers laid claim to the same section, they could split it between them and each get a certificate entitling them to another eighty acres anywhere in the same land district, providing it had not been claimed before 1834. The certificates, called floats, were transferable, and were much employed by speculators. Martin and Juneau used them to augment holdings, but their own original section was fairly float-proof, because of Juneau’s long-established claim. Other Milwaukee speculators, notably George Walker, had great difficulty developing and selling their land because of disputes over claims. The solidness of Juneau’s claim increased the value of his lots, and allowed him to convince buyers to invest in the East Side even before the land was auctioned.[10] In the first stage of the partnership, Martin got the benefit of Juneau’s claim, and Juneau got a lawyer and a politician. The Canadian probably did not foresee the land craze in store for the area around his trading post, but he had been to Chicago and to Green Bay and was likely to have had some idea of the rising interest in Wisconsin land. Juneau was not, however, at home with the power establishment of the territory. By the terms of the partnership agreement Juneau got fifty dollars in cash and a guarantee of half the expenses of filing his claim, no small thing to a fur trader who lived on barter and credit, but more importantly, he gained access to legal information and political clout. Juneau was aware of the mutual advantage in the relationship. His first preserved letter to Martin is rather coy: “You must be aware that being much busy with about the interests of the American Fur Company, I am not able to do as much as I would wish for my present Concern.”[11] From the beginning, Juneau turned to Martin for legal advice. Although Juneau’s presence on the land was important for Martin’s prospects, Martin’s protection was probably just as important for Juneau’s ability to maintain his claim. There were three sections at Milwaukee claimed by preemption at the 1835 land sales: those of Juneau, his brother Pierre, and Josette’s brother, Jacques Vieau. Those names correspond with the ones on the map Martin sketched on his


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first visit. Vieau’s claim, the northwest corner of section thirty-one, was up the Menomonee River from the initial village settlement and marginal to early settlement. Solomon Juneau’s claim was defended by Martin and upheld, but Pierre’s, which the partnership supported and later bought out, was disputed in Washington. It is difficult to determine how the matter turned out, but as of 1837 the government had rejected the claim. Pierre Juneau was a shadowy character, never described by Milwaukee’s early chroniclers, so the rejection of his claim may have been legitimate. At any rate, Juneau depended on Martin to defend his interests through law and politics, and Martin was pulling strings wherever he could. In the case of Pierre’s claim, Martin was not successful, despite requests to Lucius Lyon and Byron Kilbourn, who were serving in Washington at the time, but he undoubtedly smoothed the way for other aspects of the partnership’s business.[12] The first stage of Milwaukee’s development was not dependent on natural advantage. Rather, the site met the minimum requirements topographically, and together Juneau and Martin had the resources to exploit it successfully. To apply the doctrine of natural advantage one must look further back, to the reasons that Juneau came to inhabit the place. The convergence of three rivers at the lake made Milwaukee a natural transportation hub—for those traveling by canoe. For such people the marshiness <sic> of the ground was of little importance, and may have provided an abundance of game. For unknown reasons, the area had traditionally been the home of a mixed group of Indians, although Menominees predominated. In conjunction with the Indian village there had at one time been a considerable French settlement. Vieaus, Mirandeaus, and Framboises had lived there, often with Indian wives. The settlement had dwindled to Vieau’s trading post, which was handed down to Juneau. Milwaukee began its life facing inland, a gathering place for those traveling from the west. The changes from trading post to city turned it around, to face the lake and eastern markets.[13] The first stage of Milwaukee’s development as a city, and of the partnership between Juneau and Martin, was the determination of site and the establishment of ownership. The next task would be constructing a town, both physically and conceptually, out of marsh, bluffs, and ravines. A quick profit in townsite speculation did not depend on the

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existence of an actual town, especially if the investors were sufficiently far away. Sustained yields from townsite property, however, demand development from a paper plan to a real town, which requires both physical and promotional work, so the town will have substance and credibility to potential inhabitants (investors) and to the government. Once again, Martin and Juneau were able to work together, each supplying a necessary component to the growth of their village. Martin continued to exert his influence, bring in capital, and supervise legal matters, taking care of the town’s official development. Juneau was more active now, contributing not just his claim, but his labor in the physical improvement of the land and his leadership in changing a business venture into a community. When the territorial council was in session Martin lived in Detroit, until he lost his bid for reelection in 1835. Between 1835 and 1838 he remained in Green Bay, and then ran successfully for a seat in the Territorial Council at Madison in 1838, having turned down a nomination for Territorial Delegate from the newly formed Wisconsin Territory. Whether in office or out, Martin had friends in government whom he could turn to in order to obtain advantages for his townsite at Milwaukee. That the lakefront along Lake Michigan was surveyed so far in advance of the outlying land (Milwaukee’s surroundings were not sold until 1839) demonstrates the influence of speculative interest on government policy.[14] Juneau depended heavily on advice and information from his partner. “Your letter brought us pleasing intelligence of the prospects of our country,’’ wrote Albert Fowler, early in 1835, and even earlier, “we should be happy to hear from you and the proceedings of the legislative council.” From the first days, Juneau was troubled by squatters, some sent by speculator James Kinzie, who would attempt to build structures on Juneau’s section in order to be able to file a claim. His immediate solution was to “remove [the house] forcibly for them,” but Juneau wanted legal backing as well. Following a later incident he asked, “write me without fail & try to see Doty on the subject he what he thinks of it.”[15] Another of Martin’s major contribution to the venture was cash, some his own and some which came from handling the investments of others. The initial exploratory trip that Martin made to Milwaukee was


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undertaken with the understanding that Martin and Michael Dousman would share any prospects. This arrangement was not carried through, but just before the Milwaukee settlement began to take off, Martin got involved with a group of New York speculators who pooled $20,000 toward purchases along the Milwaukee River. He also handled money for Henry S. Cole and H. B. Brevoort in Detroit. While maintaining control over his land, in one case rejecting a partnership offer from Judge Doty and a “company of wealthy merchants,” Martin brought capital into the region.[16] Back on the East Side, Juneau was making his own contributions. Some were simply the duties of a local caretaker: knocking down interlopers’ houses and putting up his own, clearing brush, and making fences. Other work Juneau hired out to recent settlers. A descendant of an early resident claimed that his father, when asked “what he was going to do with such a Godforsaken piece of hill and slough as his claim was then,... answered ‘Build a city on it—I’ll level down the hills to fill up the sloughs and it is a fine location for a city.’ “ Relying on the entrepreneurial ambitions of newcomers, Juneau creatively assembled his workforce. On a trip to Green Bay he recruited Nelson Olin and his brother, both carpenters, by promising town lots in return for work. After framing a store and working on Milwaukee’s first wharf, the Olins were put to work grading streets. There was much to be done. As the old settler pointed out, the East Side was hilly where it was not boggy, which supplied a convenient source of fill if there was enough labor. The marshes were not merely wet ground, but standing water to the depth of several feet. Such dry ground as there was quite elevated, naturally, and roads had to be built down to the river to allow boats to be unloaded. Juneau’s presence in Milwaukee allowed him to recruit and organize a work force to expand the dry portion of his East Side empire, and also make it easier for settlers to get to the new city. Olin recalled that on the trip from Green Bay the captain of the steamboat Michigan was reluctant to stop at Milwaukee’s harbor, and that Juneau convinced him by offering “his choice in village lots,” on which Captain Blake later made a thousand dollar profit.[17] Early chroniclers described Juneau as the “absolute monarch” of the settlement in its early days, which referred mostly to his handling of the local Indians, but also hints at the important supervisory role

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he played in early development. For a site to grow into a town, improvements must take place in a fairly ordered fashion. The value of investments would increase according to a growth of the entire village. Large scale operators, therefore, had an interest beyond the improvement of their own lots, in improvements on the community, as well as the individual level.[18] Juneau, in addition to supervising labor intensive projects, attempted to provide for the provision of services through his role as local sales and rental agent. It was common in the rapidly developing lake cities for deeds to stipulate that the purchasers must erect buildings or survey streets on their lots. Juneau and Martin issued such leases. One, in 1836, leased a property with the option to buy on the condition that the renter, Patrick Phillips, would build a house or store. On another occasion Juneau sold a lot on the terms that a specific building—a cabinet shop—be built in a year’s time. Juneau was in a position to know what particular skills were needed in the community, and he had the power to court artisans with offers of land or credit.[19] Not all village improvements could be secured by hard work. Martin and Juneau worked together to obtain municipal advantages, the institutions and services that could be granted by the government. It was here that the initial cooperation between the east and west sides, seen in Kilbourn and Martin’s joint lobbying for the government survey, and their trading back and forth of property on each side of the river, began to break down. The east and the west sides were conceived as separate villages, but it was clear that they would support only one courthouse, one post office, one land office, and one jail. The East Side got them all. Some of that success was due to the early start of the East Side, and some to the political activity of Martin and Juneau. The partners obtained the jail and the courthouse, “those distinguishing marks of civilization,’’ as James Buck called them, for the East Side by donating land and contracting for the construction of the buildings at considerable cost to themselves. The courthouse was a showpiece, set oft in a large square, framed and shingled, built as much for status as for justice. Before the courthouse was built, Martin had arranged for Juneau’s clerk Albert Fowler to be appointed Justice of the Piece and Clerk of the Court, although, as Fowler later commented, “of what court was not clear, there being none organized at Milwaukee


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at that time.” All deals were not made at the capital; in 1836 Juneau wrote to Martin, “I have had some little difficulty to have the land office on our side of the river. I had made some little sacrifice, as you know that it is of great importance that it should be on our side.” The mechanics of these arrangements are difficult to determine, but the East Side’s clean sweep of early government institutions indicates the efficiency of the partnership in doing what was necessary to improve their village.[20] The post office was an important institution for the young community. The ritual of mail distribution brought residents to the East Side, and the post office was a social center where news and gossip were exchanged. Juneau had been dealing with the mail for years (the earliest letters extant from him concern his problems serving as a relay station for the Chicago-Green Bay mail run) but there was some doubt about where the permanent post office would be established. Albert Fowler worried that it might go to Walker’s Point in the spring of 1835. By August, however, Juneau’s correspondence was marked S. Juneau, postmaster. Juneau may have come to regret that achievement, in view of his later difficulties with the post office department, but in 1835 it was a plum for the East Side, and undoubtedly brought much business his way.[21] The combined advantage of the partnership put the East Side ahead of its competition during the first few years. While Kilbourn was politically influential, he was not able to control the development of his side in the way that Juneau could. On the South Side, George Walker was held back in his efforts by his inability to gain a secure claim to his land until 1841. There was no lack of activity in other parts of town. Kilbourn was making his own improvements, including a plank sidewalk held above the bog by forked sticks set in the mud, and, in 1836, the founding of Milwaukee’s first newspaper, the Advertiser. Business was improving on both sides of the river. The Milwaukee land was sold at auction during August of 1835, and it was shortly afterward that the Milwaukee land craze began. The buying and selling was frantic. Land prices increased spectacularly: Juneau was selling land he had purchased for $1.25 for $2,000 an acre, and divided town lots on the river commanded as much as $800. Moreover, having sold the land, Juneau would see it resold at

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a profit. His feeling that “we can get any price for the remaining section of lot no. 2” (in section 32) led him to urge Martin to buy back land to sell again. Both residents and agents for outside speculators were involved in the “furious and reckless sale of lots.” Albert Fowler estimated Juneau’s worth at between one and two hundred thousand dollars at the peak of the trade. A division of notes made in the fail of 1836 shows that each man made $55,295.50 on land sales of lots owned jointly, and each also had his own lots, and Juneau his store. People came to the new city by boat from Chicago, down from Green Bay, and sometimes straight across the lake from the East. During the boom Juneau and Martin corresponded steadily, exchanging information, news and property deeds. With Juneau’s local perspective, Martin was able to make informed decisions about his business transactions. In March 1836, Juneau wrote, Edgerton was heading “to Green Bay to buy up interest in Walker’s Point and they have boasted here that they could buy you up ... and I hope that you have not sold it to him if you have not sold it for less than fifteen hundred dollars per acre. He is employed by Hollister and you may depend on that.”[22] During the peak of the land craze Walter Newberry, a Chicago speculator who knew Martin and who was dabbling in the Milwaukee market, wrote to Martin, “We shall have a fine season for eastern operations unless there should be some pressure in the money market of which there are strong symptoms.” Martin apparently did not take these symptoms seriously, and the Panic of 1837 took him by surprise. Andrew Jackson signed the Specie Circular in August of 1836, declaring that from October on land offices would take only gold or silver for purchases, although an extension until December was made for genuine settlers and residents. After that, the land market, and Milwaukee’s fragile prosperity, was destroyed.[23] The Sentinel, the East Side’s answer to Kilbourn’s Advertiser, put a good face on the situation in its first issue in the spring of 1837, but Juneau’s letters to Martin tell a different story. “Milwaukee appears to be but slightly affected by the embarrassment consequent upon the state of things ... the prosperity of the town rests upon a base too firm to be seriously shaken,” asserted the paper, while Juneau was reporting, “I have nothing to inform you only that money is dam scarce I cannot get any money for our land.”[24]


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The Panic marked a change in the relationship of Martin and Juneau as well as in the fortunes of the village. The partnership was seriously strained by the financial crisis. Until 1837 Juneau’s community involvement had complemented Martin’s distant economic and political management; the combination had produced profits which were agreeable to both parties. With the collapse of the market and the depression that followed, their interests began to diverge, and the balance of the relationship shifted. Because Martin’s primary motives were economic, he began to lose interest in Milwaukee as soon as land values plummeted. Since the outlying country had yet to be opened to settlement, there was really no money to be made in Milwaukee outside of real estate speculation. Martin had other worries, among them the foundering Bank of Wisconsin, in which he had interest. In 1838 Martin was elected to the Territorial Council in Madison, which distanced him physically as well as emotionally, since the new capital was rather remote. Juneau’s letters, once full of activity and confidence, reflect his increasing financial worries and his resentment at Martin’s withdrawal. “Just drop me a line while you are smoking your cigar so you won’t take any of your valuable time.”[25] Martin’s reaction to hard times was a retreat to self-interest. Writing to Elizabeth, his new wife, keeping house in Green Bay while Martin served in Madison, he explained his attitude: “I know we can any of us boast but few friends if they pretend to be so they only last as long as our money is plenty.” His suspicion extended, in part, to Elizabeth herself, and whether she was running the house with sufficient economy. “I suspect that you don’t know as much about housekeeping as I do.” He added, in the same letter, “I have made up my mind to give nothing for any public purpose, even to pay the parson, until we can afford to have something comfortable about home. It is all nonsense to have others laughing up their sleeves about how easily they can dupe us into making ourselves beggars to gratify their convenience.” The limits to public service clearly drawn; Martin’s financial difficulties led him to withdraw from his community commitments.[26] One of the public purposes Martin gave up was taxes. Juneau, as Martin’s local agent, was often left with the responsibility of paying his partner’s taxes as well as his own. In 1837 he reported selling

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property in order to pay their tax bills. Martin’s nonpayment was not the result of forgetfulness or a temporary cash flow problem; well into the forties Juneau was reminding his partner of past due obligations. By 1841 Martin owed $750 in taxes and had forfeited lots for delinquent taxes. Juneau actually apologized, at one point, for paying Martin’s obligations: “Now my dear friend don’t be angry because I have done so with good motives as I really thought you had intended to pay this years taxes.’’ Martin did redeem some lots that had been sold for taxes as the economic situation eased, but he remained distant from the life of the village, and Juneau remained puzzled at Martin’s non-involvement. They remained partners in some Milwaukee affairs, and in various schemes in outlying areas, but the intimate tone of the boom years was never regained.[27] Juneau continued to live in Milwaukee, and continued to feel responsible for the development of the community. The Panic wiped out Juneau’s fortune, which was based on the inflated value of his town lots, and he was left with a number of financial obligations made in better times. The courthouse was half completed, as were several street grading projects, and the contractors were calling every day in hope of payment. Juneau was conscientious about paying his debts and about keeping his obligations although times were “the hardest kind.” Other speculators were less scrupulous. One named McCarty left town “like an old Runnaway <sic> in the Knight,” Juneau informed Martin, his outrage affecting his syntax, “he is an ungrateful man (you and me) have expended great deal of money in this town in streets & buildings which as advance the value of McCarty property you are aware that he subscribe five hundred dollars toward building the courthouse & he as refused to pay & I think it is as good as a note.”[28] Juneau’s two most serious worries during the depression concerned the steamboat Milwaukee and his accounts with the Post Office Department. Negotiations for the vessel had begun early in 1836. Although originally a joint project of Juneau, Martin and Walker, Juneau was left with most of the responsibility for financing and outfitting the boat, which presented problem upon problem. Juneau persisted with the effort because he saw the possibility of direct trade with Buffalo as a great boon to Milwaukee and to his own fortunes. Unfortunately, Juneau’s


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run of bad luck held, and on her first trip under Juneau’s ownership the Milwaukee ran aground and had to be sold for salvage. Meanwhile, Juneau was having trouble with his job as postmaster. The federal bureaucracy took little notice of the particular need of the frontier town. Preprinted forms issued by the Post Office Department contained precise little boxes for reporting times of daily arrival and departure for each route, and the cause of any delay or detention. They were not an easy medium for explaining that, for instance, on November 2, 1837 the mail carrier had abandoned two bags of mail in the woods twenty miles south of town. More seriously, the department had begun to demand that postmasters accept only specie for stamps and postage. In a panic, Juneau wrote to Martin that there was a man in town waiting for a draft from the Post Office Department which would require Juneau to settle a $2,800 account, and that he only had $800 in gold and silver on hand. “You know that if I was not ready to meet a draft from the department that it would be enough for my removal as postmaster, and perhaps also of the post office . . . .” The mysterious stranger left without demanding payment, but Juneau remained uneasy. His “loudest and last call” for money owed to him appeared in the Sentinel shortly after his scare, although it is unlikely it had much effect during the unusually severe winter of 1837-38, when one settler remembered salt and potatoes as “the chief food for the community.”[30] These struggles of Juneau’s reveal the severity of his financial problems, and also that he sought to relieve those problems, not by withdrawal from community life, but rather by maintaining his involvement. The westward movement of population did not stop for the depression. As Juneau noted in 1837, there were a “great many people coming to this place but without any money.” Those who had bought land at speculative prices often could not afford to sell for what the land would bring, had they been able to find a buyer. Others lost claims, but could not afford to move on. The outlying areas were just beginning to be settled and cultivated; in 1839 the port of Milwaukee shipped one hundred barrels of flower. To view Milwaukee as a real estate investment as Martin did was to see a population of poor settlers on devalued land that was hardly worth paying taxes to redeem. Juneau

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saw instead a town, and saw the solution to his financial problems in its commercial development.[31] Juneau never regained the prosperity of the boom years, but he became fairly comfortable. In 1846 he was elected the first mayor of the city, although the existence of an acting mayor, John B. Smith, suggests the position was largely honorary. In 1852 he moved to Dodge County, to a village named Theresa in honor of his mother, where he stayed until his death in 1856. His funeral was the impetus for the founding of the Old Settler’s Club. The Old Settlers themselves, who were mostly Yankees, invariably praised Juneau’s “generosity and public spirit,” as well as his honesty. He came to serve as a symbol of the simple pioneer virtues of the early days, and in this process was seen as increasingly naive and primitive, until in the early twentieth century there was serious debate about whether or not he was literate. Martin melted into the ranks of Eastern-born speculators, getting not much more than a portrait and a paragraph in subscription histories of the city.[32] The patterns of growth in early Milwaukee are fairly typical of midwestern cities, with speculation by residents and long-distance investors the order of the day. The coming together of a partnership made up of one local and one outsider points out the differences and similarities of the methods of each type of speculation during the land boom. The different reactions of Juneau and Martin to the collapse of the market suggest the differences between the two varieties of speculation are real and significant.

Notes

[1] Bayrd Still, “Patterns of Mid-Nineteenth-Century Urbanization in the Middle West,” Urban America in Historical Perspective, ed. Raymond A. Mohl and Neil Betten (New York, 1970), 162. [2] Charles Glaab and Theodore Brown, A History of Urban America (New York, 1967), 73. “Narrative of Morgan L. Martin,” State Historical Society of Wisconsin Collections 11 (1888): 406; “Reminiscences of A. F. Pratt,” History of Milwaukee (Chicago, 1881), 199. John Haeger, “Western Town Growth: A Study of the Development of Towns on the Western Shore of Lake Michigan, 1815-1843,” (Ph. D. diss., Loyola University, 1969), typifies this attitude: “In later years, Solomon Juneau took a more active interest in Milwaukee’s future, handling the majority of business associated with buying and selling of land. Yet the role he assumed was only because of the skillful prodding and business acumen of Morgan L. Martin.”


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[3] Glaab and Brown, 77. [4] Haeger. [5] Daniel Martin to Morgan Martin, 9 May 1827 and Morgan Martin to James Doty, 9 December 1825, Morgan L. Martin Papers, State Historical Society of Wisconsin, Madison (hereafter cited as Martin Papers). Alice Smith, History of Wisconsin 1 (Madison, 1973), 215-216. [6] Morgan Martin to James Doty, 24 June 1826, Daniel Martin to Morgan Martin, 3 February 1827, and Lewis Sandford to Morgan Martin, 8 July 1827, Martin Papers. [7] Bayrd Still, Milwaukee: The History of a City (Madison, 1948), 5-6. Naturalization Record, Solomon Juneau Papers, Milwaukee County Historical Society, Milwaukee (hereafter cited as Juneau Papers). Memorandum of Agreement, October 1833, Martin Papers (microfilm). [8] “Narrative of Morgan L. Martin,” 406. History of Milwaukee, 59. [9] Milwaukee Sentinel, 27 June and 12 September 1837. Green Bay Intelligencer, 8 June 1835, in James Buck, Pioneer History of Milwaukee (Milwaukee, 1888) 22 [10] Still, Milwaukee, 11 and 15. [11] Solomon Juneau to Morgan Martin, 1 December 1833, Martin Papers. [12] Byron Kilbourn to Morgan Martin, 6 February 1836; Lucius Lyon to Morgan Martin [1836] , Martin Papers. [13] D. W. Fowler, “Milwaukee from 1674 to 1833,” History of Milwaukee, 92. Still, Milwaukee, 17-18. [14] Moses M. Strong, History of the Territory of Wisconsin (Madison, 1885) 270. Still, Milwaukee, 17-18. [15] Albert Fowler to Morgan Martin, 13 December 1834,5 December 1835; Juneau to Martin, 3 May 1839, Martin Papers. [16] Letter from Morgan L. Martin to James Buck, Pioneer History, 17. Haeger, 190. Henry S. Cole to Morgan Martin, 29 July 1828; H. B. Brevoort to Morgan Martin, 27 June 1831; Juneau to Martin, 6 May 1835, Martin Papers. [17] E. H. Cleveland to Henry Bleyer, 6 July 1900 and Nelson Olin to Henry Bleyer, 14 June 1894, Henry W. Bleyer Collection, State Historical Society of Wisconsin, Madison. James Buck, “Milwaukee in a State of Nature,” History of Milwaukee, 94-102. “Historical Letter from Nelson Olin,” History of Milwaukee, 173. [18] History of Milwaukee, 78. [19] Haeger, 190. Lease, Martin and Juneau to Patrick Phillips, 9 March 1836, Martin Papers. Deed, Solomon Juneau to Henry Bleyer, 8 August 1836, Juneau Papers. [20] Specifications for Courthouse, 2 April 1836, Martin Papers. Albert W. Fowler, “First Anglo-Saxon Settlers,” History of Milwaukee, 87. Juneau to Martin, 20 September 1836, Martin Papers. [21] Albert Fowler to Martin, 10 April 1835, Martin Papers. [22] Silas Chapman, “Pioneer Land Speculation in Milwaukee,” Early Milwaukee: Papers from the Archives of the Old Settlers’ Club of Milwaukee County (Milwaukee, 1946), 25. Fowler, “Anglo-Saxon Settlers,” 89. Juneau and Martin Company Assets, October 1836; Juneau to Martin, 31 March 1836, Martin Papers. [23] W. L. Newberry to Morgan Martin, 26 April 1836, Martin Papers. [24] Milwaukee Sentinel.27 June 1837. Juneau to Martin, 5 November 1836, Martin Papers. [25] Juneau to Martin, 12 December 1839, Martin Papers.

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[26] Morgan Martin to Elizabeth Martin, 11 and 20 February 1836, Martin Papers (microfilm). [27] Juneau to Martin, 20 December 1837, 4 December 1841, December 1840, Martin Papers (microfilm). [28] George Tiffany to Juneau, 25 May 1837, Juneau Papers. Juneau to Martin, 4 December 1837, Martin Papers. [29] Still, Milwaukee, 47; Juneau to Martin, 26 January 1838, Martin Papers, (microfilm). [30] Juneau to Martin, 8 January 1838,3 November 1837, Martin Papers. Post Office receipts, 1837-1838, Juneau Papers. Milwaukee Sentinel, 23 December 1837. A.W. Kellogg, “Boyhood Memories,” Early Milwaukee, 33. [31] Juneau to Martin, 30 May 1837. Smith, 543. [32] Clipping files, Juneau Papers.

Milwaukee’s first grain elevator (Grain Elevator file)

Foundations for Industrialization, 1835-1880

by

Roger D. Simon Milwaukee History, Spring-Summer, 1978

M

ilwaukee was born in the exuberant land speculations of the American west of the 1830’s. Her rapid growth as a commercial entrepot in the subsequent forty years laid the basis for the industrialization of the city in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. But the major decisions as to how the city should look and the placement of particular activities came during the commercial phase of the city’s urbanization. A study of urban growth in the industrial era, therefore, must start with the earliest days of the city’s expansion. Morgan L. Martin, a Green Bay speculator, and Byron Kilbourn, a federal surveyor from Ohio, were probably not the only two aggressive young men to notice the site where the Milwaukee River flows into Lake Michigan and to dream of carving a city out of that wilderness. But those two individuals acted on their dreams and profited by their promotional efforts. The site Martin and Kilbourn each discovered in the early 1830’s held more in the way of potential than it actually delivered as a favorable urban site. The Milwaukee River was quite wide at its mouth, about 400 feet, but only because two smaller streams, the Menomonee River and Kinnickinnic Creek, joined the Milwaukee within a half mile of the lake. Sand bars blocked the entrance to the naturally protected harbor, however, requiring extensive dredging before a commercial port could be developed. Nevertheless, the mouth of the Milwaukee looked like the best townsite between Chicago and Green Bay.[1] The land around the mouth of the Milwaukee River was almost completely wilderness in the early 1830’s, although Solomon Juneau, a French-Canadian fur trader, had established a trading post on the east

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side of the river in 1819. In 1833 Morgan Martin joined interests with Juneau to develop a town on the peninsula between the Milwaukee River and Lake Michigan where Juneau had preemption rights. Byron Kilbourn first saw the Milwaukee country in 1834 when he surveyed it for the federal government. He turned his attention to the area lying north of the Menomonee River and west of the Milwaukee River, not only because Juneau already had claim to the east shore, but because he saw the east side to be a narrow piece of land which could never accommodate a thriving city. The northwest segment also contained less marsh land near the confluence of the Milwaukee and Menomonee Rivers than the east side. In 1835 Kilbourn rejected an offer to join with Martin and Juneau, making instead a firm decision to proceed with a competitive town, a decision which had long range ramifications for the future city of Milwaukee. The early settlement on the west side of the Milwaukee River was popularly called Kilbourntown, and the east side village, Juneautown.[2] A third and smaller settlement, known as Walker’s Point, developed on the south side where the Milwaukee and Menomonee Rivers joined George Walker, the original settler, confined his activities principally to the Indian trade. Not until the 1840’s did the population of that area begin to grow, and then the large settlements absorbed Walker’s Point. Townsite speculation led not only to the establishment of competing settlements at the mouth of the Milwaukee River, but it also influenced the original plat for the town. Kilbourn filed the first plat for Milwaukee in 1835. The Kilbourn plat for the west side of the river followed the checkerboard gridiron plan used in designing most western towns in the nineteenth century. The gridiron, the easiest plat to survey, provided a large number of uniform lots which were simply described in legal documents. It also appeared to be a rational plan, which the nonresident speculator or visitor could grasp without difficulty.[3] The plat set aside several squares for public use and included one diagonal street in the direction of the northwest. The plat, however, paid no attention to topography, a defect typical of cities laid out on the gridiron plan. Kilbourn’s failure to take topography into account was a serious matter only near the mouth of the Menomonee River and along the marshy Menomonee Valley. It appears, however, that no one ever attempted to develop the valley along the lines of the original


305

plat. Jurieau filed his plat several months after Kilbourn and followed a similar pattern in his plan. Because of the competition between the two, Juneau did not align his east-west streets evenly with Kilbourn’s, and he used different names. Additions to the original plat did preserve several old trails which radiated from the city in diagonal directions, easing the flow of traffic somewhat in later years. The importance of the original plat lay in the fact that it was continuously extended. In 1856 the state legislature revised Milwaukee’s charter to provide that any persons or groups of persons desiring to subdivide any property in Milwaukee into city lots “shall, in platting the same, cause the streets and alleys in such plat to correspond in width and general direction with the streets and alleys in said city adjacent to ...” their holdings. The same provision appeared in the charter of 1874 which governed the city for many years thereafter. Thus, one of the most critical decisions affecting the physical appearance of the city and its ability to function as’ a place for the exchange of goods, labor, and information occurred, apparently with little thought, at the very earliest stage of the city’s development. The private interests of the speculator and the promoter had largely determined the design and form of the city.[4] The territorial legislature had incorporated the Town of Milwaukee in 1839, consolidating the villages as the east and west wards; in 1845 Walker’s Point joined the town as the south ward. Despite the consolidation of 1839 the two major settlements maintained a strong degree of independence. The act of incorporation, for example, provided that the city had to spend its tax dollars in the wards which raised them, except for general city expenses.[5] Despite the depression of ’1839-42, Milwaukee continued to grow. In 1840 the town contained about 1700 persons. In the next forty years, as Table 1 shows, Milwaukee grew to be a city of over 100,000 persons. The reasons for that growth lay in the fact that the city had genuine and important economic functions to perform as well as an advantageous site. Various promoters in those decades encouraged and stimulated the growth, primarily by tying a large and fertile hinterland to the lake port with an efficient transportation network, while also securing vital port improvements.

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Milwaukee Stories

Most of Milwaukee’s economic activity in the early years consisted of merchandizing and supplying the settlers of southeastern Wisconsin. Milwaukee flourished because southern and central Wisconsin are relatively flat, and no natural barriers served to divert the produce of that region away from the lakes; rather, Milwaukee was the most accessible shipping point to -the eastern market.[6] TABLE 1 Population Growth of Milwaukee, 1840-1880 Year Population Percentage Increase Over Previous Decade 1840 1,712 1843 ca. 3,000 1846 9,655 1850 20,061 1,071.8 1855 32,074 1860 45,246 125.5 1865 55,636 1870 71,440 57.9 1875 100,143 1880 115,587 61.8 Source: U.S., Department of State, Sixth Census of Population (Washington, 1843), p. 461; Seventh Census, 1850, Population (Washington, 1853), p. 922; U.S., Department of Interior, Eighth Census, 1860, Population (Washington, 1864), p. 539; U.S., Department of Interior, Tenth Census, 1880, Statistics of Population (Washington, 1883), p. 370; Wisconsin Legislative Manual (Madison, 1866), p. 207; Legislative Manual (Madison, 1876), p. 335.

Almost from its beginning, Milwaukee competed with Chicago for the produce of the upper northwest. As the southernmost point on the Great Lakes-Erie Canal route, Chicago had a commanding advantage for produce from Illinois and Missouri, but before the establishment of through rail service to the east, Milwaukee was ninety miles closer to New York than was Chicago. Thus the Wisconsin city had a distinct advantage for grain from Iowa, Minnesota, and Wisconsin. Chicago had through rail service to New York after 1860 and, although the volume of trade on the Erie Canal continued to rise until 1880, Milwaukee was now ninety miles farther from the east than Chicago.


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Milwaukee and Chicago both began their rail networks in the 1850’s, but Chicago moved first with a route to the Mississippi River in 1854; Milwaukee first tapped the Mississippi in 1857. Rail service connected the two cities in 1855, and all eastbound service from Milwaukee tunneled through Chicago, but the early rail connection gave Milwaukee access to the important and rapidly growing market of Chicago itself. Further, after 1869 Chicago had direct rail connections to California via the Union Pacific at Omaha. In 1874 a group of Milwaukee financiers led by Alexander Mitchell, the city’s leading banker and promoter, consolidated several roads feeding that city into the Chicago and Milwaukee Railroad, now the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul and Pacific (The Milwaukee Road). By 1880 Milwaukee, despite the overpowering dominance of Chicago in the Mississippi Valley, was the focus of a lengthening railroad network pushing across the upper northwest toward the Pacific.[7] Repeating traditional frontier patterns, the earliest Wisconsin farmers planted most of their first cash crop as wheat; thus, Milwaukee quickly became a principal wheat market and shipping point. Shipments of wheat from Milwaukee rose from 95,500 bushels in 1845 to 2,640,000 ten years later, and to almost 10.5 million in 1865 when the city, notwithstanding the proximity of Chicago, was the world’s largest primary exporter of wheat. The export of wheat reached a peak in 1873 at 24,255,380 bushels, but the volume did not drop off precipitously until several years later. In 1875 exporters shipped out over 22 million bushels and in 1879 over 15 million bushels, but in 1880 wheat exports fell dramatically (see Table 2). Thereafter, Milwaukee declined as a leading wheat center because primary wheat production had moved further west.[8] In the 1850’s and 1860’s Milwaukee attracted a large share of the wheat trade of the upper northwest because of its well developed facilities for the reception and distribution of the grain. Although Milwaukee grew up around an outstanding natural harbor, the city expended a great effort to insure full use of its advantages. In 1843 the town secured a major federal appropriation to dredge a channel through the sand bar which prevented larger ships from entering the inner harbor. The dredging did not, however, prove sufficient, and in the 1850’s the city sought funds to cut a new channel into the

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Milwaukee Stories

lake. Congress approved funds for the improvement in 1852, but the channel did not open until 1857. The new channel made possible full utilization of the inner harbor, and most shipping and commerce developed along the banks of the Milwaukee River within two miles of its mouth.[9] TABLE 2 Wheat Shipments from Milwaukee, 1847-1881 Year Wheat Shipments in Bushels 1847 598,411 1849 1,136,023 1851 317,285 1853 956,703 1855 2,641,746 1857 2,581,311 1859 4,732,957 1861 13,300,495 1863 12,867,620 1865 10,479,777 1867 9,598,452 1869 14,272,799 1871 13,409,467 1873 24,994,266 1875 22,681,020 1877 18,298,485 1879 15,060,222 1881 7,992,665 Source: Milwaukee Chamber of Commerce, 24th Annual Report (Milwaukee, 1882), p. 49. Manufacturing had a place in Milwaukee’s economy from the city’s earliest days, but the place was a small one until the 1870’s. Most of Milwaukee’s earliest manufacturing consisted of the processing of regional agricultural products in small establishments and, to a large


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degree, the market remained local. In 1849 Milwaukee manufacturers shipped 17,500 barrels of flour, 295 dozen wooden pails, and 50,000 brooms out of the city. In the expansion of the ensuing thirty years, manufacturing continued to rely heavily on the products of regional agriculture, but completion of a wide transportation network provided a broad market for the processed goods. In 1880 Milwaukee’s leading industries were flour milling, meatpacking, tanning, brewing, boot and shoe making, men’s clothing manufacture, and iron and steel production and fabrication.[10] Flour milling developed as an early adjunct of the wheat trade which Milwaukee dominated in the 1850’s and 1860’s. The earliest mills arose alongside a dam across the Milwaukee River near the foot of Humboldt Avenue. The dam, originally constructed in the 1840’s, diverted water into the Milwaukee and Rock River “Canal,” an abortive improvement project consisting of one and a quarter miles of canal along the river. The dam and the canal provided power for the earliest mills, however, and proved extremely valuable in the early industrial growth of the city despite the failure of the larger project. The canal, now filled in and known as Commerce Street, provided the location of the first industrial concentration in the city when several mills and tanneries sprang up there.[11] In the 1850’s Milwaukee emerged as a major flour milling center in the western states. For a time in the mid-sixties, Milwaukee was the largest milling center in the west, but early in the next decade was surpassed by St. Louis. Nevertheless, the milling of wheat continued to be important industry at the lake port. Production, which had stood at 200,000 barrels in 1865, reached 750,000 in 1875 and then dropped off slightly to 650,000 in 1880. After 1880, however, milling continued to be an important part of the city’s economy. The decline in wheat production in Wisconsin which ended Milwaukee’s dominance in that trade was accompanied by an important diversification in Wisconsin agriculture. As the area tributary to Milwaukee began to diversify, so did Milwaukee’s manufacturing activities. In 1850 Wisconsin farmers raised 185,000 head of cattle and 160,000 hogs. In the 1850’s some of that meat found its way to Milwaukee where commission merchants, seeking a winter use for their warehouses, turned to packing as a part time enterprise John Plankinton began

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Milwaukee Stories

in that way and by 1863 was the fourth largest meat packer in the country. Plankinton operated in partnership with Frederick Layton, who later began his own plant. In the 1860’s Plankinton and Philip D. Armour formed a successful partnership, but in the next decade Armour moved to Chicago to supervise the company’s interests there, which he later acquired for himself. Packing in Milwaukee confined itself primarily to hogs, but the local supply was efficient to make the city by 1871 the fourth largest packing center in the nation. In 1880 slaughtering and meat packing constituted the largest industry in the city by the value of the product. The rise of the slaughtering and meatpacking industry in Milwaukee, plus the availability of hemlock bark, helped to make Milwaukee the largest tanning center in the world by 1872. The first and largest tannery in the city was that of Pfister and Vogel, founded in the late 1840’s; by 1870 there were thirty such enterprises in the city, many of them concentrated near the dam and “Rock River Canal’ site in the center of the city. After the early 70’s the city lost its preeminence in the tanning industry for a time, but the industry continued to weigh heavily in Milwaukee’s economy. Milwaukee first brewery opened in 1841. Stimulated by the large German influx, twenty-five additional breweries began operations in the next fifteen years. After 1856 the number of breweries steadily declined, yet the total output rose. In the 1860’s and 1870’s two establishments emerged as dominant breweries both in the city and in the country the Phillip Best Brewing Company, managed and later owned by Captain Frederick Pabst, and the Joseph Schlitz Brewing Company, owned by the Uihlein family after 1875. Those two breweries particularly Best’s, pioneered in the export of lager beer to other American cities. In fact, destruction of Chicago’s breweries in the fire of 1871 enabled Milwaukee beer to gain a foothold in the huge and steadily growing Chicago market and prevented the development there of a brewery of major stature. In 1874 Best’s became the largest brewer in the nation and retained that position throughout the rest of the nineteenth century.[13] Milling, packing, tanning, and brewing all drew to varying degrees on the agricultural produce of the area tributary to Milwaukee and found part of their markets in the same place. Those important pro-


311

cessing industries continued to be the bedrocks of the increasingly industrial economy of Milwaukee. In addition, however, several other important industries emerged before 1880. A significant apparel industry developed in Milwaukee in the 1860’s and 1870’s, concentrating particularly in men’s clothing and in boots and shoes. At first those industries served an almost exclusively local market, but the Civil War provided a wider market for such goods. In 1869 those two lines of manufacture ranked first and second in number of employees among Milwaukee industries although their share in the city’s economy dipped in the next decade as heavy industry began to develop in the city. The beginning of heavy industry in Milwaukee occurred in the mid-1860’s when the Detroit entrepreneur Eber Brock Ward, in association with several prominent Milwaukeeans including Alexander Mitchell, organized the Milwaukee Iron Company and built a rolling mill at Bay View, a village adjacent to the southern border of the city. The locational rationale behind the mill was for it to utilize a high grade of ore available in nearby Dodge County at a site where coal and low grade ores could be brought together cheaply. The ore from Dodge County, when mixed with the lower grades, produced an iron with some of the attributes of Bessemer steel which, at that time, was still in its early stages of development. The mill began in the period before the discovery of large iron deposits in Michigan and Minnesota, but the economic principles behind the mill were the same as those behind the later mills which dotted the Great Lakes. Until 1870 the Bay View mill confined itself to re-rolling rails for the railroads, but in 1871 two blast furnaces began operation which for many years smelted the ore from the company’s mines in Dodge County and in northern Michigan. By 1873 the Bay View mills were said to be the second largest mills in the nation, representing an investment of over two million dollars. The iron company was the largest employer in the city, with over 1,000 men, and its product was worth some three million dollars. In the mid-1870’s the company reorganized as part of the North Chicago Rolling Mill Company, although it still contained a good deal of Milwaukee money, especially Alexander Mitchell’s. In 1880 the mill employed about 1500 people. The growth of Milwaukee’s major iron and steel industry rose from the base and source of supply

312

Milwaukee Stories

provided by the Bay View mill. In addition, the extensive car shops of the Milwaukee Road and the growing demands of the breweries and other processors for heavy equipment provided a local market significant enough to further stimulate the establishment of foundries and iron works. The largest of such establishments in 1880 was Edward P. Allis’s Reliance Works, which employed about 350 men that year.[14] The assessment of the city’s economy in 1880 given by the secretary of the Chamber of Commerce indicated a healthy, diversified, and promising future. “Our manufacturing interests are in a prosperous condition. Every establishment in the city, great and small—and flour mills alone excepted—was constantly kept busy, and in the manufacture of iron and other stable commodities, it was found impossible to fully supply the demand. The activity in our local industries of every kind is exemplified in the consumption of coal which was unprecedented.”[15] The city’s receipts of coal in the 1870’s did increase dramatically, especially after the decline of the wheat market after the mid-70’s (see Table 3). In 1880 Milwaukee remained heavily involved in commerce, merchandising, and the grain trade, but manufacturing was pushing those sectors aside. In addition-, to its older flouring industry, the city contained the nation’s largest brewery, one each of its largest meat packing and leather tanning plants, and a major iron mill. TABLE 3 Receipts of Coal at Milwaukee, 1865-1881 Year Coal Receipts in Tons 1865 36,369 1870 122,865 1875 228,674 1880 368,027 1881 550,027 Source: Milwaukee Chamber of Commerce, 24th Annual Report (Milwaukee, 1882), p. 136. The occupational distribution of the work force is also a useful indicator of the role of manufacturing. In 1879 manufacturing and mechanical trades accounted for 44.7 percent of the city’s employ-


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ment, ranking Milwaukee sixth among the twenty largest cities on that index (see Table 4). TABLE 4 Percentage Distribution of the Work Force of the Twenty Largest Cities, Ranked by Size, 1880 City and Rank Agri- Profes- Trade ManuIron culsional and facturand ture and Transing Steel Perportaand Worksonal tion Mechers* Service anical 1. New York .4 31.2 26.9 41.5 .5 2. Philadelphia 1.4 27.8 21.6 49.2 1.2 3. Brooklyn, NY .9 26.6 28.6 44.3 1.3 4. Chicago .6 30.6 28.7 40.1 1.4 5. Boston .7 35.8 27.3 36.1 .7 6. St. Louis 1.5 34.4 26.3 37.8 2.1 7. Baltimore .7 36.0 25.1 38.3 .9 8. Cincinnati 1.2 28.9 22.8 47.1 1.2 9. San Francisco 1.9 33.5 28.8 35.8 .7 10. New Orleans 2.6 46.8 26.2 24.4 .3 11. Cleveland 1.2 29.9 22.8 46.1 5.2 12. Pittsburgh .9 39.9 18.6 40.6 9.0 13. Buffalo 2.0 32.7 22.7 42.6 2.1 14. Washington, DC .8 61.0 15.0 23.2 .2 15. Newark 1.1 18.6 19.2 61.1 1.6 16. Louisville 1.0 12.8 24.0 36.7 2.0 17. Jersey City 1.2 29.1 28.7 41.0 1.1 18. Detroit 1.0 31.9 24.4 42.7 1.7 19. MILWAUKEE .8 31.7 22.8 44.6 1.5 20. Providence 1.1 25.3 19.4 54.0 1.8 Source: U.S., Department of Interior, Tenth Census, 1880, Population (Washington, 1883), pp.860-909. Note: *Iron and steel workers also included under Manufacturing and Mechanical workers. Milwaukee’s dramatic population growth from 1840 to 1880, which an expanding and diversifying economic base made possible, derived mainly from the influx of large numbers of foreign born immigrants to the city. In the late 1840’s and 1850’s Milwaukee was a major debarkation point for foreign immigrants traveling west along the Great Lakes. Although both Germans and Irish poured into the

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314

United States in large numbers in the decade before the Civil War, most of the Irish, being destitute, huddled tightly along the east coast; the immigrants settling in the middle west were primarily Germans with better financial resources. The entire northwest in that period received large numbers of Germans, in both cities and rural areas, but Germans constituted an especially disproportionate share of Milwaukee’s population. In the period between 1850 and 1880, although the foreign born population of Milwaukee dropped steadily as a percentage of the total population, the share of the population coming from Germany constantly rose (see Tables 5 and 6). Table 5 Characteristics of the Foreign Born Population of Milwaukee, 1850-1880 Year

Foreign Born Population

Percentage Increase

1850 1860 1870 1880

12,782 22,848 33,773 46,073

78.8 47.8 38.5

Percentage of City’s Population Foreign Born 63.7 50.5 47.3 39.9

Percentage of the Total Foreign Born from each Country Year Germany Ireland England Poland* Austria* 1850 56.9 22.0 9.5 1860 69.9 13.6 5.5 1870 66.9 11.2 4.1 6.0 1880 68.3 7.9 3.5 3.9 5.4 *Blanks indicate less than one percent. Source: Justin Galford, “The Foreign Born and Urban Growth in the Great Lakes,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, New York University, 1957, pp. 334-335.


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Table 6 Foreign Born Populations of Largest American Cities Ranked by Homogeneity of the Foreign Born Population, 1880 City I II III IV V MILWAUKEE 27.2 Germany 39.9 3 12 Cincinnati 18.1 Germany 28.1 15 8 Boston 17.9 Ireland 31.6 10 5 Jersey City 16.9 Germany 33.1 7 11 New York 16.5 Ireland 39.7 4 1 Providence 16.1 Ireland 26.8 16 19 St. Louis 15.7 Germany 30.0 12 6 Chicago 15.0 Germany 40.7 2 2 Detroit 14.9 Germany 39.2 5 13 Cleveland 14.5 Germany 37.1 6 9 Brooklyn 13.9 Ireland 31.3 11 4 San Francisco 13.1 Ireland 44.6 1 7 Newark 12.9 Germany 29.5 13 16 Philadelphia 12.0 Ireland 24.1 17 3 Pittsburgh 10.9 Ireland 28.5 14 14 Louisville 10.9 Germany 18.7 18 18 Baltimore 10.3 Germany 16.9 19 10 New Orleans 6.5 Germany 19.1 17 15 Washington 3.6 Ireland 9.6 20 20 I. Percentage of total population born in the single foreign country with largest number of persons in city. II. Single foreign country with largest number of persons in city. III. Percentage of total population foreign born. IV. Rank by percentage of total population foreign born. V. Rank by absolute number of foreign born. Source: U.S., Department of Interior, Tenth Census, 1880, Population (Washington, 1883), pp. 471, 538-541. The impact of the overwhelmingly large German population on Milwaukee’s cultural life and, subsequently, on its politics was profound;

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the impact on the economy was less clear. Numerous historians have suggested that the heavy German population provided the city with an exceptionally skilled labor force on which to draw in the industrialization process. German craftsmen were without a doubt plentiful and did figure heavily from an early date in the manufacture of boots and shoes, cigars, furniture, apparel, beer, packing, and tanning. They also provided a substantial local market for the breweries and eventually the essential base for aggressive expansion into a national market.[16] In the early years the English also played an important role in providing the skilled craftsman needed for industrialization, as they did in many other parts of the country. A particularly large concentration of English occurred around the Bay View plant, because the company had imported Englishmen to help start the mill.[17] Other immigrant groups which made up Milwaukee’s population before 1880 included a scattering from almost every country which sent immigrants to the United States, with the heaviest concentration, after the German and English, coming from the Irish. Almost a fifth of the population during the 1850’s, the Irish proportionally declined in importance thereafter. For a long time they remained a fairly visible group, however, because they were largely clustered together. Polish immigrants made up another small but visible group emerging toward the end of the period. Poles probably came to Milwaukee as early as the late 1840’s, but the census did not enumerate them separately until 1870 when they numbered about 325 in the city. Like the Irish, they tended to cluster together. The first Polish parish began in 1866 and the first church building, St. Stanislaus, opened several years later.[18] As Milwaukee grew in population and diversified economically, the city not only spread out physically to the north, south and west, but developed a degree of land use specialization. Topography, commercial needs, access routes, and distance played major roles in establishing restricted land uses. Although certain changes did occur from 1840 to 1880 owing to major shifts in the economic and demographic character of the city, continuity and expansion from earliest locations largely characterized the land use development of the city. Earliest settlement clustered around the mouth of the Milwaukee River. Outward development in the ensuing years occurred at vary-


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ing rates of speed. Manufacturers located their plants close to sources of power and transportation outlets. The earliest industrial site, as indicated above, was along the abortive Milwaukee and Rock River Canal route. In the 1860’s and ‘70’s, light manufacturing concentrated in the lower east side near the mouth of the Milwaukee River, while tanning and milling largely remained either along the canal or in the Menomonee Valley. The location of the rolling mills along the lakeshore in Bay View stimulated south side industrial development, and the Reliance Iron Works, taken over in the 1860’s by Edward P. Allis, was a further stimulant. The development of the Menomonee Valley as a major industrial center did not occur until the 1870’s when the city carried out the “Menomonee Improvements.” Begun in 1869, the project added 13,700 linear feet of dockage by building several canals through the valley.[19] It became a significant site for lumber, brick and coal yards, and in the 1880’s an increasing number of large factories located there. It is hard to overemphasize the importance of the Menomonee Valley to the physical and land-use development of Milwaukee. Cutting right through the center of the city, it provided an early measure of industrial decentralization while preserving easy accessibility to a large work force. TABLE 7 Growth of the Three Sections of Milwaukee, Showing Percentage of City’s Population in Each Section, 1850-1880 Year East Side West Side South Side (Wards 1, 3, & 7) (Wards 2, 4, 6, (Wards 5, 8, 11, 9, 10, & 13) &12) 1850 50.6 36.5 12.8 1860 36.8 45.8 17.4 1870 24.4 52.5 21.1 1880 21.7 51.6 26.7 Source: U.S., Department of Interior, Eighth Census, 1860, Population (Washington, 1864), p. 539; U,S., Department of Interior, Tenth Census, 1880, Statistics of Population (Washington, 1883), p. 370.

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Until the arrival of the Germans in the late 1840’s and early 1850’s, no major discernible residential segregation developed in Milwaukee. From the beginning, however, Germans concentrated on the west side. Here were located most of the breweries, tanneries, and mills where they found employment. The Germans soon formed such a large component of the city’s population that it is of little meaning to consider the segregation of that group. By the 1870’s Germans were everywhere a though the Second, Sixth and Ninth wards on the west side were almost exclusively German.[20] The Irish population of the city congregated almost exclusively in the Third Ward, which was on the east side south of Wisconsin Street (now East Wisconsin Avenue.)[21] The Irish concentrated in that region or a variety of related reasons. Much of the area was originally low-lying marsh which the city had drained in the 1840’s. Thus from the earliest days it was not considered a desirable residential area. Because of the development of the harbor along the mouth of the Milwaukee River, light industry developed along its eastern bank, particularly along East Water Street, Erie Street, and Broadway, a block east of the river. By 1880 most of the area south of Wisconsin Street and west of Milwaukee Street to the river was industrial and commercial. A residence adjacent to such a district was not desirable for any but the unskilled in need of close proximity to employment and without funds to settle in more attractive neighborhoods. Further, the proximity of that district to the homes of the wealthy north of Wisconsin Street provided an important source of employment for the Irish girls who specialized heavily in domestic service. The east side north of Wisconsin Street was the most exclusive section of the city. Only Grand Avenue (West Wisconsin Avenue) on the west side featured homes of the size, cost and style of those found on Prospect, Farwell, and the nearby east side avenues. The proximity to the lake and the rising elevation of the east shore were powerful factors in setting off that area for the “better class of residences.” Further since the harbor of Milwaukee was not along the lake, but at the confluence of the rivers, the north shore was relatively isolated from commercial and industrial land uses. There was a good deal of light manufacturing and processing along the east bank of the Milwaukee River along North Water Street, but almost no industries located north of Juneau


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Avenue and east of Jackson Street. Thus, the residents of the First and Seventh Wards were among the wealthiest in the city. An early Polish settlement developed on the south side clustered around St. Stanislaus Roman Catholic Church. The small Polish settlement organized a state militia unit in 1874 which operated out of Kosciuszko Hall. An even smaller Polish settlement emerged in the 1870’s on the east side near the dam across the Milwaukee River around North Water, Pulaski, and Sobieski Streets. That area also contained a processing center with two major tanneries.[22] The reason the Polish settled where they did was probably a combination of the fact that the areas they settled were (1) at the periphery of settlement at that time, (2) within walking distance of centers of unskilled employment and, (3) close to offensive factories. Thus they found, because of the particular nature of Milwaukee’s topography, and the nature of its industrial location, that they could live on relatively low cost land and still be sufficiently centrally located for purposes of employment. Had the Poles of the 1870’s found themselves in a city of 200,000 or 500,000 instead of a city of 100,000, they would have also found themselves living in high value central locations with undoubtedly a correspondingly lower standard of living in terms of quality of housing and sanitation. Although Milwaukee possessed a horse-drawn streetcar network which reached every part of town by 1880, a large percentage of the city’s population still walked to work. The modest decentralization of manufacturing industry made it possible for workers to move away from the immediate downtown area without relying on the relatively slow horsecars. Because of severe limitations of the grid system, all horsecar traffic tunneled towards the Central Business District in a rather awkward manner. By 1880 Milwaukee rapidly was becoming a processing and industrial city. Its population contained a growing proportion of industrial workers. It was also a much more homogeneous population than the populations of most medium sized American cities at that time. As the city grew it faced the increasingly complex and costly problems of any large population concentration: providing a functional and healthy environment. The essential elements of such an environment are housing, streets, pure water, sewers, transportation, safety,

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and recreation. Housing and transportation remained entirely in the private sector, but in the 1870’s the city assumed a positive role in the area of streets, sewers and water. Until the 1870’s Milwaukee had no water facilities. Most citizens drew their water from wells which became increasingly polluted as the city grew larger. As early as the 1850’s, citizens demanded some public water facilities, and in 1860 a select committee of aldermen drafted a detailed ordinance for the establishment of a city water works with the plea that it was an “absolute necessity” for protection of health and against loss by fire. Although the ordinance failed, the Council’s interest in a water works continued. In 1868 an independent civil engineer prepared a feasibility study of a city water works for the mayor. In 1871 the state legislature authorized the creation of a board of water commissioners to supervise the construction and operation of a public water system for Milwaukee. The commissioners included many of the most respected business leaders in the city. Headed by the banker and railroad executive, Alexander Mitchell, the committee also included Captain Frederick Pabst, Guido Pfister of the Pfister and Vogel tannery, and John Plankinton. Deriving its capital from the sale of bonds, the board quickly started construction work on a pumping station and pipe laying. Public water first became available in 1873 from a temporary works. In 1874 the water works station on Lake Michigan near the foot of North Avenue began pumping water through a network of fifty-five miles of pipe. Table 8 shows the total miles of water pipe laid at the end of each year from 1875-1880.[23]


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TABLE 8 Total Miles of Water Pipe Laid in Milwaukee Through the End of Each Calendar Year, 1875-1880 Year Miles 1875 64 1876 70.25 1877 75.4 1878 81.806 1879 86.269 1880 90.872 Source: Milwaukee, Board of Public Works, Annual Report, 1880 (Milwaukee, 1881), p. 7. The City Charter of 1874 called for the merger of the Water Board into a Board of Public Works after January 1, 1875, which would assume all of the authority and responsibility of the water board for the maintenance of the water works. The mayor, with the council’s approval, appointed the three members of the Board of Public Works who served for three year terms. One member of the Board was to come from each of the three sections of the city. The Board in turn appointed the city engineer (salary, $2,250 per year.) In the first decade of its existence the Water Commissioners-Board of Public Works was exceedingly active in water pipe installation, covering much of the downtown area. The cost of constructing the water works and the feeder mains was met through the sale of public works bonds, but the individual property owner shared the cost of laying water mains down his street. The Charter of 1874 gave the Board of Public Works authority to assess abutters on either side of the street the amount which the board felt that the given property “specifically benefited by reason of laying such water pipe.[24] In addition to maintaining and expanding the water system of the city, the Board of Public Works had responsibility for the city’s sewer system and its streets, alleys, and sidewalks. The Board inherited a sewer system which was really no system at all. Although citizens had discussed a public sewer system for the city as early as 1845, little except pollution and complaint happened for many years thereafter.

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The Milwaukee Sentinel in 1865 called its readers’ attention to the “little stream trickling down . . .” the sides of the city’s streets, “the stench from which precluded effectually any idea you may be inclined to form that it is pure spring water.” The Sentinel’s subtle plea for a sewer system achieved little.[25] In 1872 the city possessed only eleven miles of sewer, but the Board of Public Works began an active program, and by 1878 Milwaukee had seventy-four miles of sewers. The 1874 charter also authorized the Board to prepare special assessments for sewer construction, dividing the actual cost of construction in half and charging the abutters of either side for laying the main on the basis of the number of frontage feet each owned. If the costs of laying the main exceeded the maximum allowable assessment of $1.60 per linear foot, however, the city as a whole covered excess costs.[26] Most of the early street improvements in Milwaukee, were the private projects of the promoters who hoped to enhance the attractiveness of their particular section. In the 1840’s and ‘50’s abutters paid most of the cost of improvements, but until the 1870’s the city itself carried out no major improvement program. A new state law in 1873 greatly stimulated street improvement by permitting the council to order needed improvements without a petition from the abutters. By 1880 the city had 21.5 miles of streets paved with wooden blocks, the most popular form of paving in the city in those years. As with water pipes, the abutters paid for the cost of street improvements to the degree that their property was judged by the Board of Public Works to have been benefited by the improvement.[27] The 1870’s stands out as a decade of major civic improvement for Milwaukee. The city built and operated a municipal water works, established a permanent board with a professional staff and the responsibility and authority to maintain and expand not only the water works, but a sewer system, and the public streets. Through the late 1870’s the board conducted a vigorous expansion program which, because of the high taxes it required, resulted in a minor taxpayers revolt in 1880 and 1881 followed by a slowdown in the rate of expansion for a few years thereafter. Thus 1880 ended the first phase in the development of those services which are essential to an urban population.


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Notes

[1] Ray Hugh Whitbeck, The Geography and Economic Development of Southeastern Wisconsin, Wisconsin Geological and Natural History Survey, Bulletin No. 58, Educational Series No. 6 (Madison, 1921), pp. 41, 45. [2] Bayrd Still, Milwaukee: The History of a City (Madison, 1965), ch. One, provides the best short scholarly treatment of the origin and promotion of the town. [3] John W. Reps, The Making of Urban America: A History of City Planning in the United States (Princeton, 1965), pp. 294-299, 302. [4] Charter of the City of Milwaukee, including a portion of the amendments thereto, up to and including the year A.D. 1861, William A. Prentiss, compiler (Milwaukee, 1861), pp. 94-98; Wisconsin, An Act to Revise, Consolidate, and Amend the Charter of the City of Milwaukee . . . (Milwaukee, 1874), ch. VI, sec. 25 (Section 31 after 1887). The theme of “privatism” receives extensive treatment in Sam Bass Warner, Jr.’s The Private City (Philadelphia, 1968). [5] Still, Milwaukee, pp. 33-37; Laurence Marcellus Larson, A Financial and Administrative History of Milwaukee, Bulletin of the University of Wisconsin, No. 242, Economics and Political Science Series, vol. 4, no. 2 (Madison, 1908), pp. 12, 14. [6] Whitbeck, Southeastern Wisconsin, pp. 1, 3, 18. [7] Still, Milwaukee, pp. 170-175; Bessie Louise Pierce, A History of Chicago, vol. II (New York, 1947), pp. 35-59. [8] Milwaukee Chamber of Commerce, Annual Report for the year ending December 31, 1874 (Milwaukee, 1875), p. 17, Annual Report for the year ending December 31, 1887 (Milwaukee, 1888), p. 47; Adolph Gerd Korman, “A Social History of Industrial Growth and Immigrants: A Study with Particular Reference to Milwaukee, 1880-1920,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1959, p. 35; William Edward Derby, “A History of the Port of Milwaukee, 1835-1910,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1963, pp. 289-291. [9] Whitbeck, Southeastern Wisconsin, pp. 44, 69-71. [10] Whitbeck, Southeastern Wisconsin, pp. 84-90; early manufacturing in Milwaukee receives extensive treatment in Margaret Walsh, “The Manufacturing Frontier: Pioneer Industry in Antebellum Wisconsin, 1830-1860,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1969, Ch. 3. [11] Norbert J. Stefaniak, Industrial Location Within the Urban Area: A Case Study of the Location Characteristics of 1950 Manufacturing Plants in Milwaukee County, Wisconsin Commerce Reports, vol. 6, no. 5 (Madison, 1962), p. 15. [12] Whitbeck, Southeastern Wisconsin, pp. 98-101, 186-187; Still, Milwaukee, pp 186-187, 322, 332. [13] Still, Milwaukee, pp. 330-331; Whitbeck, Southeastern Wisconsin, pp. 101-103; Thomas C. Cochran, The Pabst Brewing Company (New York, 1948), p. 70. [14] Whitbeck, Southeastern Wisconsin, pp. 1, 18, 111-116; Korman, “Social History of Industrial Growth,” pp. 45-46; Still, Milwaukee, pp. 335-336. [15] Milwaukee Chamber of Commerce, Annual Report, 1879 (Milwaukee, 1880), pp.47-48. [16] Whitbeck, Southeastern Wisconsin, p. 86; Stefaniak, Industrial Location, p. 2.1; Still, Milwaukee, pp. 112, 188; Walsh, “The Manufacturing Frontier,” p. 115. [17] Justin Galford, “The Foreign Born and Urban Growth in the Great Lakes, 18501950: A Study of Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, and Milwaukee,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, New York University, 1957, pp. 232-234.

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[18] ‘Still, Milwaukee, pp. 269-271; Galford, “The Foreign Born,” p. 242; “Historical Sketch of St. Stanislaus Parish,” Diamond Jubiliee: St. Stanislaus, 1866-1941 (Milwaukee, 1941). [19] U.S. Department of Interior, Tenth Census, 1880, Report on the Social Statistics of Cities, II (Washington, 1887), p. 665. [20] Still, Milwaukee, pp. 79, 112, 259-260; Whitbeck, Southeastern Wisconsin, p. 86; Korman, “Social History of Industrial Growth,” p. 107. [21] Still, Milwaukee, p. 276; Korman, “Social History of Industrial Growth,” p. 6. [22] Still, Milwaukee, pp. 269, 271; Korman, “Social History of Industrial Growth,” pp. 110, 112. [23] Report of the Select Committee of the Common Council of the City of Milwaukee in Relation to Water Works (n.d., n.p. [handwritten notation on report “1860-61”] ); Still, Milwaukee, pp.99, 166, 247; W.S. Chesbrough, Report on Milwaukee Water Works (Milwaukee, 1868); Larson, Financial History, pp. 108112; Communication and Report from Board of Water Commissioners to the Common Council of Milwaukee (Milwaukee, 1873). [24] Charter of the City, 1874, Ch. V, Sec. 10, Sec. 15. [25] Milwaukee Sentinel, June 26, 1865, as quoted in Still, Milwaukee, p.242 n. 26/ [26] Charter of the City of Milwaukee, 1874, Ch. 8, Sec. 10. Sec. 12. [27] Charter of the City of Milwaukee, 1874, Ch. 7, Sec. 2, Sec. 6; Still, Milwaukee, pp. 360-361; Larsen, Financial History, pp. 115-116.

(Bay View file)

“Pick out Your Man—And Kill Him” The Riots of 1886 by

Bernhard C. Korn Historical Messenger, March 1963 he first struggle between capital and labor reached its peak in Milwaukee in 1886 as it did in other parts of the country during that year. Strikes were rampant; labor was ready to show its strength; and when the leaders of labor decided to shut down every industry in the city, the stage was set for bloodshed. The crisis was brought on by a changing economy. Milwaukee, the grain shipping center of the Great Lakes, was sprouting many new industries. Factories were being built in the rural communities surrounding the city; farmers were leaving their land to live near their work. The agricultural economy of the district was changing to an industrial economy, and the change was not to be made without a struggle. The agricultural frontier had been noted for its democracy. Here all were on an equal footing; all mingled together socially and there was no distinction of rank. The industrial frontier presented a totally different picture. Industry could not be carried on in the wide open spaces. Workers needed to live near their place of work. Industry required capitalists, needed superintendents, foremen, bosses. These, too, lived near their work and near the laborers in the factories. Gradually a class consciousness, utterly unknown in the settlement days, made itself felt. Where a man had formerly carved his fortune from the wilderness, he must now work for hire for a man who seemed to enjoy many of the pleasures of life which were denied his workers. The struggle for existence became more intense as the ease with which economic independence could be attained decreased. This weakening of individual independence brought on the thought of collective action. The workers would band together for the purpose

T

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of securing for labor more of labor’s products. Unions, of the craft type, were springing up throughout the country. In 1848, ship chandlers were asking that their work day be reduced from twelve to ten hours, and in 1854 the typographical union was organized, the first to unite with a national group. The building of the railroads made the iron worker important, and in 1858 the Order of the Sons of Vulcan was born in Milwaukee, espousing the then novel Rochdale theme brought to this city by Joseph Bennett, an eloquent Englishman. They asked for the organization of cooperative stores for the benefit of the workers. Imported ideologies were not limited to the Bennett brand. During 1869, in Philadelphia, one Stephens, a tailor, formed a secret organization known as the “Noble Order of the Knights of Labor” which attracted to its ranks many disgruntled workers regardless of specific occupation. It appealed particularly to the many immigrants who came to America after being excluded from Germany, Russia and France, many of them disciples of Karl Marx. Several Milwaukee groups were soon affiliated with this organization; and by 1885, due to the decline of craft unions, the Knights had some 16,000 members in this city grouped in fifty lodges. They championed the eight-hour day, better working conditions and the organization of cooperatives which would give the worker a greater share of the wealth he created. State organizer for the Knights was Robert Schilling, a founder of the Greenback Party in Ohio, who moved in 1880 to Wisconsin where he edited the “Volksblatt” and “Der Reformer,” two German-language news papers which espoused the cause of the workingman. The Populist-type program of the Knights of Labor was not strong enough for many of the Milwaukee immigrants who had been won over to either Marxian or Lassalleian socialism before leaving Europe. The adherents of this group advocated political action by the workingman as a unit and formed the basis of the later Social Democratic party. As early as 1866 labor was able to elect John T. Tallmadge mayor of Milwaukee on an eight-hour work program, and in 1882 it elected John M. Stowell, a philanthropic industrialist, as Mayor on the same platform. But there were those, especially among the foreign born, who, while adhering to the principle of political action believed that direct action through a series of strikes would prove of greater benefit to the workers. They found a leader in Paul Grottkau, who when threatened


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with arrest as a leader in the German socialist uprising, migrated to the United States. Settling first in Chicago, he moved to Milwaukee in 1883 where he edited the radical “Arbeiter Zeitung” and soon became the leader of the more militant branch of labor. The “eight-hour day with ten-hour pay” became the goal of labor and since political action was deemed too slow, a general city-wide strike was to be called to force the issue. This militant attitude of labor was not confined to Milwaukee. Here was mirrored a movement which was going on in every industrial center in the country and which is best remembered by the Haymarket riots in Chicago. Early in 1886 strikes mushroomed in various sections of the city. The Hoffman & Billings plant, manufacturers of plumbing fixtures, found its laborers demanding increased pay. Twenty-four moulders at the Milwaukee Stove Works, who were earning from $17 to $24 a week for six ten-hour days, demanded the same pay for an eight-hour day, which was refused by E. P. Dutcher, president of the company. Laborers employed on the Chicago & Northwestern railroad, who were unloading cinders for ballasting a new furnace for the North Chicago Rolling Mills, demanded an increase in pay from $1.25 a day to $1.50. Dr. Enoch Chase, pioneer settler, brick yard and bottle works owner, was faced with a demand for increased pay for his glass blowers. In many instances industrialists were willing to grant the eight-hour day but they balked at paying a ten-hour wage for the shorter day. Strike after strike resulted until by May 1 some 12,000 strikers were milling about the city. On the sunny afternoon of May 2 the striking laborers staged a large parade through the down-town streets carrying banners proclaiming the eight-hour day, coupled with slogans asking for higher wages and greater privileges for the workers. At the picnic which followed at the Milwaukee Gardens there was not only “bratwurst und bier” but there were also inflammatory speeches by Grottkau, A. Bonzel and others of the more radical group. “Every shop in Milwaukee must be closed down” until the laborers’ rights were recognized was the general theme of the speeches, and by the time the crowd dispersed it was clear that the morrow would bring trouble. Robert Schilling and his Knights of Labor gave only lukewarm support to the parade and picnic. Only one assembly of the Knights marched; and Schil-

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ling, who was not as radical as Grottkau, found himself in a position where he had to give half-hearted support to a movement which was not entirely to his liking. The day after the picnic more plants were closed down, but there were still many workers who were either satisfied with their working conditions or who were opposed to the more violent tactics preached by the radical leaders. Most important industries which remained in operation were the E. P. Allis works on old Clinton street (now South First), the West Milwaukee car shops, and the largest industry of all at the time, the North Chicago Rolling Mill in Bay View which employed some 1600 workers. When the Milwaukee Iron Company, the later North Chicago Mill, was organized in 1867, it soon went into the manufacture of steel; and since no experienced steel workers were available in America duringthat early period, several hundred skilled steel craftsmen were brought to Milwaukee from England and Scotland. In 1875 these workers organized the “National Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers” which soon became the strongest craft union in the city. Ten years later this union felt strong enough to join issue with the North Chicago Rolling Mill Company, and a strike seeking increased pay and improved labor conditions was called. For nine months the contest continued with the men, by this time poverty-stricken and discouraged, returning to work without having gained any of their objectives. The mill workers, struggling to pay the debts which they had incurred during the long strike, gave little heed to the noisy, ranting talks of Grottkau and his crowd. They wanted no more of strikes. Ignoring the wishes of the mill workers, the Central Labor Union, the name under which the Grottkau group operated, was determined that the mills would be closed down. It appears that the immigrant Poles, largely located on the South Side of the city, were much more susceptible to the oratory of the radicals than were their fellow workers in the German quarter. Meetings held in the vicinity of St. Stanislaus Church on Mitchell street drew the largest crowds and created the most apprehension. It was this group that, under the direct leadership of Bonzel, determined to march upon the South Side plants which were still in operation and force them to close.


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On May 4 the march began. The railroad shops closed down to protect property as did the Falk Brewery, whose workers had riot joined the original walk-out of the Brewers Union. But at the old Reliance Works the strikers ran into stubborn resistance. E. P. Allis saw no reason for closing his plant because his men seemed satisfied with their jobs. When the uncontrolled strikers attempted to storm into the shops, the workers in the plant fumed them back with streams of water from their fire hoses. The shouting and the rioting got nowhere; but fearing bloodshed on the following day, E. P. Allis closed his plant and told his men to remain at home. In the meantime, another group of strikers started a march on the rolling mills. As they proceeded down the Kinnickinnic valley, they were joined by sympathizers until the mob numbered some 700 men by the time they reached the Kinnickinnic River Bridge. Here they saw a few workers in the Corrigan coal yard so they stopped long enough to force these men to quit. Fearful of more serious disorder, Lieut. Berger of the South Side Police station, placed his entire force of ten men in the patrol wagon and trailed at the rear of the mob in order to be on hand if needed. Coming down South Bay Street, the mob saw Captain Donahue, a colorful pioneer, who later recorded his reminiscences for posterity, directing a group of men who were repairing the mill docks. The marchers insisted that the men quit work. The good Captain thought otherwise, and a fight ensued. Whether, as Donahue insisted ever after, his men remained on the job, or whether, as the Sentinel reported, they retired into the mill yard, is not important, but this preliminary skirmish served to whet the appetite of the mob for the adventure ahead. It served, too, to bring out the entire Milwaukee police force of some forty men, who trailed the mob despite the fact that the marchers had now crossed the Milwaukee city limits and were in the village of Bay View. A description of the scene is presented by a Milwaukee Sentinel reporter who wrote in his paper: “It was a formidable looking crowd as it gathered its scattered divisions into one solid mass just in front of the mill office. A few members of the Central Labor Union, wearing red badges, were circulating among them industriously and tried to create trouble by inciting them to force. Their efforts were seconded by a few anarchists and Socialists. Probably not one-tenth of the men could

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Milwaukee Stories understand English and it is doubtful if the proportion of citizens among them was larger.”

Schilling and Bonzel, with a committee of ten, met with mill superintendent J. C. Parks, Francis Hinton, secretary of the company, and Justice Mclver of Bay View and demanded that the works be shut down. The answer was an emphatic “No,” and Supt. Parks explained that the mill workers had just concluded a long strike and were in no mood to participate in another. Such talk did not satisfy the committee which now demanded to enter the shops and address the workers directly. This, too, received an emphatic “No.” Parks and Mclver addressed the crowd in an effort to disperse it, but constant heckling and shouts for “Eight Hours” were the only response. The mob became increasingly restless to the point where Sheriff George Paschen, who with his men had joined the Milwaukee police, feared violence which his forces could not control. He formally requested Gov. Jeremiah M. Rusk, who had established headquarters in the Plankinton Hotel in order to observe the local situation at first hand, “to afford me such assistance as may be necessary to preserve the peace in this emergency.” When Mayor Emil Wallber added his appeal for aid “to maintain order and to protect the lives and the property of our citizens,” the Governor was ready to act. Five clear taps were sounded on the fire alarm bell in the city, and, as the “Sentinel” reported, “tradesmen dropped their tools; clerks their pens and businessmen left their stores to hurry to the armory.” The fourth battalion, under command of Major Traeumer, was transported to Bay View via the Chicago & Northwest railroad where it was received with jeers and hoots from the crowd. And when the mob saw the Kosciusko Guards march to the mills under command of Captain Borchardt, real trouble threatened, for these men were known to the mob as South Siders and their neighbors. Bricks were thrown; clubs swung and fists flew until finally the Guards, incensed, turned about and fired. Most of the shots were aimed high, but two struck the mill office, perforated the door and convinced the crowd that the guns of the militia were not ammunitioned <sic> with blanks. The shots quieted the mob for the time being, and the troops were permitted to enter the plant unmolested.


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Once inside the militia was deployed so as to best guard the three sides of the works while the crowd outside gave vent to occasional yells of impotent rage. Toward evening resentment again flared, and an attempt was made to tear down the heavy mill yard fence. Captain Miller of the Lincoln Guards frustrated the effort when, with drawn revolver, he led his men toward the spot, forcing the rioters to drop back. More successful was the mob when it set fire to several freight cars standing on a side track. To feed the troops, the tug F.C. Maxon loaded hams, sausages, canned fruits, pears and oranges at the Oneida Street bridge and then unloaded its cargo at the mill pier, thus avoiding the mob. Newspaper accounts related that lemonade was served to the men during the afternoon and that there was an ample supply of clay pipes and smoking tobacco while “a generous quarter master also furnished navy plug.” Gradually, as darkness came, the mob dispersed, but the end was not yet in sight. The morning of May 5 dawned clear and warm. Many of the strikers had slept in the open field during the night and an enterprising reporter who had slept with them wrote: “They have no organization or leader and act merely under pressure of momentary excitement.” All seemed imbued with one idea and that was “to clean out the militia in the morning.” At six o’clock the crowd reassembled in the vicinity of St. Stanislaus church, soon swelling to 1500 men. Once again they marched through the Kinnickinnic valley, down South Bay Street, to take positions before the bridge at the rolling mills. Because the strikes were nationwide and the finished product of the mill could not be delivered to strike bound industry elsewhere, Orrin W. Potter, president of the North Chicago Rolling Mill, ordered the Bay View plant closed after the troubles of May 4. This had no effect upon the mob. They had gained their first objective, but they still need to take care of the militia. Major Traemor sent word to the advancing horde that he would fire upon them unless they remained away from the mill. The order meant nothing to the marchers, many of whom had slept but little during the preceding night. On they came; and when they reached the intersection of South Bay and Lincoln avenues, the Sheridan Guards opened fire. There was a momentary halt, but then the mass formed again and continued to move toward the mill. As the troops marched

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out to meet them, saner counsel among the attackers prevailed. Blood had been spilled; that the militia would fire again was self-evident; and with this realization the great mass of humanity melted away, leaving the dead and wounded on the banks of Deer Creek. The volley by the militia killed seven men and wounded many others. Frank Kunkel, a retired mill worker, living near the bridge, was just coming out of the back door of his house to pump a bucket of water at his well, when a bullet felled him. A school boy of twelve, Frank Nowarczyk, who through curiosity, followed the mob from the South Side instead of going to school as his parents expected, was found by a bullet. As a matter of record the dead, besides the two already mentioned, were Johann Zazka, John Marsh, Martin Jankowiak, Robert Erdman, and Michael Ruchalski, all members of the mob. The most seriously wounded were Albert Erdman, brother of the dead Robert, John Osinski, Fred Golbeck and Cisimer Dudek. The killings effectively put an end to the May disorders. Some thirtyseven agitators, including Paul Grottkau, were arrested; and all were sentenced to jail or fined. Grottkau was to serve a year in jail but got out within six weeks. But his influence, as well as that of the Central Labor Union, declined, arid he soon left Milwaukee. Naturally, the mob action at the Rolling Mills, which was duplicated on the same day by riots at the Milwaukee Garden, where the crowd was fired upon by the militia without anybody being killed, brought much discussion. The killings were severely criticized, but Major Traeumer justified his orders in the following statement to the public: “Gov. Rusk gave me order to keep the crowd away from the works at all hazards. Shortly after seven o’clock we, saw a crowd numbering about 2,000 men marching down South Bay Street toward the works. I drew my men in line, facing the advancing crowd. The mob shouted “Burn the works” and “Kill the militia.” The crowd was ordered to halt but paid no attention to the command, but continued to advance. I then ordered my men to fire upon them at a range of about 200 yards. I think that this action was necessary to protect the property of the Rolling Mill company, and the lives of the militia.”


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From the testimony of several who served in the militia on that day, as well as from an item in the Milwaukee Sentinel, it is evident that at least one company at the mill shot to kill. According to these sources Captain Coogan said to his men: “Now boys, this is business, and I want you to do yourselves and your officers credit. I don’t want any of you to show the white feather and if I see a man running, I’ll bring him back by the neck. Above all things keep cool. Don’t lose your head but wait for the order to fire before you pull a trigger. And when you do fire, take an aim, pick out your man, and kill him.”

It is evident that if all members of the militia had followed this order many more would have been killed and wounded. Many undoubtedly contented themselves by firing over the heads of the mob. Gov. Rusk, who ordered out the militia, remained unperturbed by the killings, answering all complaints with a laconic “I seen my duty and I done it.” To a delegation of workers who came to protest he is reported to have said: “Go back and tell your men that if they keep the peace they will not be disturbed, but that I’ll protect from violence the men who want to work and the property of the city, if I have to shoot down every law violating striker in the city.”

That he suffered no eclipse from his position in the strikes is evidenced by the fact that President Harrison appointed him Secretary of Agriculture in 1889, a position which he held for four years. Such is the story of the labor riots in Milwaukee in 1886. The militia was withdrawn on May 13, labor returned to work at the old hours and the old rate, but the memory of the riots broadened the rift between capital and labor. The subsequent decline of the Central Labor Union and the Knights of Labor paved the way for the organization of the American Federation of Labor with which, during the next ten years, most of the Milwaukee craft unions became affiliated. The Milwaukee struggle mirrored a conflict which was nationwide and which is not yet resolved.

Mayor Dan Hoan (Daniel Hoan file)

Milwaukee and Its Baby Bonds by

Judge Max Raskin Milwaukee History, Spring 1985

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he depression of the 1930s had an impact both upon the citizen in his job, or more likely lack of one, and upon his local government. Among the thousands who were either completely or partially unemployed were homeowners whose ability to pay their real estate taxes fell to a new low. When October of 1932 arrived, the treasury at the Milwaukee City Hall was practically empty, and the school teachers were first to feel the pinch. There were no funds with which to pay their salaries. This was not an unusual phenomenon. A surge to pay real estate taxes usually took place in the first six months of the year. By the tenth month, the rush to pay taxes had subsided and the ability to pay any taxes had diminished to practically zero. Thus it was not uncommon for the city to borrow a few million dollars to tide itself over until the next year when new tax money started to roll in. During such periods the city had no difficulty in borrowing a few million dollars at acceptable rates of interest for a few short months. In that same October, Milwaukee banks failed to produce the first $100,000 of a $4 million loan at 5% percent interest that had been mutually agreed upon during that summer to meet the teachers’ payroll. Mayor Daniel W. Hoan regarded the failure as an act of treachery, particularly when coupled with the withholding of the loan. The bankers demanded to examine the city budget for the purpose of cutting services and eliminating employees. This would further add to the ever-increasing unemployment rolls. Such demands were never made in all the years the city had borrowed money from local banks on an interim basis, and Hoan viewed the bankers’ latest act as a challenge to the people’s right to govern. Hoan rejected the bankers’ invitation to negotiate because their terms included interference in the city’s budgetary business.

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The mayor left for New York to make inquiries about a loan from banks there. Those financiers were more than anxious to deal with a city that had a triple A rating while other municipalities were faltering in their abilities to repay loans. As a result, Dan Hoan obtained a million-dollar segment of a $4 million loan at 4 3/4 percent from a New York bank, a savings of more than $18,000 compared to the Milwaukee transaction. The mayor and his financial advisers recognized that the agonizing squeeze of 1932 was a forerunner of what was ahead. The country was in a deep depression, and the unemployment lines were lengthening. Unemployment compensate benefit plans were still in the planning stages. Mayor Hoan called a high level meeting in his office Alderman Sam Soref was among those who attended. Although Soref was not a members of the mayor’s political party, he was sympathetic and concerned with the current economic problem. Soref suggested an idea that complied with statutory authority. Namely, a scrip of currency should be issued to city employees in lieu of cash and which in time could be used to cancel out any debt owed the city. A bank representative who inadvertently was invited to attend the meeting asserted that, if the scrip were to draw interest, it might be more saleable. Hoan took up the laconic remark in the face of much criticism and proposed: “Well, if we must pay interest, we will make an iron-clad instrument which should be redeemable in a given number of years.” It was apparent that this quickly contrived plan required cleansing and sharpening. As city attorney, I was asked to take the matter into the legal laboratory and make the instrument legally binding and acceptable in the financial market. For this exacting job, I assigned Assistant City Attorneys Herbert C. Hirschboeck and Harry A. Kovenock. They had the freedom to call upon others in city hall like Comptroller William Wendt and Alderman Soref. What resulted from this teamwork was the instrument we named, “baby bond,” which was to draw 5 percent interest and issued in $10 and $100 denominations. This interest provision secured enough aldermanic votes to approve the proposal, with the assurance that the bonds were backed by unpaid tax certificates. The law at the time called


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for the default of real property if taxes were not paid when due for a continuous period of three years. Almost 50 percent of Milwaukee’s real estate, worth millions of dollars, was in that unfortunate state. But at the same time, that real estate provided security for repayment in cash of all baby bonds, plus 5 percent interest within four years. The plan was greeted with bitter resentment and was called “sheer folly” by officers of banks and representatives of the Real Estate Board, the Association of Commerce, taxpayers’ leagues, and the political opponents of the Socialists. It was obvious that the sale or acceptance of baby bonds in lieu of cash as salary payments had a number of hurdles to clear. The initial importance was to have the public accept baby bonds, but there was no cooperation from the press, major department stores, insurance companies, and other large institutions. I gathered a committee of twenty who would explain to small tradespeople, service companies and the “family grocery” types of organizations why and how the city would accept the baby bonds as cash. The message was simple. If a taxpayer ran a grocery store and accepted baby bonds for the sale of goods, the taxpayer could bring the baby bonds to the city treasurer’s office to pay taxes, permit fees, or any other obligations owed the city. The committee gathered enough names and places of businesses to assemble a roster called’ ‘The White List.’’ Thus, city employees could refer to the “White List” for firms willing to accept baby bonds to purchase goods or secure services. This cooperative system would keep the financial status of the baby bonds as near to par as possible. While the baby bonds were just getting into the market and “learning to walk,” the Milwaukee Journal wrote a bitter editorial implying that a public official, such as a police officer or property tax assessor, could be bribed by merely accepting baby bonds for whatever goods he may have to sell or to lower the assessment for mere acceptance of baby bonds from the taxpayer. It should be noted that when the first baby bonds arrived at the city, special meetings were held in Mayor Hoan’s office to devise plans for a city-wide campaign to sell the bonds to the public. On Monday, May 22, 1933 I attended a meeting in Hoan’s office at which a Civic Advisory Committee was formed to make plans for an advertising

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and educational campaign, in addition to other strategies to help the city sell its baby bonds. This committee included Chauncey Yockey, William George Bruce, Oscar Greenwald, Roy H. Pinkley, Fred S. Meyer, Harry Fitzgerald, George J. Reed, Walter Kasten, William Eichfeld and Carl Taylor, all of whom were connected with financial institutions, advertising agencies, department stores, contractors’ organizations, and public utilities. By this time many leaders in the community accepted the seriousness of these messages. The advisory group selected committees that planned moving pictures, streetcar, and billboard advertising, all of which were provided free to the city. The campaign included speakers who opened the shows at motion picture theaters on Saturday evening, May 27, 1933 and urged thousands of moviegoers “to buy baby bonds,” “make safe investments for idle money,” and “help the city maintain its credit.” Aldermen, representatives of the civic committee cooperating with the administration, and other officials spoke briefly, explaining the merits of the notes and the uses to which they could be put. Pamphlets were distributed in the movie theaters participating in the “investment pep talks,” and contained this message: “Confidence in your city and the opportunity of a sound investment will recommend these securities for your purchase. Milwaukee, as any other business, must liquidate its frozen assets and do it quickly. These assets are in the form of unpaid taxes. [Note: $17 million in real estate taxes and about $5 million in special assessments.] The ordinary procedure has been to sell the individual tax claim by means of a tax certificate. Because of the great number of these certificates of varying amounts, the general public has not been able to take advantage of a good investment. To hasten and simplify the process of liquidation the city is now offering this same investment in convenient, negotiable form.”

I explained to various audiences the legal challenges to the baby bond investment program presented in the courts. I explained that the opposition intended these legal maneuvers to defeat the whole concept. There could be but one result from any such defeat, and that was to force the city to accept the bankers’ programs, pay more interest on the loan, and allow outsiders to cut the budget.


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When Alderman David H. Davies of the old east side Eighteenth Ward was asked to speak at the Downer Theater, he balked. Davies maintained that public officials who urged investment in bonds were placed in the position of advocating purchase for the purpose of paying their salaries. William L. Pieplow of the citizens committee countered that Davies was not speaking in his own behalf, but in the interest of city government. At this point I told the aldermen at their special meeting at city hall, “It’s your baby and you’ve got to nurse it.” The speakers were given a prepared short speech to make. The message explained in a simple financial manner the purpose of the baby bonds, and why they were in good securities for investment. The presentation also said that the city was leading in health, safety and public finances as it had for many years. The bonds offered a profitable cooperation of the thrifty savers for the benefit of the taxpayer who could pay his taxes immediately and be assured that city services in general would not suffer. The bonds offered a guaranteed investment opportunity to the prudent businessman and reassurance to the city’s population. In particular, the message also stated: “It [the city] offers an issue off $5,000,000 of the tax redemption notes. It will pay the investors five dollars on each one hundred dollars each year. The notes will be paid in two, three, or at the longest, four years. These baby bonds bear five percent interest—two percent more than small investments usually pay. They call them baby bonds because they are yours in units of ten and a hundred dollars. In back of each hundred dollars of these baby bonds stands a pledge by tax certificate on three hundred thousand dollars worth of improved real estate. Back of them also is the guarantee of the city which does not miss or delay paying interest and principal on its notes and bonds.”

Police officers, firemen and school teachers took turns in distributing application cards. Taxpayers could direct the delivery of the bond to a particular bank of their choice or the city treasurer’s office. There also were billboard displays, a special electric sign “Buy Baby Bonds” on the city hall tower and “question and answer” pamphlets for distribution

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in schools, theaters, clubhouses, and business places. About 300,000 pamphlets were available when the baby bond drive got underway. The Board of Estimates simultaneously appointed a separate committee to arrange a speakers’ bureau to explain the bonds to civic and fraternal organizations and to interested investors. Also on same day the Civic Advisory Committee was formed, the federal treasury informed me that the interest paid investors holding the city’s baby bonds was exempt from federal income taxes. Three days later on May 25, 1933, I assured Mayor Hoan that the city’s tax redemption notes had “no spot of illegality.” I also declared that my office “has its gun well trained and is prepared to meet” any enemy who proposed by injunction to question the constitutionality of the baby bonds and disrupt the city’s plan of financing itself. This was my response to a communication from Mayor Hoan who, several days previously, had demanded that the city’s legal department take every possible step, including the use of criminal conspiracy statutes, to prevent “costly and pestiferous litigation.” In 1932 a total of eighteen injunctional actions had been started against the city. Seven were disposed of in the Circuit Court and eleven in the Wisconsin Supreme Court. In response to an inquiry from Mayor Hoan, I issued an opinion on June 14,1933 in which I held that the city tax redemption notes qualified under state law (Section 231.32). It was my opinion, therefore, that every executor, guardian or trustee could legally invest in such baby bonds. Alderman Paul Gauer, president of the common council, requested an opinion as to whether Series “A” of city tax redemption notes, called baby bonds, were acceptable legally as a deposit under the taxicab ordinance. In an opinion, prepared by Assistant City Attorney Hirschboeck, Gauer was informed that the acceptance of such notes or baby bonds under the provisions of the taxicab ordinance would be proper. This indicated a further enlargement of the utility of baby bonds in payments of debts owed to the city. Other questions involving the issuance of the baby bonds were resolved as they were brought to my attention by city officials. For example, Alderman William Baumann asked whether or not the tax redemption notes (Series A) of the City of Milwaukee could be used


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in lieu of money to purchase tax certificates from the city treasurer. In an opinion issued August 3, 1933 Alderman Baumann was advised in part that, “tax sale certificates issued for 1932 and prior year tax delinquencies which certificates are owned by the City of Milwaukee, Series A tax redemption notes are to be considered the equivalent of cash in the purchase of such certificates. Other investments in bonds by officials and heads of departments were safeguards for those individuals who needed cash funds for payment of services or purchase of goods which could not be obtained otherwise. On July 17, 1933, City Treasurer John W. Mudroch announced that the sale of baby bonds had passed the $300,000 mark. A special booth in the treasurer’s office had opened several days previously and did a brisk business, averaging more than $10,000 a day in sales. The city payrolls for April, May, and June, 1933 were combined in July and paid entirely in baby bonds. Naturally this tended to flood the market. For the rest of the year until December, city employees were paid with whatever cash was available, and the balance in baby bonds, the proportion being half and half. Those city employees who had waited three months for their pay were forced to convert their baby bonds into cash at a discount. Consequently, the market was flooded, and leading merchants would not accept them at par in payment for merchandise, except those loyal tradespeople and merchants who had lent their names to the White List. A new breed of financial speculators emerged. They were the few who had cash with which to buy bonds for as little as possible and then turn around and sell them at a profit to those who owed delinquent taxes. This caused a fall in the price of baby bonds. Gradually, however, the price of the baby bonds began to rise. More merchants accepted them. Payments of delinquent taxes increased, both in baby bonds and in cash. After the first baby bonds were issued in $10 and $100 denominations, some merchants requested smaller sizes so they would not be asked for cash in change for small purchases paid with $10 bonds. An issue of scrip similar to baby bonds, but in denominations of $1and $5 and non-interest bearing, was substituted for the same amount of the larger bonds. At first they were objected to because

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they did not bear interest, but the scrip was always exchangeable for the larger interest-bearing bonds. Ironically, big department stores and banks, as well as publiclyowned utilities, looked with great disfavor on the baby bonds and scrip when they first circulated; but when time proved how truly valuable they had become to investors and to the city’s economy as a whole, their attitudes began to change. For example, a merchant in December, 1934, offered $50,000 worth of baby bonds to the city at 100, considerably more than the 90 at which they had sold the previous December. Out-of-town purchasers bought the bonds for investments in late 1934 and by then most merchants gladly accepted them at par. All bonds were engraved on specially made and designed paper to prevent counterfeiting. In his 1936 study of City Government, Mayor Hoan estimated that circulation of the $12 million in baby bonds and their reissue by the city resulted in over $75 million in transactions in the community. Mayor Hoan also noted that with the issuance of the baby bonds “the banks lost their best and most reliable customer. They saw their savings accounts dwindle as depositors drew out their cash yielding as low as 2 1/2 percent for investment in municipal 5 percent paper.” Mayor Hoan concluded that the baby bond investment program succeeded despite the non-cooperation of the newspapers when it was proposed. In fact, he said, newspapers “opened fire” at the baby bond proposal even when it was in its embryonic state. An example of the newspaper “fire” referred to by Mayor Hoan appeared on the front page of the Milwaukee Journal on June 9, 1933 in an editorial titled “Selling to Yourself ”: “The city is asking its employes <sic> to buy, and to sell to friends, as many ‘baby bonds’ as possible. City employes <sic>, then, receiving a monthly salary, are asked to give part of it back to the city in turn for pieces of paper. Assuming that the paper ultimately will be paid, the employes <sic> still are asked, in effect, to defer a percentage of the salaries due them. The city therefore is trying to finance itself out of its own payroll. Well, the city is in desperate financial circumstances. It must have money to run on. There is only one final source for that money—the taxpayers.


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Instead of first economizing to the limit, and then going vigorously after delinquent taxpayers, the city chose to go right ahead on approximately the old-time salary schedule. Even now it is headed for a 30-hour week, with several thousand new employees added to the payrolls. By its actions the city administration has alienated taxpayers, small investors and many who might have bought its baby bonds on a friendly basis, just to help the city out. Meanwhile, banks, bond houses and other large investors have been shaking their heads and holding off. A city that can’t economize, they reason, when it is in serious financial trouble; that can’t moderately cut its payrolls; that plans to add more employes <sic>, and try out futile Socialistic experiments at such a time, and spend instead of save—well, such a city’s baby bonds do not appeal.”

This was the final blast from the local pundits. However, when the baby bonds ultimately showed success, one heard no cheer from Fourth Street where the Milwaukee Journal was published. Despite the opposition from such powerful quarters, the city rescued itself financially through its baby bond plan, much to the dismay of bankers, large merchants, and editorial writers. The plan was so successful that in the future, should wholesale tax payments again become delinquent, I believe the city should issue new baby bonds secured by delinquent tax notes instead of borrowing money from the banks. Mayor Hoan, during his twenty-four-year tenure as chief executive of the City of Milwaukee, had zealously guarded the municipality’s high credit rating with the help of the unique baby bond innovation during the dismal years of the Great Depression. As a result, the City of Milwaukee retained its AAA bond rating with Standard & Poor’s Corporation for many years. The preservation of a high credit rating in the operation of a city government is just as important as maintaining a high credit rating for one’s family. The City of Milwaukee, by the innovation of baby bonds, kept out of a financial squeeze when it occurred and showed its leadership in municipal affairs. The reputation that Milwaukee had gained among the financiers in the city spilled over to help create a climate of clean government which could serve as a model for other municipalities.

Allis-Chalmers strike of 1946 (William J. McGowan file)

Milwaukee Labor after World War II by

Darryl Holter Milwaukee History, Autumn-Winter 1999 This paper was first presented at a symposium held in conjunction with the Milwaukee County Historical Society’s presentation of the exhibition Snapshots from the Family Album: Milwaukee Labor After World War II. The program was held on September 16, 2000 at the Wisconsin Black Historical Society and Museum, and it was presented in cooperation with the Wisconsin Labor History Society with funding from the Wisconsin Humanities Council.

he end of World War II marked the beginning of a new era for organized labor in Milwaukee and across industrial America. The return of soldiers from far-flung war fronts around the world signaled an end to the labor shortages that greatly concerned industry during the war years. The end of rationing offered new hopes for consumer spending and possibilities for broad based economic growth. The enhanced union security won by labor on the home front during the war years resulted in a larger base of union membership and implied a greater role for economic reforms in the postwar era for labor in society. The national unity created by the war effort provided a basis for united political action that could create a new set of social and economic reforms in the postwar era. Yet the postwar optimism shared by most Americans was tempered by a number of concerns. Would the end of wartime production efforts lead to a recession and unemployment? Would the return of veterans to the workplace result in widespread displacement of women and minorities? Would the gains made by unions in the New Deal and wartime years be erased once the crisis had abated? In retrospect, it seems fairly clear that the most optimistic objectives set by organized labor were not fully realized. But the record also shows

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that unions continued to prosper during the postwar years and their influence grew despite serious efforts to retard their growth. Indeed it was during the decade following the end of the Second World War that organized labor attained the highest percentage of union density in its history as nearly 50 percent of the nonagricultural workforce was enrolled in unions. But for unions in the Milwaukee area, the postwar period was marked by a new wave of strikes, bitter political battles, and a search for a new role for labor within society.[1]

Postwar Strikes

Everyone knew that strikes would break out once the war had ended. The reasons were simple. Wages had fallen behind prices and this problem became more acute as emergency overtime hours were scaled back. The end of the war put an end to the “No-Strike Pledge” and a strong pent-up demand for consumer goods fueled worker activism. Lurking in the background was a fear that the end of war might result in postwar depression that could wipe out labor’s gains since 1935. The failure of President Truman’s Labor Management Conference coincided with the beginning of wildcat strikes in key industries. In November 1945 the UAW called out 320,000 GM workers to shut down the nation’s largest corporation, a strike that affected many locations in Wisconsin. In Milwaukee the number of worker-days lost to strikes from 1945 to 1949 was eighteen times that of the wartime years. The strike wave extended into 1946 and included a wide range of industries including steel, paper, oil refining, meatpacking, and electronics. Ten of thousands of Wisconsin workers took part including Milwaukee brewery workers, battery workers at Globe Union, steelworkers at Chain-Belt in Milwaukee, and about eight thousand workers at the Allis Chalmers plant in West Allis.[2] The postwar strikes were considered to be successful because they produced large wage increases. Unfortunately, these increases were too often offset by rising prices. Moreover the postwar strikes greatly upset the business community and various efforts were undertaken to weaken labor’s power through legislation. One example of this trend in Milwaukee occurred following a brief strike against the Gas Company in Milwaukee in 1947. The strike generated fears that industrial activity


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could be crippled if public utility workers were able to strike. Telephone workers like Catherine Conroy in Milwaukee had begun to transform employee associations into the Wisconsin Telephone Guild during the war years. When the Bell Phone system refused to negotiate with the National Federation of Telephone Workers in 1947, telephone workers in Milwaukee walked off the job.[3] The phone strike, marked by picketing and other demonstrations, produced apprehension among businesses, farmers and many elected officials. With Republicans in control of the state legislature, a new law called the Public Utilities Act of 1947-1949 was enacted. The law banned strikes and provided for conciliation and, if needed, compulsory arbitration.[4] Milwaukee area unions vigorously opposed efforts to enforce the new law. Subsequently overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court, the Public Utilities Act nevertheless revealed a more sophisticated resistance to the spread of unionism into unorganized sectors of the work force. Wisconsin was one of eleven states that enacted similar laws in 1947. Another major strike in Milwaukee took place in 1953 when Local 9 of the Brewery workers struck all five breweries: Schlitz, Pabst, Miller, Blatz, and Gettleman. The strike dragged on for two months until Blatz broke ranks and negotiated an agreement for an hourly raise in wages of 63 cents per hour. The other breweries quickly fell into line and the strike ended.[5] The postwar strikes differed from those of the 1930s in several important ways. Unlike previous strikes, when unions battled for the right to organize and bargain, these strikes were launched to improve existing union contracts. The question was no longer whether or not unions would exist, but on what terms they would co-exist with management. Second, unlike the earlier strikes, the postwar strikes were fairly well organized and generally peaceful affairs. Government protection of certain labor activities made it easier for all workers, not just the more daring militants and activists, to participate in meetings, picketing, public relations efforts, and other actions. With the availability of NLRB-regulated activities, unions relied less upon militancy and mass picketing.

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Postwar Labor Politics

Postwar labor politics were marked by a growing controversy involving the role of Communists in the unions and the steady gravitation toward the Democratic party. The 1930s are noted for a great revival of progressive and radical politics, but the end of the decade saw a resurgence of conservative politics, with important consequences for organized labor. In Wisconsin, labor’s great victories in the 1936 election of Governor Philip La Follette as well as near majorities in both houses of the legislature were reversed in November 1938 when the Republican Julius Heil was elected. The Farmer-Labor-Progressive Federation (FLPF), carefully crafted by Henry Ohl and leaders of the Wisconsin State Federation of Labor (WSFL), lay in ruins and conservatives dominated the state legislature. They began their work by undoing the Wisconsin Labor Relations Act (the “Little Wagner Act” of 1937) and replacing it with the much more restrictive Wisconsin Employment Peace Act. In many ways the provisions of the new state labor law prefigured the restrictive Taft-Hartley amendments that Congress attached to the National Labor Relations Act in 1947.[6] Part of the reason for the Republican victories is explained by labor’s inability to unite around a common political agenda and party. Since the turn of the century, Wisconsin AFL unions had maintained a close relationship with the Socialist party (SP), especially in Milwaukee and other industrial areas. Although interaction between the unions and the SP ebbed and flowed over the years, many of the top officers and staff of the WSFL, the Milwaukee Federated Trades Council, and many of the affiliated AFL unions were at least nominal members of the SP. Indeed, some complained that it was necessary to be a Socialist in order to become a union leader or staff. But the long-standing linkages between the SP and the unions began to break down in the 1930s and 1940s, raising new questions about the best political strategy for organized labor. The SP’s special relationship with Milwaukee labor came under attack from the left by the Communist party (CP) and from the right by the Democratic party. Within the labor movement. Communist party activists and other radicals competed with the SP for the support of rank and file workers and supporters who were needed to mount a serious grass-roots movement. The Communists were serious com-


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petitors. Their organizational approach, in conformity with CP trade union work in the industrialized world, was to form party-led groups at the shop level to monitor the situation, agitate consistently, and influence local union policies. This emphasis on shop floor political action, combined with their willingness to work tirelessly to mobilize the rank and file, won the Communists a formidable base of support in Milwaukee area plants. The influence of the CP grew after 1935 with the new Popular Front political strategy and the arrival of Eugene and Peggy Dennis, who proved to be skillful organizers who were able to put the party on Wisconsin’s political map in the late 1930s.[7] The rapid rise of the CIO unions also provided new opportunities for CP labor activists to emerge in positions of leadership within the new industrial unions and their state and local councils, often to the detriment of SP unionists. Worse for the SP, as the battle between the AFL and CIO intensified, the SP labor activists, while supporting their longtime allies in the AFL, often found it hard to conform to the AFL’s determined opposition to the CIO. Frank Zeidler described this delicate situation and the difficulties facing the SP in the following terms: “The AFL was not prepared to take over organizing industrial unions because of trade union bureaucracy, the CIO was hindered from fully displacing the AFL across the board by the early Communist leadership, and the Socialists were ineffective in the face of the popularity of FDR, the movement of members into the Democratic party, and their relatively small numbers in the CIO.”[8] While the SP’s union strategy sputtered, the Democratic party which had never enjoyed much of a following in Wisconsin, greatly increased its popularity during the FDR years. This trend was especially pronounced in the large industrial unions of the CIO where new union leaders were inclined to avoid risky third party strategies and move toward the party of the New Deal. At the same time, the SP was confronted with a new opposition within the AFL. A new coalition of unions, including teamsters, building trades, and service employees began to challenge the old leadership in the 1940s. By 1950 many of the old Socialist leaders were largely displaced by a new group of leaders who tended to be younger, less political, and more conservative. Because the CP never made much headway in the AFL unions it was within the industrial unions of the CIO that the Communist controversy played

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itself out. The issue had flared up in the late 1930s but was pushed to the back burner during most of the wartime years with the U.S. in alliance with the Soviet Union. At the end of the war, it became clear that pro-CP unionists were strongly entrenched in the leadership of the Milwaukee CIO council and the State CIO council as well as in many local unions. In 1946 the anticommunist forces regrouped and waged a more sophisticated effort to dislodge the incumbents. This generated intense factionalism and set up bitter internal struggles that roiled the CIO unions and councils. In December 1946, the right wing forces triumphed in the Milwaukee council leading to a purge of leftist leaders. A similar struggle unfolded at the state level in 1947. The triumph of the right wing unionists in Milwaukee prefigured the purge of the Communist-led unions from the national CIO in 1948 and 1949.[9] Between 1946 and 1948, the influence of Communists and radical activists was steadily reduced in the CIO unions.[10] With the decline of the Socialist party (and the dissolution of the FLPF), many unionists considered the Democratic party as the best vehicle for advancing labor’s cause, in 1943, the CIO had organized the nation’s first Political Action Committee (PAC) to campaign for FDR and the Democrats in 1944. While some activists saw the new PAC as a stalking horse for a future labor party, the majority of CIO leaders saw it as a means of steering the Democratic Party toward labor’s goals. Milwaukee became a laboratory for this experiment in 1946 when the CIO decided to support labor activists as candidates in Democratic primaries for the Fourth Congressional District. Edmund Bobrowicz, a staff representative for the left wing Fur and Leather Workers Union, ran an active “get out the labor vote” campaign against incumbent Democrat, Thaddeus Wasielewski. Against the odds, Bobrowicz won the primary, beating the incumbent in working class wards that had been carried strongly by Wasielewski in the past.[11] This upset created an improbable general election in 1946 in which John Brophy, a former Socialist, ran as a Republican; Bobrowicz, allegedly a Communist, ran as a Democrat, and Wasielewski, a Democrat, ran as an Independent Brophy won. In another upset election, Joseph McCarthy defeated U.S. Senator Robert M. La Follette, Jr., in the Republican primary of 1946. The


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old friend of labor, who had chaired the dramatic Senate hearings on unfair labor practices in 1937-1939, was defeated partly due to complacency on the part of his own campaign strategists. But organized labor did little or nothing to support La Follette. The State Federation of Labor did not endorse in the primary, nor did the Milwaukee Federated Trades Council or the Building Trades Council. Several AFL leaders, including Jake Friedrick, signed a statement in support of La Follette, but one who did not was State Federation of Labor President George Haberman. For its part, the CIO seemed to be quite hostile to La Follette, or at least its Wisconsin newspaper regularly took La Follette to task for his criticisms of the Soviet Union. As the Progressive movement dissolved and its elected officials moved to the Republican and Democratic parties, many CIO leaders hoped La Follette would become a Democrat. Adding to the difficulty was the CIO’s decision to field candidates in Democratic primaries for Congress. This had the effect of making it impossible for CIO members to vote for La Follette in the Republican primaries, which was where McCarthy defeated La Follette. In retrospect, it seems that the internal political struggles within the AFL unions (between Socialists and pragmatists) and the CIO unions (between Communists and Democrats), had a paralyzing influence on labor’s political action. Jurisdictional conflicts between the AFL and the CIO also worked against forming a common political agenda. Now there were several “spokespersons” for labor, not just the AFL leaders, but also the CIO, the Building Trades Council, the leaders of giant new industrial unions, and the new “regional directors” assigned to the CIO unions that had grown so rapidly under the protection of the NLRA and during the war years when the labor market was very tight. While one could debate the pros and cons of the demise of Socialist, Communist, and other political influences within the labor movement, the fact remains that their departure greatly narrowed the intellectual scope of the labor movement. Newer leaders were less aware of the history and traditions that had built the labor movement in the Badger State. How else can we explain how it came to pass that almost no union political activity took place between 1940 and 1946? Why did the state Federation of Labor, a well-established player in state politics

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that frequently saw its leaders elected to the state legislature, remain on the political sidelines through most of this period until the mid1950s? Although the AFL offered last-minute endorsements in its publications, President George Haberman had little interest in fostering political activism or political alliances or grass-roots coalitions. Answering critics who complained that he worked too closely with Republican officials, Haberman replied: “I am not a Democrat. I am not a Republican. I never was a Progressive, and was for a short time a Socialist. I belong to no party. I am not going to lay the eggs of the labor federation in one basket.”[12] This antipolitical, pragmatic outlook was deeply ingrained in the thinking of many labor leaders in the 1950s. In labor’s political lexicon it was often labeled “nonpartisan.”[13] Even the CIO was not immune to these tendencies; in early 1948, the CIO council in Milwaukee voted to endorse Dwight Eisenhower for President. Only in 1954 with the William Proxmire campaign for governor did Wisconsin labor become politically active in a more unified way. Doubtless the existence of two separate federations made political coordination difficult. The merger of the AFL and CIO in 1955 helped, although the merger at the county and state level had to wait until 1958.

Labor in Society

The war had a great impact on working people. Soldiers drafted into the military were drawn from working class backgrounds. Their departure from the labor force opened the door to others who had not been employed in industrial production, especially women, minorities and rural workers. With the end of hostilities many women returned to the home, but many reentered the workforce or simply continued to work. Similarly, black workers moved into jobs that had been impossible to acquire in the prewar period. It was during these postwar years that organized labor, and society in general, began to confront issues that later emerged in the civil rights movement of the 1960s and the women’s movement of the 1970s. As Professor Joe Trotter, Jr., showed in his study of Milwaukee, the wartime labor market drew African-Americans, including female workers, out of their rural, service, and domestic jobs and into industrial workplaces. Further, the CIO’s inclusive approach to organizing industrial unions


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helped black workers in Milwaukee. As Trotter noted, “Only when the activities of blacks on their own behalf intersected with the organizing drive of the CIO and the labor demands of World War II did Afro-Americans regain their industrial foothold.”[14] As the black population in Milwaukee increased, tensions arose around the issue of discrimination in jobs, housing, and accommodations. The CIO made special efforts to address civil rights by putting black representatives on standing committees, working in coalitions with the NAACP and the Urban League, and helping to mobilize the black community for elections. A watered down version of a bill to prohibit discrimination in public amusement places, introduced by Milwaukee Farmer-Labor Progressive Federation lawmaker Ben Rubin in 1937, had been signed into law. In 1945 Governor Goodland established the Commission on Human Rights which eventually received state funding to form local commissions and promote voluntary compliance with existing civil rights legislation.[16] “By the war’s end,” Joe Trotter wrote, “the CIO had emerged as the strongest ally of blacks in their push for a municipal housing authority and low-income housing.”[17] In Milwaukee the AFL and CIO joined with civil rights groups to support the Wisconsin Fair Employment Act in 1945, which sought to end workplace discrimination based on race, color, nationality, or religion. The bill aimed at filling the gap left by the end of President Roosevelt’s wartime Fair Employment Practices Committee.[18] The Industrial Commission was chosen to administer the law and a fair employment division was established in Milwaukee. But the lack of enforcement mechanisms greatly weakened the law, as was revealed when the Milwaukee CIO filed a complaint against the American Bowling Congress, which maintained its national headquarters in Milwaukee. The Congress had denied its official sanction to a bowling tournament sponsored by the CIO council because entries were not restricted to persons of the white race. The commission condemned the ruling, but it could do little more than urge the Bowling Congress to amend its constitution. Only in 1957 was the law strengthened with limited enforcement powers.[19] While there were many cases where certain unions, labor leaders, or workers opposed workplace diversity, there are also interesting cases where labor supported civil rights and criticized discrimination.

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The influx of women into the workplace also posed new issues for management and unions. Employers complained about special training and difficulties in compensating for differences in strength. But more often the major complaint, from women workers and management, was the need to create larger and better restroom facilities for women. In many cases employers created female lines of work with classifications different from men and with pay scales that were lower. The industrial expansion of the war years had produced hundreds of Rosie the Riveters, many of whom never really left the workplace at the end of the war, but stayed on. Some of them emerged as new union leaders; Alice Holz of the Office Workers union, Nellie Wilson at A.O. Smith, Florence Simons from the Auto Workers (later Allied Industrial Workers), Catherine Conroy of the Communications Workers and many more. With the steadily increasing number of women entering the workforce, this first generation of pioneering women unionists played a particularly important role in the 1960s and beyond Holz was instrumental in the formation of the Office and Professional Employees Union.[20] Simons served as secretary-treasurer of Allied Industrial Workers District Council 9.[21] Wilson rose in the ranks to become a shop steward, union officer, and field representative for the Wisconsin State AFL-CIO.[22] Conroy was a Communications Workers of America officer, and a founder of the National Organization of Women in 1966 Helen Hensler served as the president of OPEIU Local 9, was a founder of the Coalition of Labor Union Women, and was named to the Governor’s Commission on the Status of Women.[23] These women, as well as many others, tackled new problems that faced women in the workplace with a unique blend of feminism, realism, and unionism. As Joanne Ricca and Jamakaya note, these women came to terms with major issues such as “union organizing drives of the 1930s, the impact of World War II on working women, sexism and racism in the workplace, major strikes and antiunion tactics of management, the opening of jobs previously restricted to men, the ‘double day’—on the job and with the family at home, deindustrialization, and the impact of the feminist movement in changing both laws and attitudes about working women.”[24] In retrospect, we see that the postwar years served as a bridge between the turbulent years of the 1930s and the war years, and the prosperous


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decades of the 1950s and 1960s. On the one hand, many Wisconsin leaders looked back to the dramatic days of the past and toward the old dreams of social and economic equality. But another attitude had also taken root, based partly on the stability and union security gained by labor during this period. We see a gradual turning away from what some labor activists called “the old European ideologies” of Socialism and Communism. We see the emergence of a new group of leaders who were more pragmatic, less ideological, and more conservative. We see a certain degree of turning inward as unions consolidated their large new membership base and built their institutions. As Ray Taylor, a veteran of the labor movement in Milwaukee from the mid-1930s to today once confided to me: “We in the labor movement succeeded, but in some way that success hurt the movement. Our members gained job security, better pay, pensions, and vacations. They prospered, bought homes, boats, and cabins up north. They moved from the city to the suburbs. Pretty soon they started worrying about taxes, and began voting Republican.” Of course, this view is a broad generalization, but it carries more than a grain of truth. At the same time, we see how the union movement, once viewed as marginal and dangerous, if not subversive, became part of the broader political and social fabric of Milwaukee and Wisconsin. Union leaders assumed a more responsible role in the workplace. Labor officials maintained important lines of communication with management. Professional staff administered contracts and serviced local unions in a more organized way. Union leaders and labor activists were named to state Unemployment Compensation and Workers Compensation advisory committees and had permanent seats in the councils of the Vocational, Technical, and Adult Education system. For many years, Jacob Friedrick served as a member of the Milwaukee Public School Board. The labor movement used the University of Wisconsin’s School for Workers to educate its members and had a representative on the Board of Regents. During this period, four out of ten workers in Wisconsin were union members and the percentage was even higher in Milwaukee. Unions became established institutions. They established permanent headquarters and purchased property and buildings. Conventions became less political and more orderly affairs with sharp debate largely relegated to committees. On Labor Day, union members

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participated in orderly processions down Main Street America. In sum, organized labor turned a comer in the postwar period, placing itself at the center of American life in a way that might have been unthinkable to the old founders of the movement.

Notes

[1] The number of books, dissertations, and articles that deal with aspects of postwar labor history is quite extensive and too large to be included here. There is no single work, to my mind, that has pulled together that large body of literature to produce a comprehensive history of the period. [2] On the Allis Chalmers strikes, see Stephen Meyer, Stalin Over Wisconsin: The Making and Unmaking of Militant Unionism, 1900-1950, Rutgers University Press, New Brunswick, 1992. On other strikes, see Thomas W. Gavett, Development of the Labor Movement in Milwaukee, University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1965, 190199; and CIO News, various issues in 1946 and 1947. [3] Jamakaya, Like Our Sisters Before Us: Women of Wisconsin Labor, Wisconsin Labor History Society, Milwaukee, 1998, 26-27 [4] On the Public Utilities Act of 1947 see Gordon Haferbecker, Wisconsin Labor Laws, University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1958, 174-175. [5] On the brewery workers strike see Robert W. Ozanne, The Labor Movement in Wisconsin: A History, State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1984, 95-96. [6] Darryl Holter, “Labor Law and the Road to Taft-Hartley: Wisconsin’s ‘Little Wagner Act,’ 1935-1947,” Labor Studies Journal, v. 15, no. 2, 1990; reprinted in Darryl Holter, ed., Workers and Unions in Wisconsin: A Labor History Anthology, State Historical Society of Wisconsin, Madison, 1999, 186-191. [7] See Peggy Dennis, The Autobiography of an American Communist, Laurence Hill, Westport, Conn., 1977 for a description of the couple’s experiences in Milwaukee. Reprinted in Darryl Holter, Workers and Unions, 138-142. [8] Frank Zeidler, letter to the author, December 1, 1985. [9] Because of the controversy surrounding Communism and the cold war, the amount of literature about Commission and the labor movement in the U.S. is quite extensive. Robert Ozanne’s Ph.D. dissertation, “The Effects of Communists’ Leadership on American Trade Unions,” University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1954, examined the situation in UAW Local 248 at Allis-Chalmers and helped to stoke this debate. When you find Ozanne’s dissertation, examine the signatures of readers since the 1950s, and you will see a sort of who’s who in labor history. For a much different interpretation, read Stephen Meyer’s Stalin Over Wisconsin. [10] It is interesting to note that despite all the literature and debate about the role of Communists in the labor movement in Milwaukee, there has never been much discussion about that history within the ranks of organized labor. Many veteran activists, if not Communists themselves, worked alongside Communists. “We weren’t Communists, we were Socialists, but we were basically radicals,” Ken Clark told me. But in the 1970s and through most of the 1980s one rarely heard mention of Communists within the labor movement. Although conferences of the Wisconsin Labor History Society since the 1980s have sometimes touched on


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the subject (and sparked sharp disagreement), there has never been an organized discussion to my knowledge. It continues to be a delicate subject. “There were a lot of good people on both sides,” said Ken Germanson, current president of the Wisconsin Labor History Society. [11] Meyer explores the relationships between shop florr union activism and political action in his treatment of the CIO’s campaign in the 4th Congressional district, which included the area around the Allis-Chalmers plant. Meyer, Stalin Over Wisconsin, reprinted in Holter, Workers and Unions, 192-206. [12] Wisconsin State AFL-CIO, Proceedings, 1956, 133-134, in Ozanne, The Labor Movement, 146. [13] It is interesting to note that even as late as 1982 the slate used to elect Wisconsin State AFL-CIO officers and board members described itself as “the nonpartisan slate.” [14] Joe William Trotter, Jr., Black Milwaukee: The Making of an Industrial Proletariat, 1915-1945, University of Illinois Press, Urbana and Chicago, 1985, 188. [15] Trotter, Black Milwaukee, 188. [16] William F. Thompson, The History of Wisconsin: Continuity and Change, 19401965, volume VI, State Historical Society of Wisconsin, Madison, 1988, 328. [17] Trotter, Black Milwaukee, 188. [18] Haferbecker, Wisconsin, 179-181. [19] Thompson, The History, 328-331. [20] Alice Holz, “Organizing Office Workers,” Workers and Unions, 178-180. [21] Jamakaya, Like Our Sisters, 81-88. [22] Nellie Wilson, “A Black Woman Meet the Union,” in Holter, Workers and Unions, 184-185 and Jamakaya, Like Our Sisters, 35-46. [23] Jamakaya, Like Our Sisters, 62-71. [24] Joanne Ricca and Jamakaya, Like Our Sisters, i-ii.

6. Political Milwaukee Introduction John A. Degnitz

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n American city that elected a Socialist city government for nearly half a century would be an irresistible field of study for a political historian. A Northern city that refused to support Lincoln’s presidency would also be an eye-catching topic. Both statements describe Milwaukee and, while much has been made of the unique features of Milwaukee’s political history, it should be remembered that Milwaukee often mirrored the politics of the entire nation. Patronage and machine politics dominated the American political landscape in the nineteenth century, and Milwaukee was no exception. While Milwaukee may have been a typical American city in terms of how it was governed during the nineteenth century, the early twentieth century would see the development of a Socialist city government that remains an anomaly in American politics. In retrospect, it is remarkable that socialist mayors governed Milwaukee both during the Red Scare of the early 1920’s and during the height of the Cold War of the 1950’s. An independent streak characterizes Milwaukee’s voters and this independence is highlighted when comparing the voting patterns of Milwaukee voters with those of Wisconsin and the nation. The articles that follow are justifiably concerned with the unique aspects of Milwaukee’s political history, but Milwaukee did not exist in a vacuum. National issues such as sectionalism, slavery, and reform affected the citizens of Milwaukee every bit as much as those of the rest of the United States. Kevin Abing’s “King and Booth: Milwaukee Editors and the Politics of Transition, 1850-54” shows how changes in national politics were reflected in Milwaukee. The decade of the 1850’s saw the sectional disputes in the United States becoming increasingly irreconcilable and the two dominant political parties in the nation—the Democrats and the Whigs—suffered because of this. Rufus King and Sherman

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Booth perceived themselves to be on opposing sides in these political battles, with King favoring free enterprise and small government while Booth advocated free-soil, abolition, and prohibition—but slavery would bring these rival editors together. Both King and Booth became members of the newly-formed Republican Party, the political choice eventually embraced by most Wisconsin voters. Milwaukee, however, remained a Democratic stronghold until the early twentieth century, primarily due to immigrant loyalty to that party and to a firmly entrenched Democratic machine. The Civil War tested the strength of those loyalties. In “Wisconsin and the Re-Election of Lincoln in 1864; A Chapter of Civil War History,” Frank Klement describes the atmosphere surrounding a presidential election taking place during wartime. In 1864, the reelection of Abraham Lincoln was far from certain. The war was going badly for the North. Lincoln was forced to shoulder much of the blame. Klement analyzes how Wisconsinites decided on which candidates to support and how this debate played out at the state, county, and local levels. Vicious campaign rhetoric came from both sides. It seems almost shocking today to read of Lincoln, the “widow-maker.” Lincoln won Wisconsin but lost by a two-to-one margin in Milwaukee to George McClellan, the Democratic candidate. The Republicans, much like the Whigs, were associated with nativism and this hurt them in Milwaukee where Democrats exploited this fear within the largely immigrant electorate. As the nineteenth century drew to a close, campaign techniques and the way that voters viewed politics were changing. These topics are explored by Joseph A. Ranney in “The Political Campaigns of Mayor David S. Rose.” Rose was a larger-than-life figure who was adored by the public and despised by the reform-minded politicians of the time. Rose favored an open town, with regulated gambling and prostitution. He was a dynamic campaigner who plastered the city with posters bearing his name. Ranney describes politics as changing from a form of mass entertainment into an era where voters were beginning to act as consumers with choices to make. Rose won five of the six mayoral elections in which he ran, mostly due to his shrewd campaigning style, but Ranney singles out other factors that contributed to Rose’s success. Milwaukee’s Republicans were divided into factions during the

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Rose years and the fledgling Socialist party needed time to establish voter loyalty. Ranney also looks at voting patterns on the ward level to see how the voter’s ethnic backgrounds, occupations, and religions affected their decisions. The Socialist mayors of Milwaukee are represented by two articles. The first, Frederick Olson’s “Milwaukee Socialist Mayors: End of an Era and Its Beginnings” offers an overview of the history of Socialism in Milwaukee. This article was written in 1960 to commemorate the conclusion of Frank Zeidler’s time in office. Olson mentions that he did not have the historical distance to properly analyze Zeidler’s mayoralty; forty-four years later, this task has still not been tackled by a historian. Olson chronicles the arrival of liberal politics in the 1840’s and the organization of the Socialists into a viable party by Victor Berger in the 1890’s. Olson stresses that there are several reasons why Milwaukee became the stage in which this Socialist drama could take place. Milwaukee’s Socialists always favored the ballot box, not revolution, as the most effective means for change. The quality of leadership that Milwaukee’s Socialists enjoyed was unparalleled, and the party’s rank and file were not afraid of hard work. In other U.S. cities, European political ideas were seen as far too threatening but Milwaukee’s immigrant population was not as easily frightened. Also, during the Progressive Era, there was a spirit of reform that transcended party lines and voters increasingly chose candidates based on their performance rather than party affiliation. The second article focusing upon the Socialists is Robert C. Reinders’ “Daniel W. Hoan and Municipal Reform in Milwaukee, 1910-1920.” This essay details the early career of Hoan who began his political career as Milwaukee’s City Attorney and later presided over the city when it was known as the “best governed city in America.” As City Attorney from 1910 to 1916, Hoan was successful in winning suits against street car companies and railroads. He worked diligently for public ownership of utilities. After becoming Mayor in 1916, Hoan focused on pragmatic issues such as city planning, public safety, and housing. Hoan advocated Milwaukee’s support of the U.S. war effort during World War I despite the Socialist Party’s insistence that he not cooperate with federal authorities. Milwaukee’s Socialist city

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government is only one indication of an independent streak that has surrounded this city’s politics. The last article in this section is Sarah C. Ettenheim’s “Milwaukee County Voting: A Declaration of Independents” in which she uses quantitative analysis of voting records to describe the peculiarities in the voting patterns of Milwaukee County residents. As early as the 1850’s, Milwaukee was displaying its independence and was voting differently from the rest of Wisconsin. The state consistently voted Republican; Milwaukee remained a Democratic stronghold. As noted earlier, Irish and German immigrants feared the nativist and temperance inclinations associated with Republicans. Ettenheim also provides explanations for Milwaukee’s traditions of not voting with the state in presidential elections and the political longevity of the city’s mayors. Mayors Rose, Hoan, Zeidler, Maier, and Norquist all served as the city’s chief executive for over a decade. Politics has been defined as the art of the possible and, after reading these essays, it will be evident that Milwaukee’s politicians and their constituents were not afraid to seek out and embrace new possibilities. As suburbs increasingly influence Milwaukee County politics, it is difficult to determine if the city itself will remain an independent force in Wisconsin politics. The unique aspects of Milwaukee’s political history and the wealth of colorful figures that have participated in those politics will, however, continue to fascinate historians and residents for years to come.

General Rufus King ( King Family file)

King and Booth: Milwaukee Editors and the Politics of Transition, 1850-54 by

Kevin J. Abing Milwaukee History, Autumn 1993

O

n January 23, 1855, a United States District Court convicted Sherman Booth, the fiery abolitionist editor of the Milwaukee Free Democrat, and an accomplice for their role in the escape of a fugitive slave in violation of the Fugitive Slave Law. The court fined Booth $1,000 and sentenced him to a one-month jail term. Rufus King, editor of the Milwaukee Sentinel, praised the two men and predicted that they would be greeted by their fellow citizens as men “who have suffered and endured for conscience sake, and been made the victims of an odious, unconstitutional and inhuman law.” King believed that more than sympathy was due Booth and proposed that the people of Wisconsin pay Booth’s stiff fine. On January 26, King chaired a meeting to help raise funds for that purpose. From his jail cell, Booth thanked those who had gathered the previous night, claiming that their support was worth “more than a month’s imprisonment.” He further exhorted those outside the prison: ... let us all be freemen or all be slaves. We rejoice with unspeakable joy, at the spirit of Liberty which is now animating the hearts of the people. Let the fire burn till the minions of Slavery are overthrown.

This episode capped a remarkable meeting of the minds between two long-time, and often bitter, political rivals concerning the dangers of the “slave power.” The 1850s was one of the most turbulent decades in American history, due primarily to the agitation arising from the slavery issue. But during the relatively calm period between the Com-

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promise of 1850 and the Kansas-Nebraska Act of 1854, a variety of other issues provided the impetus for the dissolution of the Second Party System and made possible the alliance between Booth and King. It was temperance and nativism which precipitated the downfall of the Whig and Free Soil Parties at the national level. In Wisconsin, temperance, nativism, land reform, and even the personalities of Booth and King contributed to a fluid political climate. It was the growing fear of the “slavocracy” after the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act which spurred the union of Booth’s Free Soil Party and King’s Whig Party and resulted in the formation of Wisconsin’s Republican Party. This fear proved to be the singular unifying force which muted political and personal differences and created a purely sectional political party. The paths of Booth and King, two of Wisconsin’s most influential editors and leading political spokesmen, mirrored those of their respective parties during this transitional period. Thus, the political as well as the personal meeting of the minds can be traced by examining how the aforementioned issues dissolved existing party lines and how the slavery issue brought them together. The two editors came to terms in spite of their contrasting personalities. Rufus King was born into a wealthy New York family that had long been involved in politics at the federal and state levels. He attended West Point and, after graduation, served as an officer in the Corps of Engineers. He chafed at his lack of advancement and resigned his commission in 1836. Two years later, he was named associate editor of Thurlow Weed’s Whig newspaper, the Albany Evening Journal. In 1839, Governor William Seward, another prominent Whig and a close friend of Weed’s, appointed King adjutant general of New York. King’s association with two of New York’s most prominent Whigs thoroughly indoctrinated him in Whig ideology. He carried the Whig banner to Milwaukee in 1845 and quickly became one of the city’s leading citizens. In addition to his editorial duties at the Sentinel, King served as Milwaukee’s first superintendent of schools, organized the city’s first fire brigade, and served as a delegate to Wisconsin’s Constitutional Convention. Friends and opponents alike admired King for his many civic contributions, his discriminating mind, and his sense of fairness. Even Sherman Booth, never noted for handing out compliments, praised King as the fairest


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of opponents and as a born gentleman who “never mistook epithets for arguments.” Sherman Booth’s reputation, on the other hand, suffered in comparison to King’s. He was born in New York and began his adult life as a farmer and school teacher. Neither of these jobs, however, proved to be his true calling. Unlike Rufus King, Booth actively embraced the reform movements prevalent during the ante-bellum period. He began his career as a temperance lecturer in 1835 but soon espoused other causes such as women’s rights and the abolition of slavery. In 1838, Booth enrolled at Yale University; and while there, he helped organize New Haven’s chapter of the anti-slavery Liberty Party. After graduating in 1841, Booth became the editor of the Christian Freeman and served in that capacity until he moved to Wisconsin in 1848. He assumed the editorial duties of the Racine American Freeman, the most fervent anti-slavery paper in the state at that time. He eventually moved the paper to Milwaukee and renamed it the Free Democrat. Booth’s tenacity and forcefulness as a writer and speaker ensured his place as the leading spokesman of Wisconsin’s Free Soil Party. Anyone not in line with Booth’s views was subject to his caustic pen. One of his favorite targets was Illinois Senator Stephen Douglas. During the 1852 presidential campaign, Douglas stopped in Wisconsin to speak on behalf of the Democratic candidate, Franklin Pierce. Booth described Douglas’ unkempt appearance as the “personification of an independent and accomplished loafer . . “ and his speech as a “disgusting exhibition of the lowest demagogueism, with no discussion of the vital questions at issue before the country.” Needless to say. Booth’s combativeness and acerbic personality alienated many people and often hampered his party’s cause. One such cause was land reform. After the 1850 state elections, Booth urged the State Assembly to pass a land limitation law that would limit sale of the public domain to actual settlers (rather than speculators) and limit sales to individuals to 640 acres. He believed that this was the only way to prevent land speculators from monopolizing the public domain and to ensure “that every poor man shall have a farm of his own.” A land-limitation bill was introduced to the state legislature on January 15, 1851. Initially, the reformers were confident that they had enough support to maneuver the bill successfully

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through the legislature. They were not prepared, however, for the intense opposition which the bill aroused. Lacking Booth’s populist instincts, King immediately voiced his displeasure with the bill and asked by what right the “self-styled Reformers” assumed to judge how much one man could own. The Sentinel characterized the land reformers as “highwaymen” and “robbers” and denounced them for advocating the old Agrarian Law of ancient Rome and trying to pit class against class. Opponents held two mass meetings in Milwaukee on February 15 and February 19. The meeting on the 15th adopted a resolution condemning the land limitation bill because property was a “right which society creates for the recompense of labor; that with us all property is simply industry rewarded with its just fruits. . . .” If the bill passed, it would check “individual enterprise and energy” and impede the “general prosperity of the community.” As opposition mounted, state legislators began to desert the cause. To rally support for the bill, Booth called for another meeting on February 19, and he invited opponents as well as supporters. Those favoring the bill barely adopted a resolution stating that the earth was the common inheritance of all men and that “no men, class of men, or combinations of men, corporate or legislative” had the right to withhold anyone’s proper share. The meeting, however, degenerated into a farce when an opponent sarcastically suggested that the resolutions be amended to include the division of all property every Saturday night or “oftener if considered necessary.” Booth’s gathering soon broke up because of a lack of popular support, and King gleefully dismissed the entire movement with the epitaph, “Peace to its ashes.” The two editors’ positions appeared to be diametrically opposed, but in actuality were closer than either cared to admit. Both firmly believed in the concept of free labor, which at that time included farmers, businessmen, and mechanics—anyone involved in the production of goods. Rooted in that concept was the Protestant work ethic with an emphasis on social mobility, a reflection of the values of the expanding capitalistic society in the North. In Wisconsin, as in the other “Western” states, land ownership was the primary means for socio-economic advancement. Both editors asserted that the availability of land for free men perpetuated the ideals of Jeffersonian


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agrarianism, a stark contrast to the South’s slave system, which created an unequal, static society. Thus, the conflict over the land reform bill concerned the proper method to ensure the ready availability of land which, in turn, would sustain Northern virtue. King, a staunch capitalist, insisted that the existing land distribution system did not place artificial limits on an individual’s right to own land. Booth, true to his reformer’s mentality, wanted to guarantee that everyone had a fair chance to own land. Another issue near and dear to all reformers’ hearts and one that proved to be especially divisive was temperance. Ever since Wisconsin achieved statehood, temperance was a strong impulse, but reformers had met with mixed success. By 1853, Sherman Booth and other temperance supporters felt a stronger measure was necessary—a “Maine Law” which prohibited the manufacture and sale of liquor. Prohibitionists held a state convention in Madison on June 9, 1853 and nominated Edward D. Holton, a strong “Maine Law” supporter, for governor. The Whigs, desperate to make inroads against the Democratic majority, joined the Free Soilers to form the People’s Ticket. The People’s Ticket coalition proved to be an uneasy alliance, and temperance was the issue that ultimately tore it apart. Booth, not surprisingly, attributed most of society’s ills to liquor, and he campaigned vehemently in support of the “Maine Law.” Rufus King supported the law only half-heartedly. He acknowledged that drinking caused a good deal of trouble, but he doubted that prohibition “would work the reform so much desired by every friend of temperance.” For their part, the Democrats opposed temperance as an infringement upon individual rights. In the 1853 elections, the Democrats decisively defeated the People’s Ticket candidates, although a “Maine Law” referendum passed by a slim majority. Acceding to the people’s wishes, King urged the legislature to pass a temperance law, though he reiterated his doubts of the law’s salutary effects. As for the People’s Ticket, King blamed its demise on Booth’s and the Free Soilers’ belaboring of the temperance issue, an issue which “swallowed up all other considerations and buried the ‘People’s Ticket.’” King’s ambivalence about prohibition and his anger toward Booth stemmed from a desire not to antagonize the sizable minority of German immigrants in Milwaukee. King’s fears were realized. Although the state endorsed the “Maine Law” referendum,

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Milwaukee County, with its large German population, overwhelmingly rejected the referendum as well as the People’s Ticket. When the Democratic governor took no action regarding the “Maine Law” referendum, King tried to increase the Whigs’ influence among immigrant voters by proposing a compromise. In a January 1854 editorial, he agreed that most liquors were “vile and poisonous compounds” that caused the “destruction of health, of morals, of industry and everything else,” but he added, “beer—especially lager beer, is not a bad drink, and does little if any harm.” King cautioned the state legislature to view the matter “soberly” and not to “swallow the Maine Law whole.” Despite the law’s good intentions, it had to be adapted to fit the “conditions and habits of our people.” He advised the legislature to spare beer and destroy the rest. Then King tried to distance the Whigs from their former Free Soil allies and launched an attack on the pro-temperance agitators in general and Sherman Booth in particular. He warned the legislature to beware of listening to fanatics of any kind. Whatever Booth of the Free Democrat recommends, you will need to regard with great suspicion. He is a fanatic by nature, and never had a reasonable or practical idea in his head. He would like nothing better than to get you all to quarreling about negro slavery, the Maine Law, capital punishment, women’s rights, or some such ridiculous trash.

Neither Booth nor King got what they wanted, however, because the Democratically-controlled legislature successfully stalled the passage of a liquor law, thereby strengthening its influence among the immigrant population. The Democrats’ control of this important block of voters, roughly one-third of Wisconsin’s population, enabled the party to exploit successfully another key issue—nativism. The Democratic Party portrayed itself as the champion of the “common man,” a label that applied to a vast majority of Wisconsin’s newly-arrived citizens. The Democrats pointed to their sponsorship of the progressive suffrage clause in the state constitution which allowed aliens to vote after only one year’s residency. By opposing the authorization of a national bank, the Democrats professed to be defending the interests of “the people” against those of the “money power.” They portrayed the Whig Party


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with some justification, as the party of the wealthy and of the nativists and the Free Soil Party as a group of teetotaling fanatics who would impose their morality upon the immigrants. Both the Free Soil and the Whig Parties constantly tried to counteract the Democrats’ charges. For example, during the 1852 presidential campaign, King claimed that the Whig Party welcomed immigrants to this “fair Western land” and sought to provide them with a “comfortable home, fair wages and steady employment.” The Democrats, King asserted, strove to keep the immigrants “at work on the other side of the Atlantic, with little to do and less to get.” Booth consistently appealed to the immigrants by stressing the slavery issue. Not only was slavery immoral but it was a detriment to free labor as well, especially if it spread beyond the South. The efforts by both parties generally went for naught. The Whigs could not overcome the charges of nativism and the Free Soilers alienated many immigrants with their pro-temperance stance. In addition, the Wisconsin Democrats defused their opponents’ claims that the Democrats were the tool of the “slave power” by emphasizing their support of the Wilmot Proviso and the anti-slavery measures in the Compromise of 1850. Although nativism had been an issue for several years, the movement became increasingly popular across the country with the rise of the Know-Nothing Party in 1854. In Wisconsin, however, the large immigrant population, which held the political balance of power, prevented the Know-Nothings from becoming a viable political force. The only election in which the “dark lantern boys” exerted any real influence was the 1855 election. Consequently, the actual threat to the immigrants themselves was more imaginary than real. Sherman Booth recognized this and admonished the immigrants for getting caught up in the “hysteria” which unduly influenced the immigrants to vote for the Democrats. He saw “the most arrant folly in our adopted citizens, in fighting, with such desperation, against this will-’o-the-wisp called Know Nothingism.” The threat of Know-Nothingism to the existing political parties however was very real. Because of Wisconsin’s sizable immigrant population, any political party charged with nativism or any association with the Know-Nothings was sure to be defeated. “If any prominent

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Republican or Democrat wishes to damn himself politically,” Sherman Booth claimed, “let him link his fortune to ... the Know-Nothings. ... It is the shortest and surest road to a political grave, from which there will be no resurrection.” All of Wisconsin’s political parties, before and after the formation of the Republican Party, went to great lengths to disassociate themselves from the taint of nativism and the Know-Nothings. Rufus King worked to convert German immigrants to the Whig Party by establishing a German newspaper, the Volksfreund, which he published from 1847 to 1855. While the debate over the Kansas-Nebraska Act was raging, King attempted to sway immigrants to the Republican’s side by claiming the bill would allow slavery but exclude immigrants from the newly-formed territories. He urged “our adopted fellow-citizens, Germans, Norwegians, Irish, and all—at whom this bill aims a dastard blow . . . especially let them make manifest their opinion upon this meanest and most objectionable of all class legislation.” At Wisconsin’s first Republican convention in 1854, the participants invited all people, whether native or foreignborn, to help stop the spread of slavery. At almost every Republican convention thereafter, a resolution was adopted which reaffirmed the party’s belief in the equal rights of all men. These attempts to swing the immigrant vote may partially explain the early success of the Republican Party, but most of the credit must go to the anti-slavery agitation which the Kansas-Nebraska Act aroused. In the years prior to the Act’s passage, sectional tensions regarding the Mexican Cession had abated, while the debates concerning temperance, nativism, and land reform assumed center stage in the state. It was primarily the Compromise of 1850 which created this “eye” in the slavery storm. The Compromise did not, however, completely quell the tension. Of all the measures in the Compromise, Wisconsinites most detested the Fugitive Slave Law. Rufus King condemned the law for demanding “a little more than Freemen can rightfully give” but fell short of advocating popular resistance. He believed the only way to repeal the law was through proper legal channels. Sherman Booth had no such qualms about active resistance. “We give all due notice,” he warned, “we shall trample this law under foot, at the first opportunity.” He called the law “damnable,” “unconstitutional,” and “diabolical” and claimed that the people were “under no


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more obligations to obey such a law, than we would be to obey a law requiring us to commit theft, burglary, and highway robbery.” Booth believed the furor over the Fugitive Slave Law would be so great that it would spur a “complete union between the pro-slavery Hunkers of both parties, on one side, and the liberal, progressive, freedom-loving of all parties, on the other side. It may occur in ‘52, and it may be delayed till ‘56, but sooner or later, it must take place.” Booth’s assessment may seem prophetic today, but in reality, he was overly optimistic about the impact of the Fugitive Slave Law; although he was wrong about the means, he ultimately proved correct about the ends. All of the major political parties viewed the 1852 national elections as a referendum on the Compromise of 1850. The Democrats approved the Compromise as the final settlement of the slavery question. The Whigs also acquiesced to the Compromise. Rufus King believed that any further anti-slavery agitation was “dangerous to our peace.” “Meantime,” he wrote, “the Fugitive Slave Law is not the only law of the land, nor the slave interest the only interest worth mentioning, and with enough else to do, we do not feel called upon to fill our columns, to no good purpose, with denunciations of the law referred to.” To King and the Whigs, the most pressing issue of the election was internal improvements. The Free Soil Party reaffirmed its support of the Wilmot Proviso and denounced the Fugitive Slave Law. Unimpressed with the candidates of the other two parties, Booth described the Democratic Ticket, led by Franklin Pierce, a Northern “Doughface,” as Slave Ticket #1, and the Whig Ticket, led by Winfield Scott, a Virginian, as Slave Ticket #2. The 1852 national and state elections were disastrous for both the Whig and Free Soil Parties. Pierce narrowly defeated Scott; the Democrats won all three of Wisconsin’s Congressional seats, and the Democrats sent majorities to both houses of the state legislature. The people of Wisconsin and across the country apparently did not want to listen to Booth’s and other abolitionists’ diatribes against slavery, and the Whigs again failed to overcome Democrats’ charges of nativism. The Whig and Free Soil Parties were hurt badly. Political expediency dictated that the two form a coalition, which became the ill-fated People’s Ticket.

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Although the Whigs and Free Soilers took different positions regarding the “peculiar institution,” the two editors’ positions concerning slavery were not vastly divergent. Both considered slavery a moral wrong. King, however, was not willing to precipitate civil disorder by forcing the issue; he believed that constitutional means would correct any wrongs. His view of the Compromise of 1850 reflected that belief. Sherman Booth wanted to halt the spread of slavery by political means if possible but would resort to more forceful measures if necessary. He firmly believed that a “higher law” demanded, at the very least, the containment, if not the end, of slavery. Whatever differences existed concerning slavery, temperance, land reform, and personalities were swept away in response to national and local events. In January 1854, Stephen Douglas submitted a bill to Congress organizing the Kansas and Nebraska territories under the principle of “popular sovereignty.” This measure effectively repealed the Missouri Compromise and set off a storm of protest in the North. Wisconsin’s Whig, Free Soil, and even Democratic Parties condemned the act. Both King and Booth called for a meeting of all those opposed to the “Nebraska swindle of Senator Douglas.” The meeting was held on February 13, 1854, and the two editors helped draft a resolution which stated that it was time “for the people of the Free States to arouse themselves, to unite and resist manfully the further encroachments of Slavery upon the domain of Freedom.” Now the extension of slavery into formerly free territory was no longer an abstract idea but a direct and personal threat. Slavery in the territories would limit a free person’s opportunity for social advancement. In addition, the “slave power” could eventually dominate every part of the federal government and make the North a permanent minority. In Wisconsin, another dramatic event unfolded which brought the threat of the “slave power” even closer to home. On the night of March 10, 1854, Joshua Glover and two other African-Americans were playing cards when a group of men, including a United States marshal and Benammi S. Garland of Missouri, broke into their shack near Racine. Garland claimed Glover as a runaway slave under the provisions of the Fugitive Slave Law. The intruders knocked Glover unconscious and took him to a Milwaukee jail. His captors hoped to keep the matter quiet until master and slave were safely out of the area.


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The news, however, spread rapidly the next day. When Sherman Booth heard of the event, he mounted a horse and rode through the streets of Milwaukee calling for a public meeting at the courthouse that afternoon. Those who gathered demanded that Glover be given a jury trial and that the marshal obey the writ of habeas corpus that an anti-slavery state judge had issued. The crowd grew angrier when it heard that the federal marshal would not honor the writ. A group of men rushed the jail, freed Glover, and spirited him away. The marshal arrested Booth for violating the Fugitive Slave Law even though he played no direct part in Glover’s rescue. This set off litigation that lasted several years and eventually forced Booth into bankruptcy. Booth was undoubtedly singled out because of his prominent position in Wisconsin’s anti-slavery movement, but he claimed that he was ready for any hardships and was honored to be the first person in Wisconsin arrested for defying the Fugitive Slave Law. The Glover case and the Kansas-Nebraska Act aroused anti-slavery sentiment to a fever pitch in Wisconsin. Booth rejoiced at the public demonstrations and asserted that the “day of political regeneration is at hand.” He saw his prediction of several years ago coming true: “The old parties, thank God! are now dead, and the work of re-formation has begun in earnest. henceforth, there will be but two parties in name, as well as in fact—the party of Freedom and the party of Slavery.” The reformation booth envisioned took place in July when opponents of the Kansas-Nebraska Act held a state convention in Madison. The gathering adopted the name “Republican” and pledged to restore Kansas and Nebraska as free territories, to repeal the Fugitive Slave Law, and to restrict slavery to the states in which it already existed. The Republican platform reflected the unity of purpose with which the delegates viewed the upcoming state elections. They learned their lesson from the People’s Ticket fiasco the previous year and avoided the temperance issue, focusing solely on slavery. The Democrats, however, again tried to undercut the Republicans by linking them with the Know-Nothing Party. Both King and Booth attempted to forestall the Democrats’ efforts. King asserted that the resolution adopted at Madison inviting all people to aid the Republican cause disproved the Democrats’ charges. He reminded the voters that the “vital, indeed the only issue in the November campaign is approval or condemnation of ‘Pierce and Nebraska.’” King then turned the table on the Democrats,

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claiming that several of the Know-Nothing’s leaders were “old and well-known Democrats.” Booth simply dismissed the Democrats’ charges, stating that all of the fuss about the Know-Nothings could not detract from the paramount issue: slavery. The election results supported both King and Booth’s assessments. The Republicans won majorities in both houses of the state legislature and two of Wisconsin’s three Congressional seats. The public outcry which the “Nebraska swindle” caused explains most of the Republican Party’s early success; however, the unity and spirit of cooperation among its members, particularly Booth and King, were also responsible. Before the revival of the slavery issue, personal editorial attacks on each other were an almost daily occurrence. Only days before the Glover incident, a slate of People’s Ticket candidates was routed in city elections, and Sherman Booth promptly blamed King and the Sentinel for the defeat. The next day King responded that the Free Democrat “omitted something of its ordinary efforts at falsehoods.... There are only seven lies in it, whereas we have known our contemporary to get them into an article at the rate of one to a line.” When King proposed changes in the “Maine Law” bill in January 1854, Booth described King as a “self-important individual, whose budding genius has hitherto been ‘cabined and confined’,” and criticized him for “dictating, a la Napoleon, to the governor and legislature what they ought to do.” After the Republican Party was formed, these vituperative attacks disappeared. The clearest evidence that the two had come to terms was King’s support of Booth throughout the Glover case. Even the revival of the temperance issue, which had torn apart the People’s Ticket in 1853, did not cause a rift between the two editors. Temperance advocates, over the objections of German Republicans, pushed a prohibition bill through the state senate in March 1855, though it was amended to permit the sale and private use of beer, wine, and cider manufactured in Wisconsin. King, hoping to maintain party unity, urged the governor to sign the amended bill. Though it was not as stringent as the teetotalers wanted, the German population would see the “reasonableness” of the bill. It would, therefore, “command the ready obedience and very general approval of the People; while in its more stringent form, it might fail of the one and with difficulty secure the other.” Surprisingly, Booth also supported the bill. He felt that


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the amended version was acceptable and that there was some virtue in it. He qualified his support, however, by stating that he would be willing to give the bill a try for one year. Booth’s compromising attitude is somewhat surprising in light of his devotion to temperance and his combative nature, but considering the “sense of crisis” which permeated the country at this point, it is understandable. He was willing to bend, albeit very little, with regard to an issue that was, to him, equal in importance to abolition in order to promote party unity. More pragmatic and more diplomatic than Booth, King tried to mollify German Republicans and temperance supporters. He could have condemned those who reopened the issue, an issue which the Democrats effectively exploited in the fall election, but in the party’s best interest, he held his tongue. These examples illustrate the potency of slavery. Political issues and personality conflicts that had shattered previous coalitions between the Whig and Free Soil Parties did not tear apart Wisconsin’s newlyformed Republican Party. Perhaps this was because the Whigs and Free Soilers shared more common ground than they realized. Both parties opposed the Fugitive Slave Law and the extension of slavery into the territories. Both believed in the preservation of free labor and both opposed charges that their parties were nativist. Despite these similarities, a catalyst was needed to suppress the divisions which hindered a successful union. The passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act provided just such a catalyst. In the wake of the anti-slavery furor, it was not a great leap for either King or Booth to make from the ideologies of their former parties to that of the Republican Party. King had to accept a more forceful resistance to slavery, which he did willingly following the events of 1854. Booth had to temper his advocacy of various reform measures, especially temperance. He, too, did this willingly, albeit grudgingly. Although the alliance was sometimes tenuous, the threat of the “slave power” was powerful enough to mute the personal and political conflicts between Booth, King, and their respective parties and, in the end, spurred a permanent union that gave birth to Wisconsin’s Republican Party. Editor’s Note: A fully-documented copy of this article is on file in the Society’s research library and may be consulted by anyone desiring to pursue Mr. Abing’s sources.

Opposition’s view of President Lincoln. (Image from original article.)

Wisconsin and the Re-Election of Lincoln in 1864: A Chapter of Civil War History by

Frank L. Klement Historical Messenger, March 1966

T

he election of 1864 belongs in a class by itself. It revolved around Abraham Lincoln, a perceptive politician and the country’s foremost statesman. It was a free election taking place in the midst of civil war—the nation’s greatest war. It was a contest involving a well-known general who was trying to replace his onetime commander-in-chief. It passed on to posterity the clever quotation about not changing horses in the middle of a stream. And it featured the vicious and vituperative comments of Marcus Mills (“Brick”) Pomeroy, the best-known critic of Lincoln in Wisconsin. Several events of 1863 cast long shadows into the calendar year which followed, affecting individuals and events associated with the Election of 1864. Union victories at Gettysburg and Vicksburg, for example, reflected favorably upon Lincoln and permitted his apostles to think of his re-election. Then too, Republican victories in the October and November elections of 1863 enhanced Lincoln’s political fortunes—neutral observers noted that the ‘63 election returns made Lincoln’s re-election a distinct possibility.[1] The emergence of the image of Lincoln as a statesman—evolving in the closing months of 1863—certainly had great effect upon events of 1864. Lincoln’s loyal supporters began to lay the groundwork for his re-nomination and re-election early in January, 1864. Republican newspaper editors, many of whom held postmasterships at Lincoln’s hand, tried to improve his public image. John W. Forney, Philadelphia newspaperman and a confidant of the Civil War president, described Lincoln as “a good man,” one possessing “those rare qualities that God occasionally takes from angels and gives to his creatures.”[2]

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Most Republican editors in Wisconsin tried to follow in Forney’s footsteps, fully aware that a favorable image could contribute to Lincoln’s re-election.[3] Lincoln’s lieutenants also turned to the state legislatures, most of them meeting in January of 1864, to bring about his re-election. Most state legislatures considered resolutions which defended the Lincoln Administration and which usually recommended a second term for the Civil War president. Although the strings were pulled from Washington, the action of various legislatures made it seem like a grassroots movement.[4] In Wisconsin, Alexander W. Randall and Elisha W. Keyes directed the campaign to get Badger State Republicans to join the movement to re-elect Lincoln. Randall was an astute politician who clung tenaciously to Lincoln’s coat-tails and who had many friends throughout Wisconsin. He had earlier served as the state’s first Civil War governor. After Randall had turned over the Governor’s chair to Louis P. Harvey in January, 1862, he sought a patronage post from President Lincoln and became envoy and minister extraordinary to the Pope and the Papal States. After he had seen the sights in Italy, Randall tired of his diplomatic duties and returned to Washington to beg for a brigadiergeneralship. Lincoln, already embarrassed by the surplus of political generals, convinced Randall that he could better serve his country by accepting the position of Assistant Postmaster General and liaison with the Republican party in Wisconsin. Randall, serving as Assistant Postmaster General, repaired Lincoln’s political fences in Wisconsin, so that when 1864 rolled around there was near solidarity for Lincoln in the Badger State.[5] Randall worked through Elisha W. Keyes, beginning to emerge as the central figure in state Republican circles. Mr. Keyes—already dubbed “Boss” Keyes by some members of his own party—later served in the state legislature and as mayor of Madison. In 1861, Lincoln named him postmaster of Madison and he became chief of the “Madison Junta” which dominated the Republican party in the state. Keyes’ close friendship with Alexander W. Randall added to his importance in State Republican circles.[6] Through Randall and Keyes, Lincoln had the Republican party of Wisconsin in the palm of his hand.


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Keyes and Randall nodded approvingly when A. W. Starks of Sauk County introduced four politically-oriented resolutions in the state assembly on January 21, 1864. The first two placed the state’s resources behind the war effort of the Lincoln administration, the third thanked the soldiers for gallantries, and the fourth praised Lincoln and asked for his re-nomination. The well-worded fourth resolution read: “Resolved, That we recognize in Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, a statesman of liberal and enlarged views, great ability, and unswerving integrity, and if the wishes of the people of Wisconsin are complied with by the National Union Convention that assembles to nominate candidates for the Presidency, Abraham Lincoln will again be nominated.”[7] Democratic legislators, of course, tried to shelve the resolutions and used the occasion to criticize Lincoln. With tongue in cheek, Carl Zillier of Sheboygan offered an amendment to strike out the name of Abraham Lincoln wherever it occurred in the resolutions and substitute that of George B. McClellan—Zillier envisioned McClellan as the Democratic party’s nominee for the presidency.[8] George B. Smith, Madison lawyer and one-time Attorney General of the State, led the Democratic attack upon the resolution which praised Lincoln and urged his re-election. Smith characterized the resolutions as “buncombe,” properly stating that they were introduced for “purely partisan purposes.” He viewed Lincoln as “a despot,” one whose principles gave way to expediency and one whose ambition exceeded his ability. The President deserved neither compliments nor reelection. Smith turned from criticizing Lincoln to pleading for peace and compromise. For good measure he included a polemic upon civil rights—opposing political arrests and summary trials. He closed the three-hour tirade on a note of defiance. “When we cease to dare to express our opinions, and to criticize the acts of the Administration,” shouted Smith, “we shall become cowards, and undeserving of liberty.”[9] But neither Smith’s oratory nor Democratic parliamentary maneuvers stopped the passage of the pro-Lincoln resolutions. The Republican steam-roller proved most effective and the Democratic minority protested in vain. “We can do nothing but suffer,” George B. Smith wrote to a friend.[10]

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A few scattered Republicans, men who preferred Salmon P. Chase or John C. Fremont to Lincoln, added weak protests to those made by Democratic legislators and editors. A Milwaukee Republican, for example, wanted the job of nominating a presidential candidate left to the national convention. He argued that the state legislature was usurping a function which belonged to the nominating convention—the action of the state legislature was “hasty and inconsiderate,” unwise and unnecessary. The job of the state legislature was to tend to state business, not to make presidents.[11] In February, the long arm of Alexander W. Randall again reached from Washington to Madison. Randall requested “Boss” Keyes to serve as “a special agent” to visit “official friends in the State” to further Lincoln’s nomination and check the efforts of malcontents to boost the presidential stock of Chase or Fremont. Keyes received a “commission” and federal pay to make political calls upon influential Republicans. Randall, quite naturally, believed that “Old Abe” was the only Republican capable of carrying the November election—Chase or Fremont would lead the party to defeat.[12] Both Randall and Keyes were upset by reports that U.S. Senator Timothy 0. Howe, Wisconsin’s junior member in the upper house of Congress, hated Abe “like Pizen” and would support Salmon P. Chase if given a chance.[13] It was also rumored that Congressman William D. Mclndoe of the Sixth Congressional District was guilty of apostasy and that a Chase man with “$500 in Green Backs” had left Washington for Wisconsin to secure a delegation to the national convention pledged to “some other candidate than ‘Old Abe’.”[14] Keyes hurriedly visited various sections of the State, applying pressure to keep a Chase or Fremont boom from developing. He soon reported to Randall that Congressman Mclndoe had jumped aboard the Lincoln bandwagon—an act which Keyes said would re-insure Mclndoe’s re-election to Congress.[15] Horace Rublee, the active editor of the (Madison) Wisconsin State Journal who doubled as executive secretary of the Republican party of his State, joined Keyes and Randall in generating support for Lincoln. Many Republican editors in the state looked to Rublee and the State Journal for their cues, so Rublee’s editorials carried weight in all corners of Wisconsin. “The best interests of the country,” Rublee editorialized,


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“demand his [Lincoln’s] re-election.” Rublee added that Lincoln was far and away the best qualified man to sit in the President’s chair, having evolved a sensible, steady, and progressive policy. Optimistically, the editor of the State Journal predicted that Lincoln would be nominated and then elected by “an overwhelming majority.”[16] While advocating Lincoln’s re-election, Rublee signed a call for “a Union State Convention” to meet in Madison on March 30, 1864, to select delegates to attend the party’s national nominating convention. Rublee, Randall and Keyes wanted but “one voice” speaking for the Badger State—they wanted unanimity for Lincoln.[17] There was little unity and less leadership in the Democratic party in Wisconsin.[18] Some men, calling themselves “War Democrats,” gave open support to the Lincoln administration and argued that partisanship should be shelved during the war. Others, like George B. Smith, brazenly criticized every act of the Lincoln administration, even advocating peace and compromise. The Democratic party seemed to have no policy and an ineffective organization, headed by George H. Paul. Paul edited the Milwaukee News and represented his State on the Democratic National Committee he tried futilely to awaken the latent and alert the lethargic. Or January 19, he attended a meeting of the Democratic National Committee which selected Chicago as the site and July 4 as the meeting date of his party’s national convention.[19] There may have been unanimity in selecting Chicago as the convention site, but when it came to proposing a candidate, Democratic members “spoke in a thousand voices.” The death of Stephen A. Douglas early in the war had left the Northern Democracy leaderless and Easterners tried to take over the party. Horatio Seymour, who had served a term as war governor of New York state and who had criticized the Lincoln administration with decorum and determination in 1863, had the support of several prominent “Peace Democrats.” He lacked color and verve, however, and Midwestern Democrats had railed too much against Eastern capital and industry to accept Seymour without blushing.[20] He was an intellectual, whereas the Democratic masses wanted to be evangelized and entranced. No Midwestern Democratic politician had emerged to take up the mantle Douglas had worn with ability and grace, although many

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aspired to try it on for size. Party leaders, therefore, turned to the army and studied the political credentials of all the leading generals. It was thought that General U. S. Grant might be drafted to be the Democratic nominee[21] —his father was a Democrat and Grant himself had voted for James Buchanan in 1856. But Grant was too busy fighting to play politics and he had no desire to take on his commander-in-chief in the political arena. Nor was General William S. Rosecrans interested in laying aside his swore and taking up the political mace. General Samuel P. Heintzelman also turned down feelers extended by inquiring politicians. General George B. McClellan, however, responded favorably to the bait thrown his way. After Lincoln had removed McClellan from command of the Army of the Potomac a second time, the young general with the Napoleonic complex felt abused and insulted—he was in the mood to accept political overtures. In June of 1862 Ohio Democrats had tried to entice him to be their gubernatorial candidate,[22] but at the time he still believed the President would need his talents and give him a major assignment. After Gettysburg and Vicksburg, however, McClellan knew he was waiting in the wings in vain. He plunged into politics by endorsing the Democratic candidate seeking the governorship of Pennsylvania,[23] and thus caught the eye of Democrats scouting the countryside for presidential candidates for 1864. Most Wisconsin Democrats climbed aboard the McClellan bandwagon early in 1864. George B. Smith, who had previously spoken out for peace and had sown the dragon’s teeth of discontent, circulated reports and pamphlets aimed at aiding McClellan’s nomination. Democratic editors, always taking McClellan’s side in his differences with President Lincoln, praised McClellan anew in the early months of 1864. Democratic politicos liked McClellan’s apparent candidacy. He possessed color and a name known to the public. The fact that the Radical Republicans, like Benjamin Wade of Ohio and Zachariah Chandler of Michigan, had demanded his removal from command seemed a point in his favor. Occasional Democratic editors in Wisconsin might mention Horatio Seymour as a possibility or look longingly at ex-president Millard Fillmore, but when both Seymour and Fillmore[24] openly endorsed McClellan, the doughty General’s stock climbed fast. The fact that Wisconsin Republican newspaper


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editors began a smear campaign[25] against McClellan indicated that Lincoln’s supporters expected “Little Mac” to become the Democratic party nominee. Each of the two parties formally began the ‘64 election campaign with state caucuses called to select delegates to their party’s national nominating conventions. The Republicans, resorting to a political stratagem, designated their session “a Union State Convention,” hoping to entice a few War Democrats into their trap. The usual backstage wire-pulling preceded the meeting of the state conventions. “Boss” Keyes invited Alexander W. Randall to seek a post as delegate -at-large to the national convention scheduled to meet in Baltimore on August 8.[26] Randall, anxious to aid the President who had given him a lucrative sinecure in Washington accepted the invitation—if his appointment would not create “a d-d rumpus.”[27] With prominent Republicans pulling the strings, the Union State Convention assembled in Madison on March 20, 1864. Since everything was “cut and dried,” the convention “witnessed a harmony seldom seen in any body.” The convention named sixteen delegates (four atlarge and two from each of the six congressional districts). Alexander W. Randall, of course, won one of the coveted awards—he gained the delegateship which Keyes would have held. Others included such prominent politicians as ex-congressman John F. Potter, ex-governor Edward Salomon, C. C. Sholes of Kenosha, and Philetus Sawyer, mayor of Oshkosh—Sawyer was a rising star in Wisconsin politics while Sholes later came to have his name linked to the invention of the typewriter. After the selection of delegates was completed, “Boss” Keyes arranged for the convention to praise Lincoln, resolving that the President’s reelection was a measure of importance and wisdom and of the greatest consequence to the country. Then the convention specifically instructed the Wisconsin delegates to cast their ballots for Abraham Lincoln at the national nominating convention.[28] The Democrats did not hold their state convention until June 22. By that time the pro-McClellan sentiment had crystalized[Sic] and it was apparent that he would become the party’s national nominee. Frederic W. Horn, spokesman for a large element of German-Americans, presided over the auspicious assemblage. Such prominent politicians as George B. Smith, George H. Paul (editor of the Milwaukee News

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and national committeeman). Edward G. Ryan (who had written the Democratic platform two years earlier), and Moses M. Strong of Mineral Point won election as delegates.[29] The convention also instructed the newly-elected delegates to support McClellan as the party nominee.[30] Realists recognized that only some unforeseen phenomenon could prevent the contest from being one between McClellan and Lincoln. “McClellan is as certain to be the Copperhead [Democratic] candidate,” stated a prominent and perceptive Republican, “as Lincoln is to be the Union [Republican] .”[31] Democratic and Republican spokesmen began to exchange insults and indictments long before their conventions formalized the selection of their respective nominees. Democratic newspapers circulated stories intended to discredit Lincoln and to effect adversely his nomination and election. It was reported that Mrs. Lincoln’s sister was a Confederate spy—that she had gone through Union lines with a pass from the President and a dozen trunks filled with contraband goods.[32] Gullible Democrats swallowed the story that Mrs. Lincoln had attended a seance at which the spiritualistic medium had told her that she would not be mistress of the White House after March 4, 1865.[33] Democrats resurrected the report that President Lincoln, touring the battlefield at Antietam, told off-color jokes and asked a friend to recite “a dirty ditty”—a story repeatedly denied by the friend in later years.[34] Democratic editors reminded their readers that such “disunionists” as Wendell Phillips and William Lloyd Garrison endorsed Lincoln—Phillips had labeled the Constitution “a piece of parchment” while Garrison had called it “a covenant with death and an agreement with hell.”[35] The Democrats also catered to the specious spirit of Negrophobia, contending that Lincoln and the abolitionists wished to effect “a merger of the races,” with miscegenation their goal and mischief their game.[36] Democratic spokesmen also tried to create a split in the ranks of the opposition, trying to get the Republicans to quarrel among themselves.[37] Some Republicans needed very little prodding, for both Salmon P. Chase and John C. Fremont had loyal friends and devoted disciples. Chase, eventually, took himself out of contention,[38] and won praise from some of Lincoln’s supporters in Wisconsin; those who held postmasterships or Federal posts breathed easier when Chase


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found it necessary to disavow his presidential ambitions or appear publicly as a Janus-faced fellow. They praised Chase’s patriotism and lauded him for submerging his personal wishes for the sake of party unity and welfare.[39] Fremont posed more of a problem to Lincoln’s efforts to retain leadership of his party. After Chase bowed out of the presidential picture, many Radical Republicans turned to Fremont as their guiding star. Missouri Germans took the leadership in pushing Fremont’s name forward and they dangled the vice-presidential nomination before two dozen different individuals—including Matt. H. Carpenter of Wisconsin. Carpenter was a noted Milwaukee lawyer and railroad entrepreneur, and a onetime Democrat who had become a Republican.[40] Fremont’s friends tried to postpone the meeting of the national convention for several months, hoping that Lincoln’s stock might fall and Fremont’s rise in the interim.[41] When that bit of strategy failed, they issued “a special call” for a convention in Cleveland on May 31—“for consultation and concert of action in respect to the approaching presidential election.”[42] Only one Wisconsin Republican, Peter Engelmann of Milwaukee, affixed his name to the call. The special convention was expected to nominate Fremont and to stampede the Republican party—perhaps encouraging Lincoln to withdraw or forcing him to make concessions to the Radical Republicans. Carl Schurz, Wisconsin’s representative on the National Republican committee, had to make his choice between Fremont and Lincoln. Most ‘Forty-eighters favored Fremont, and Fremont perhaps represented Schurz’s views more closely than did Lincoln.[43] But Wisconsin Republicans were almost solid in support of Lincoln. Furthermore, Schurz was never one to bite the hand which fed him. Lincoln knew how to cater to Schurz’s ego and Schurz held a major-generalship at Lincoln’s hand. Schurz, therefore, cast his lot with Lincoln, offering to take an active part “in the presidential canvass.”[44] After Schurz had been deprived of his corps command in Tennessee and given a do-nothing assignment, he chafed at the political bit. He knew that Lincoln could brush Fremont aside, defeat the Democratic nominee, and win re-election. Schurz therefore, wanted to contribute his time and talent to the cause—and collect his rewards afterwards.[45]

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The promotion of Fremont caused some uneasiness among Lincoln’s chief supporters. There was a fear that in some way Fremont’s agents might be able to embarrass Lincoln or employ tactics detrimental to party harmony at the national convention Alexander W. Randall, from his observation post in Washington, therefore, urged Keyes to arrive on the convention scene in Baltimore early—fully a week ahead of time—to forestall the diversion expected of Fremont’s supporters. “The President and the P.M. Gen’l [Montgomery Blair] ,” wrote Randall to Keyes, “want as many men on the ground as possible and in good season.”[46] The special convention sponsored by the Fremont men took place in Cleveland on May 31, more than a week before the Union National convention (so named by the Republicans) met in Baltimore on June 8. It was a motley group, including some followers of Wendell Phillips, some Missouri soreheads, and some disenchanted Radicals or dissatisfied office seekers.[47] The “Cleveland Convention,” of course, nominated John C. Fremont as candidate for the Presidency and set the stage for a serious schism in the Republican party.[48] While party regulars wondered whether Fremont would turn down the nomination or make a fight of it, the “official party convention” met in Baltimore. Lincoln’s friends controlled the machinery of the convention. Wisconsin’s sixteen delegates, imitating the example of the other States, dutifully cast their ballots for Lincoln. Only Missouri deviated from the party line by giving twenty votes to U. S. Grant. Before the ballots were officially totaled, however, a Missouri delegate moved to make the nomination of Lincoln unanimous. The motion carried amidst a thunderous Aye and the Wisconsin delegates were as noisy as the rest.[49] Publicly, Lincoln washed his hands of any effort to influence the selection of his running mate. Backstage, however he helped to select Andrew Johnson.[50] The Wisconsin delegation, with Randall using his influence, accepted Johnson of Tennessee as the vice-presidential candidate. Lincoln’s nomination dutifully and quickly received the endorsement of the Union League, a patriotic organization which functioned as the right arm of the Republican party.[51] A delegation of Union Leaguers visited Lincoln at the White House and presented the President


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with a set of resolutions pledging fealty to him. Lincoln’s reply to the delegation included the supposition that it was best not to swap horses in the middle of a stream[52] —a supposition repeated periodically by incumbents seeking re-election to the Presidency. Democratic leaders watched the Republican antics with interest and pondered their course of action. Some Democratic strategists advocated postponing their national convention from July 4 to late August and they advanced an array of arguments. The split in Republican ranks between the loyal supporters of Fremont and Lincoln might become deeper and more damaging to the party. Democrats hoped it was a fight between a pair of Kilkenny cats. If the Democrats brought forth a nominee, Republicans might close ranks and end their family fight. Republicans could hardly wage a war against the Democratic nominee until his name was placed before the nation. All members of the party, whether classed as “War Democrats” or “Peace Democrats,” were firing barrages against Lincoln; bitter quarrels at the Democratic National convention might silence some of the guns or prompt dissatisfied political warriors to withdraw from the fray.[53] Furthermore, the fortunes of war might dishearten the nation and boost Democratic political hopes. Grant’s failure before Richmond and the long, long casualty lists gave a credence to the oft-made Democratic contention that the war was a failure and the Lincoln administration deserved to be rebuked. War weariness and new draft calls might turn public sentiment against the party in power. Therefore, the Democratic National Committee, with George H. Paul partaking in the deliberations, postponed the National convention until August 29. Democratic orators and editors, meanwhile, attacked Lincoln and tried to encourage the Republicans to intensify their family fight. There were few Wisconsin Republicans, however, who spoke out for Fremont. W. W. Coleman of the Milwaukee Herold was one who sang Fremont’s praises and demanded that Lincoln step aside for “a better man.”[54] But most of those who had previously favored Fremont, came to accept Lincoln’s candidacy in good grace. The editor of the Wisconsin State Journal, with tongue in cheek, supposed that Freemont would not get fifty votes in the state on election day.[55] Democratic politicians centered their criticism upon Lincoln rather than Fremont. Stephen D. (“Pump”) Carpenter of the Wisconsin

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State Patriot and Marcus Mills (“Brick”) Pomeroy of the La Crosse Democrat enlivened the campaign against Lincoln with slashing editorials—some of which exceeded the bounds of propriety. Carpenter had put together a weekly column called “The Logic of History” in the Patriot. The column, consisting of items selected from the letters and speeches of Lincoln and the Radicals, intended to prove that the Republicans were unprincipled and incompetent. The column also included words of wisdom uttered by Democrats from Jefferson to McClellan. The inference was that Democrats were intelligent and had great respect for law and the Constitution, whereas Republicans were irresponsible and devoted to revolution and disorder. After the column appeared for a couple of months, Carpenter ordered the type reset and “The Logic of History” appeared in book form. It may have been filled with miscellany and trivia, but 20,000 copies of the book appeared as campaign propaganda.[56] Before he retired as editor of the Patriot, “Pump” Carpenter put his sentiments regarding Lincoln’s re-election into print: . . . the re-election of Lincoln would produce nothing but evil, for such has been the bitter fruit of his administration. The people must know the truth of what we say—they must know that Lincoln is an unfit man for the high station he occupies. His inconsistencies and his faults have been so glaring that they must appear apparent to every disinterested mind. In view of these things, the incompetency, the blunders, violations of law, and fearful corruptions which have characterized his administration, and the direful consequences which are sure to follow his re-election, we cannot see how such a calamity can happen by the free choice of the people.[57]

“Brick” Pomeroy of La Crosse stated his opposition to Lincoln even more viciously. When the La Crosse curmudgeon first heard that Lincoln sought a second term, he penned a savage editorial. “May Almighty God forbid,” he wrote with rancor, “that we are to have two terms of the rottenest, most-stinking, ruin-working small-pox ever conceived by fiends or mortals in the shape of two terms of Abe Lincoln.”[58] Pomeroy linked an array of epithets with Lincoln’s name, calling him “flatboat tyrant,” “imbecile,” “madman” and “maniac,” “hell’s vice-agent on earth,” and “a usurper who wears a No. 5 hat


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and No. 14 boots.” Truly, his dictionary of diatribe was unabridged! Pomeroy claimed that Lincoln had violated his oath of office, spit upon the Constitution, opened the doors of the Treasury to thieves and speculators, “strangled the goddess of Liberty,” and “woven the chains of slavery about the people.”[59] As Pomeroy became entangled in his own web of hate he became more vicious and violent in his denunciation of his President. He dipped his pen in venom when he wrote his editorial of August 23, 1864. That day’s editorial shocked even Pomeroy’s friends. A section read: The man who votes for Lincoln now is a traitor and murderer. He who pretending to war for wars against the constitution of our country is a traitor, and Lincoln is one of these men…And if Lincoln is elected to misgovern for another four years, we trust some bold hand will pierce his heart with dagger point for the public good.[60]

The blood-thirsty editor even suggested an epitaph which he recommended as proper for Lincoln: Beneath this turf the Widow Maker lies, Little in everything, except in size.[61]

Pomeroy and Carpenter were joined in criticizing Lincoln by a host of other Democratic editors during July and August, while they awaited their party’s nominating convention. Their charges that the war was a failure gained respectability. During the preceding months, Lee had ambushed Grant in the Wilderness, checked him at Spottsylvania, and whipped him at Cold Harbor—with nearly 40,000 casualties. Then Grant lost another 15,000 men in his assaults against Lee’s entrenched troops around Petersburg. Confederate General Jubal Early added insult to injury by threatening Washington and burning Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. While Lee was giving Grant lessons in the art of war around Richmond, Sherman fought his way southward into Georgia, losing heavily at Kenesaw Mountain and in a series of battles outside of Atlanta. The military failures and the long casualty lists gave an impetus to the crusade for peace and compromise. They also boosted the political stock of the Democrats, for pro-peace and

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anti-Lincoln sentiment fluctuated with the vicissitudes of war, increasing with Union reverses and diminishing with Union victories.[62] William H. Seward, Lincoln’s politically-minded Secretary of State, frankly told Lincoln that he could not be re-elected, and that same fear was expressed by others close to the President.[63] Horace Greeley, whose views vacillated with his moods, headed an abortive Republican movement to push Lincoln aside and put a prominent general in his stead on the presidential ticket. Greeley wrote, “Mr. Lincoln is already beaten. He cannot be elected. We must have another ticket to save us from utter overthrow. If we had such a ticket as could be made by naming Grant, Butler, or Sherman for President, and Farragut as Vice, we could make a fight yet. And such a ticket we ought to have anyhow, with or without a convention.”[64] Caught up in the cloud of gloom surrounding him, Lincoln wrote his famous memorandum of August 23: This morning, as for some days past, it seems exceedingly probable that this administration will not be re-elected. Then it will be my duty to so co-operate with the President-elect, as to save the Union between the election and the inauguration; as he will have secured his election on such ground that he can not possibly save it afterwards.[65] Six days after Lincoln wrote his pessimistic memorandum, the Democratic National Convention met in Chicago. George H. Paul led the Wisconsin delegation to the convention and set up headquarters at the Revere Hotel.[66] An air of optimism prevailed. Most Wisconsin delegates believed McClellan’s nomination a certainty; bettors offered four-to-one odds that McClellan would receive the nomination on the first ballot.[67] Two Ohioans held the spotlight at the Chicago convention. Samuel S. Cox, McClellan’s campaign manager, seemed to be everywhere—prodding, pleading, and promising. He was willing to compromise on the platform in order to pile up a huge majority for his man.[68] The other central figure bore the name of Clement L. Vallandigham, and he led the “Peace Democrats” bent upon writing a peace plank into the Democratic platform and upon preventing McClellan’s nomination. Vallandigham’s peace men leaned toward Thomas Seymour of Connecticut and one of the Democratic delegates from Wisconsin, despite the instructions earlier given, announced that he intended


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to cast his ballot for Thomas Seymour rather than McClellan. Some delegates tried to start a boom for Horatio Seymour of New York but he refused to run and announced again that he favored McClellan. The boom died “aborning,” for Horatio Seymour was too much of a “War Democrat” to suit the peace men and too much of a “Peace Democrat” to suit the war men. After the usual preliminaries, the convention got down to the business of writing a platform and naming a candidate.[69] George B. Smith helped to write the peace plank into the platform, a plank clearly a concession to Vallandigham and the anti-war element in the Democratic party. Smith and Moses M. Strong fully agreed with the resolution which called the war a failure and asked for an honorable peace.[70] Samuel S. Cox of Ohio proved to be a most capable manager for McClellan, and the colorful and controversial general easily walked off with the nomination. The tally taken after the roll call of States read: McClellan 173 votes, Thomas Seymour 38, and Horatio Seymour 12. The Wisconsin delegation cast seven votes for McClellan and one for Horatio Seymour, but soon thereafter voted with the rest to make the nomination unanimous.[71] The nomination of “Little Mac” pleased the Wisconsin delegation and George B. Smith noted in his diary, “Everybody seems satisfied.”[72] McClellan did not like the peace plank in the Democratic platform, and influential “War Democrats” urged him to repudiate it in his letter of acceptance.[73] He followed their advice, coming out on a war platform. Some peace men sulked in their tents, but Wisconsin Democrats were generally pleased with McClellan’s letter of acceptance. George B. Smith confided his satisfaction to his dairy: “[Read] McClellan’s letter of acceptance today. It is beautiful and appropriate.”[74] Having a candidate, Democrats set about to build a favorable McClellan image. His mustached portrait peered out of the newspaper columns and editors composed halos out of fulsome praise and flattering phrases. One Wisconsin editor carried away by his devotion to McClellan, depicted him as “a man of spotless purity, of distinguished patriotism, of exalted talent, of glorious repute, of solid understanding, and of dignified demeanor.”[75] Democratic orators and editors assured all that McClellan’s election would solve all the

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nation’s ills—he could wave a magic wand and bring back peace and reunion, regeneration and prosperity. Moses M. Strong, a capable stump-speaker who delighted Democratic audiences—an uncharitable critic characterized his voice as “a sort of cross between the croak of a frog and the bleat of a dying calf ”[76] —not only spoke in various Wisconsin cities, but also toured Vermont, Connecticut, and New York in behalf of his party’s ticket. While McClellan’s nomination excited the Democrats, it alarmed the Republicans who saw the tide turning against their party. “McClellan’s nomination takes,” George B. Smith wrote in his diary, “and Republicans are frightened.”[77] Republican editors, consequently, attacked McClellan with renewed vigor, repeating old lies and inventing new ones. They depicted him as “a military incompetency,” an ambitious renegade, and “a traitorous Copperhead” who was as pretentious as Napoleon but lacked his brains. “He is,” wrote one Republican editor, “the weakest man intellectually that ever was placed in nomination for the Presidency.”[78] Republicans supplemented the editorial attack upon McClellan with an outpouring of pamphlets and flyers. Republican postmasters ordered thousands of copies of a campaign document entitled “McClellan’s Military Career, Reviewed and Exposed”[79] —it literally flooded the State. Republicans also circulated anti-McClellan tracts in the army, helping to transform soldiers into abolitionists and voters-in-blue into Lincoln boosters.[80] Republican strategists also reactivated the Union League and opened “reading rooms” well-stocked with campaign literature.[81] Republican hopes rose sharply in September. Several military victories helped. The fall of Atlanta prompted Madison Republicans to sponsor a “victory rally” and George B. Smith wrote in his diary, “Republicans [are] are making infamous use of the victory.” Sheridan’s victory over Early also raised “Republican hopes.” Then too, Republican editors retold the story of the victory of the Kearsarge over the Alabama.—in partisan eyes it was a victory worth votes at the polls.[82] While gloating over the military victories, Republican leaders took steps to heal the schism in their party. They evolved a backstage bargain. Fremont withdrew from the presidential sweepstakes and Lincoln dismissed Montgomery Blair from his cabinet. “I have suc-


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ceeded in all,” the triumphant negotiator wrote to his wife.[83] The backstage bargain reunited the party—at least outwardly—and assured Lincoln’s re-election. As Republican fortunes improved, Democrats became desperate. Pomeroy of the La Crosse Democrat, among others, intensified his attack upon Lincoln. He composed new words for old tunes and recommended them to his readers. He used the popular tune “When Johnny Comes Marching- Home Again” to attack Lincoln and advocate McClellan’s election: The widow-maker soon must cave! Hurrah! Hurrah! We’ll plant him in some nigger’s grave! Hurrah! Hurrah! Torn from your farm, your shop, your raft— Conscript! How do you like the draft? And we’ll stop that too, When “Little Mac” takes the helm![84]

Pomeroy wrote of Lincoln as “the lurer drunk with madness” and as “widow-maker” and “orphan-maker.” He described the draft as “slaughtering machinery.” In each issue he played various chords of the same tune: “Lincoln has been a worse tyrant and more inhuman butcher than has existed since the days of Nero. He has listened to the counsel of fools, and millions of mourners weep over the result of his incompetency.” Pomeroy ridiculed Lincoln’s statement about not swapping horses in the middle of the stream, depicting Lincoln as a swapper extraordinary. “Lincoln,” Pomeroy wrote, “has swapped the goddess of Liberty for the pate and the wool of a nigger. He has swapped a land of peace for a desert of graves. He has swapped all these as he once swapped jokes in an old saloon in Illinois.”[85] A long poem, satirizing Lincoln’s allegation about swapping horses, made the rounds of the Democratic press. Portions of the 13-stanza poem entitled “Abraham and Columbia” follow: Lank Abraam lolled in his library chair, Consulting “Joe Miller” and “Vanity Fair,” When in crept Columbia, careworn and pale,

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Milwaukee Stories But dauntless and haughty ‘mid Fortune’s assail— “Come, steward,” she said, “now explain, if you can! Why shan’t I discharge you and try a new man?” Then Abraam, the wily, replied with a grin, A Dutchman once said, in the county of Quinn, (The story is old, but in point, as I deem) “Taint safe to swap hosses when crossing a stream.” “But steward,” she answered, “my debts are untold, Account for my treasures of silver and gold! Hard taxes are wrested from labor’s brown hand, Yet pledged is my income and mortgaged my land. Your squandering wastes what the plunderers miss; Three years of your follies have brought me to this!” And Abraam replied as he straddled his chair, “You know, my dear madame, I’m honest and square; To shelve a tried President, don’t ever dream— ‘Taint safe to swap horses when crossing a stream.” Columbia disgusted, would listen no more, But cried out in rage, as she stormed through the door— “I’ve kept an old donkey for nearly four years, Who brings me but scorn and disaster and tears! I vow I will drive a respectable team, Though forced to swap horses when crossing a stream!”[86]

A couple of Democratic critics of Lincoln were nearly as vicious and venomous as Pomeroy. The editor of the Beaver Dam Argus, for example, also implied that assassination might be in order. “History,” wrote the Beaver Dam editor, “shows several instances where the people have only been saved by assassination of their rulers, and history may repeat itself in this country. The time may come when it is absolutely necessary that the people do away with their rulers in the quickest way possible.”[87] Most Democratic spokesmen, of course, criticized Lincoln more moderately and more effectively—the excesses of Pomeroy embarrassed the responsible members of his party. Charles D. Robinson of the Green Bay Advocate, George H. Paul of the Milwaukee News, Peter V. Deuster of the (Milwaukee) See-Bote, and Flavius J. Mills of the Sheboygan Journal exemplified the moderate critics. So did George B. Smith of Madison, Frederic W. Horn of Cedarburg, and Edward G.


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Ryan of Milwaukee—the latter destined to become the most famous chief justice of the Wisconsin Supreme Court. These moderate critics made an especial appeal to two elements of the State heterogeneous population. Most of the Irish-Americans voted the Democratic ticket. So did the German Catholics who were concentrated in the cities along the shore of Lake Michigan. Since the Republican party bore the scarlet mark of Know-Nothingism—a nativist and anti-Catholic movement of the 1850’s—the Irish and German-Americans felt more at home in the Democratic party. Furthermore, the Republican party was tainted with abolition and prohibition—two “isms” which alarmed the German and Irish voters. Frederic W. Horn of Cedarburg and Peter V. Deuster of the (Milwaukee) See-Bote told the German Catholics how to vote and Edward G. Ryan served as a spokesman for Irish-Americans in the Badger State. While Democratic politicians cultivated the favor of Irish and German voters, Republicans made an effort to corral the independent vote. They pointed out that the military successes of September proved that the war was nearly over—it was not the miserable failure which carping critics claimed it to be. They generated nationalism, trying to make loyalty to Lincoln and loyalty to the Government synonymous. War prosperity, too, strengthened Lincoln’s chances of re-election. The failure of the Ohio wheat crop boosted the price of Wisconsin wheat. Army purchases pushed up the price of all farm crops. Wisconsin farmers, consequently, enjoyed “a prosperity so enormous as to challenge disbelief.” This prosperity helped citizens forget some of the ugly aspects of the war; it was “the lance of Achilles, healing by its touch the wounds of war and desolation.” The tide of economic prosperity enhanced Lincoln’s re-election and adversely affected McClellan’s chances. A London Times correspondent, touring the Midwest, wrote, “Nothing is strange, nothing is unusual, nothing is unconstitutional, nothing is wicked to people who are prospering upon the war. . . .”[88] The Republicans left nothing to chance. They organized an effective and intense campaign. Carl Schurz took leave from his army assignment to make a number of speeches for Lincoln. U.S. Senators James R. Doolittle and Timothy 0. Howe took to the hustings. Lucius Fairchild, elected a Secretary of State in 1863 because he lost an arm

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at Gettysburg, gave patriotic speeches and invited War Democrats to vote for Lincoln and the Union. Alexander W. Randall came home from Washington to defend the administration of which he was a part, and party pressure put Governor James T. Lewis and ex-governor Edward Salomon in the field.[89] Despite the fiery editorials of “Brick” Pomeroy and the patriotic oratory of Republican speakers, there was a limited interest in the election. Since there were no state and county tickets in the field—the Governor had been elected for a two-year term in 1863—the people showed surprisingly little interest in the campaign.[90] The October election returns in Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania indicated that the trend favored Lincoln and the Republicans. Lincoln’s supporters openly cheered; Democrats wore long faces. “Many Democrats,” George B. Smith wrote in his diary, “are despairing and hopeless over the late elections in Pa., Ind., and Ohio. But I hope for the best.”[91] Hope was not enough. The October elections correctly foretold the result of the November presidential contest. Lincoln carried Wisconsin by more than 17,000 votes. He received only a 6,512 majority on the home vote,[92] but he padded that majority by taking 13,805 of the 16,789 votes cast by soldiers in the field. The soldier vote had become a kind of “controlled vote”—soldiers voted for Lincoln because of the pressure of patriotism, the partisan influence of army officers, and the effectiveness of the Republican agents who distributed “reading material” and political tracts.[93] The Republicans failed to dent the Democratic strongholds of the Irish and German Catholics. The city of Milwaukee, with its large German element, gave McClellan a two-to-one majority over Lincoln (4,908 to 2,535 votes). Other counties holding a heavy German population also returned Democratic majorities—Ozaukee county gave McClellan a majority of 1,000 and Washington county 2,200. Cedarburg, a German Catholic community in Ozaukee county, gave McClellan 299 votes, Lincoln but six. Irish-Americans also leaned toward McClellan. Erin Township (Washington county), peopled one hundred per cent by Irish Catholics, gave McClellan 206 votes, Lincoln but 6. Lincoln’s strength lay in those counties with a heavy ex-Yankee population. He received a 2300 majority in Walworth county, 2000


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in Grant, 1442 in Green Lake, and 3000 in Rock county (onetime home of Alexander G Randall).[94] In the Congressional elections, the Democrats fared badly. They lost two of the three seats they had won in 1862—the next Congress would have five Republican and one Democratic congressman representing the Badger State. Republican leaders like Alexander W. Randall and “Boss” Keyes gloried in the election returns. It meant that Randall would remain in Washington and Keyes would keep his postmastership for another four years. They gave thanks “to a kind Providence for the salvation” of the country and the party.[95] To them the military victories were satisfying, but Lincoln’s reelection was the great event of 1864—free government, Republican style, would endure.[96] Lucius Fairchild, casting covetous eyes at the governorship, summed up the sentiments of Republican party leaders: “Thank God for the glorious victories of last Tuesday [Nov. 8] ... I feel confident now that all our troubles will have an end.”[97] The Democrats, on the other hand, drank the dregs of defeat. “May God, in his goodness,” wrote the editor of the Patriot, “avert the calamities which we fear will befall our beloved country.” Like the typical poor loser, he blamed the Democratic defeat upon fraud, forgeries, threats, intimidation—the power of the purse combined with the power of the sword.[98] The editor of the Montello Express offered a more novel explanation. The Democrats had been “too frank and too fair”—the people wanted promises and platitudes, and the Republicans had pointed toward the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.[99] Another disillusioned Democrat complained that the Republicans had “all the pulpits and lecture platforms to teach their disorganizing doctrines.”[100] Democrats advised each other not to lose faith in their time-tested principles. They could look hopefully toward 1868. “In time,” wrote a would-be prophet of the Democratic faith “we shall feel the full force of the calamities brought upon the land by blind fanaticism; then the people of the country will listen to reason”[101] —and vote for Democratic candidates. No single factor explained Lincoln’s triumph over McClellan in 1864. War prosperity and the fall of Atlanta on the eve of the elections aided

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the party in power. The controlled soldier vote helped. Patriotism, generated by the war, caused people to overlook the failings of the Lincoln administration and helped to convince the populace that the administration and the government were one. Lincoln, furthermore, had the ability to dramatize his goals and gain the confidence of the common man. “... he is in the hearts of the people,” wrote one who learned to admire Lincoln; “they believe in him, in his integrity of purpose; they regard him as one of themselves.”[102] In its broadest concept, the election of 1864 was much more than a contest between Lincoln and McClellan. It was also a question of which party’s principles would triumph. It was a contest between a party which looked to the future and kept in tune with the changing times and a party which wanted to turn the clock and calendar back to the practices of the prewar years. It meant that the revolution operating within the Civil War would remain in force—democracy would continue to be extended, industry would triumph over agriculture, and the government become more centralized. Lincoln’s reelection enabled that revolution to continue and it changed the fate and the face of the nation.

Notes [1] Toronto Daily Globe, Oct. 17, 1863; St. Catharines Evening Journal, Oct. 20, 1863. The Globe speculated at length upon the nation-wide effects of Clement L. Vallandigham’s defeat in the Ohio gubernatorial election of October 13, 1863. [2] John W. Forney, quoted and criticized in the (Madison) Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Jan. 18, 1864. [3] The Milwaukee Sentinel and the (Madison) Wisconsin State Journal the two leading Republican newspapers in the State, favored Lincoln’s reelection from the very beginning and constantly praised him as a man and leader The (Madison) Emigranten, edited by C. F. Solberg, succeeded admirably in convincing Norwegian-Americans that Lincoln was a great man and deserved a second term. [4] (Madison) Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Jan. 26, 1864. [5] Randall received judicious treatment in Robert H. Jacobi, “Wisconsin Civil War Governors” (M.S. thesis, University of Wisconsin, 1948). [6] Keyes political activities in Wisconsin are treated in scholarly fashion in Richard W. Hantke, “The Life of Elisha Williams Keyes” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1942). [7] Journal of the Proceedings of the Assembly of Wisconsin, 1864 (Madison, 1864), 42. [8] Ibid., 48.


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[9] Ibid., 48-49, 107; Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Jan. 30, 1864; Wisconsin State Journal, Feb. 2, March 2, 1864; entry of Jan. 29, “Diary, 1864,” George B. Smith Papers (State Historical Society of Wisconsin). [10] Letter. George B. Smith to Horatio Seymour, Jan. 18, 1864, “Letterbooks,” Smith Papers. [11] Milwaukee Wisconsin (n.d.), quoted in Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Jan. 26 1864. Other Republican-dominated state legislatures played the same game. The California legislature, for example, characterized Lincoln as “the instrument selected by Providence to lead the country through its peril” and implied that his re-election was necessary and politic (Wisconsin State Journal, Jan. 29, 1864). Ohio legislators signed an address praising Lincoln and recommending his re-election (letter, C. H. Spahr to John Sherman, May 6, 1864, John Sherman Papers, Library of Congress). In Missouri, on the other hand, a resolution declaring in favor of Lincoln’s re-election was tabled by a 45 to 37 vote (Milwaukee Sentinel, Feb. 17, 1864). [12] Letter, Alexander W. Randall to “My dear Keyes,” Feb. 20, 1864, Elisha W. Keyes Papers (State Historical Society of Wisconsin). [13] Letters, Keyes to Randall, Feb. 20, April 27, 1864, ibid. [14] Letters, Keyes to Randall, Feb. 25, 27, 1864, ibid. [15] Letter, Keyes to Randall, Feb. 27, 1864, ibid.; letters, Keyes to Mclndoe March 9. 1864 and Mclndoe to Keyes, March 2, 1864, ibid. [16] Wisconsin State Journal, Feb. 8, 29, 1864. [17] Ibid., March 1, 1864. [18] Letter, George B. Smith to Charles A. Ethridge, Jan. 19, 1864, Smith Papers. [19] Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Jan. 9, 13, 20, 1864. [20] The sectional aspects of Midwestern Copperheadism (Democratic opposition to the Lincoln Administration) are explored in Frank L. Klement “Middle Western Copperheadism and the Genesis of the Granger Movement,” Mississippi Valley Historical Review, XXXVIII (March, 1952), 679-694, and Klement, “Economic Aspects of Middle Western Copperheadism,” The Historian, XIV (Autumn. 1951), 27-44. [21] Letter, William R. Morrison to Manton Marble, March 26, 1864, Manton Marble Papers (Library of Congress). [22] Letters, S. S. Cox to Manton Marble June 1, 14, 1863, Marble Papers. [23] Letter, George B. McClellan to Charles J. Biddle, Oct. 12, 1863, published in New York World, Oct. 13, 1863. [24] Letter, Millard Fillmore to Mrs. George B. McClellan, March 24, 1864, George B. McClellan Papers (Library of Congress). [25] Wisconsin State Journal, Jan. 16, April 8, 1864; Wisconsin Daily Patriot, March 25, 1864. [26] Letter, Keyes to Randall, March 14, 1864, Keyes Papers. [27] Letter Randall to Keyes, March 16, 1864, ibid. [28] Wisconsin State Journal, March 30, 31, 1864; Wisconsin Daily Patriot March 31, 1864; Chicago Tribune, March 31. 1864. [29] Both Ryan and Strong have found competent biographers; see A. G. Beitzinger, Edward G. Ryan: Lion of the Law (Madison, 1960), and Kenneth W. Duckett, Frontiersman of Fortune: Moses M. Strong of Mineral Point (Madison, 1955.)

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[30] The editor of the Wisconsin State Journal, adept at smearing all critics of the Lincoln Administration, referred to the delegates as “Copperheads,” “Butternuts,” “rebel sympathizers,” and “allies of Jeff Davis.” [31] Wisconsin State Journal, March 26, 1864. [32] Wisconsin Daily Patriot, April 14, 1864. [33] Cincinnati Daily Commercial (n.d.), quoted in Wisconsin Daily Patriot, April 12, 1864. [34] Ward H. Lamon, “Memorandum Concerning the Antietam Episode”[Sept. 12, 18641, in Roy P. Basler, editor The Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln (9 vols., New Brunswick, N.J., 1953), VII, 548-49. [35] Wisconsin Daily Patriot, May 21, 1864. [36] Ibid., March 11, 1864; (Milwaukee) See-Bote, April 9, 23, 31, Oct. 15, Nov. 3, 1862, April 29, Sept. 16, 1863, April 20, May 18, June 22, 1864. The use of Negrophobia for political purposes is treated in Frank L. Klement, “Midwestern Opposition to Lincoln’s Emancipation Policy,” Journal of Negro History, (July, 1964), XL1X, 169-183. [37] Wisconsin State Journal, March 17, 1864. [38] Letter, Lincoln to Chase, February 23, 1864, Robert Todd Lincoln Papers (Library of Congress). [39] Wisconsin State Journal, March 26, 1864. The Chase boom received scholarly treatment in William F. Zornow, “Lincoln, Chase, and the Ohio Radicals in 1864,” Bulletin of the Historical and Philosophical Society of Ohio, IX (Jan., 1951), 3-32. [40] Dubuque Staats Zeitung (n.d.), quoted in the Wisconsin Daily Patriot April 11, 1864. [41] Letter, Randall to Keyes, May 20, 1864, Keyes Papers; Wisconsin State Journal, April 29, May 10, 1864. [42] Wisconsin State Journal, May 10, 1864. [43] Letter (transcribed), Carl Schurz to “Dear Parents,” July 5 1864 Carl Schurz Papers (State Historical Society of Wisconsin). [44] Letters, Schurz to Lincoln, Feb. 29, 1864, and Lincoln to Schurz, March 13, 1864, Robert Todd Lincoln Papers. [45] Letter Schurz to “Dear Parents,” April 24, 1864, Schurz Papers; letter Thomas Hood to Lucius Fairchild, July 21, 1864, Lucius F. Fairchild Papers (State Historical Society of Wisconsin). [46] Letter, Randall to Keyes, May 20, 1864, Keyes Papers. [47] Wisconsin State Journal, May 31, 1864. [48] ”The “Fremont Convention” is treated in William F. Zornow “The Cleveland Convention, 1864, and Radical Democrats,” Mid-America XXXVI (Jan., 1954), 39-53, and “Some New Light on Fremont’s Nomination at Cleveland in 1864,” Lincoln Herald LI (Oct., 1949). 21-23, 25. Zornow wrote “The Re-election of Abraham Lincoln” as a doctoral dissertation at Western Reserve University in 1952 and mined it for two dozen historical articles before it was re-worked and published as Lincoln & the Party Divided (Norman, Okla., 1954). [49] Wisconsin Daily Patriot, June 9, 1864. Wisconsin delegates played a minor role at the Convention. John F. Potter served as one of the many vice-presidents, C.C. Sholes acted as one of the two dozen secretaries, ex-governor Edward G. Salomon held position on the Committee on Resolutions, and J.B. Cassoday sat with the Committee on Credentials.


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[50] Lincoln, “Endorsement Concerning Leonard Swett and Joseph Holt” (June 6, 1864), written on the back of a letter of John G. Nicolay to John Hay, June 5, 1864, John Nicolay Papers (Library of Congress). [51] James M. Edmunds, the Commissioner of the Land Office and a close personal friend and counselor of Lincoln, served as Grand President of the Union League of America. Cursory information which reveals how Lincoln’s friends took over the mushrooming Union League can be found in William O. Stoddard. Lincoln’s Third Secretary: the Memoirs of William O. Stoddard (edited by William O. Stoddard, Jr., New York, 1955), 100-1. [52] Lincoln, “Reply to Delegation from the Union League,” June 9. 1864, Robert Todd Lincoln Papers. Lincoln’s written reply closed with the following sentence: “I have not permitted myself, gentlemen, to conclude that I am the best man in the country; but I am reminded, in this connection, of a story of an old Dutch farmer, who remarked to a companion once that ‘it was not best to swap horses when crossing streams.’ “ [53] Letter, Dean Richmond to Manton Marble, June 16, 1864, Marble Papers. [54] Letter. John Pepley to James R. Doolittle, July 3, 1864, James R. Doolittle Papers (State Historical Society of Wisconsin). [55] Wisconsin State Journal, June 15, 1864. [56] Stephen D. Carpenter, The Logic of History (Madison, 1864); Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Jan. 12, Feb. 16, 1864. [57] Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Mar. 25, 1864 [58] La Crosse Democrat, July 5, 1864. [59] Ibid., April 23, July 5, 19, 24, Aug. 9, 16, 24, 1864. [60] Ibid., Aug. 23, 1864. [61] Ibid., Aug. 29, 1864. The “epitaph” was published earlier in the Appleton Crescent. Pomeroy’s role as a critic of Lincoln has been treated in several articles by the author: “ ‘Brick’ Pomeroy, Copperhead and Curmudgeon,” Wisconsin Magazine of History, XXXV (Winter, 1951), 106-113, 156-57; “A Small-Town Editor Criticizes Lincoln: A Study in Editorial Abuse,” Lincoln Herald, XLIV (Summer, 1952), 2732; and “ ‘Brick’ Pomeroy and the Democratic Processes: A Study of Civil War Politics,” Transactions of the Wisconsin Academy of Science, Arts, and Letters, 1963 (Madison, 1963), 159-69. [62] Letter, Sylvanus Cadwallader to George H. Paul, Oct. 11, 1864, George H. Paul Papers (State Historical Society of Wisconsin); report, C. C. Clay to Hon. Judah P. Benjamin, Sept. 12, 1864, published in Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies (128 vols., Washington, D.C., 1880-1901), Series 4. Ill, 639. [63] Letter, Thurlow Weed to William H. Seward, Aug. 22, 1864, William H. Seward Papers (Rush Rhees Library, University of Rochester, Rochester, N.Y.); John Hay, Lincoln and the Civil War in the Diaries and Letters of John Hay (edited by Tyler Dennett, New York. 1939), 237-39 (entry of Nov. 11, 1864); letter. Henry J. Raymond to Lincoln, Aug. 22, 1864, Robert Todd Lincoln Papers. [64] Letter, Greeley to George Opdyke, Aug. 18, 1864, published in the New York Sun, June 30, 1889. This issue of the Sun exposed “the secret movement” to supercede Lincoln in 1864. [65] Memorandum of August 23, 1864,” Robert Todd Lincoln Papers. [66] Letter, James B. Jenkins to George B. Smith, Aug. 10, 1864, Smith Papers; Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Aug. 26, 1864.

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[67] Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Aug. 27, 1864. [68] Letter, S. S. Cox to Manton Marble, Aug. 7, 1864, Marble Papers. [69] Four Wisconsin delegates had a part in directing the Convention. George B. Smith served on the Committee on Resolutions (platform committee), Moses M. Strong held one of the secretaryships, H. N. Smith met with the Committee on Credentials, and Charles G. Rudolf held a post on the Committee on Organization. [70] Entries of Aug. 29, Sept. 14, 17, 22, “Diary, 1864,” Moses M. Strong Papers (State Historical Society of Wisconsin); entry of Aug. 29, “Diary 1864,” Smith Papers; Mineral Point Home Intelligencer, Oct 15 1864; Chicago Daily Tribune, Aug. 29, 1864. [71] The Wisconsin delegation cast its 8 votes for George H. Pendleton for vice-President. After a couple of contenders withdrew, Pendleton won by a unanimous vote on the second ballot. Pendleton’s nomination, too, was considered a concession to the peace men. [72] Entry of Aug. 30, “Diary, 1864,” Smith Papers. [73] Letters, William H. Aspinwall to McClellan, Sept. 4. 1864, William Gray to McClellan, Sept. 1, 1864, George T. Curtis to McClellan, Sept 1 1864, U. A. Stephens to McClellan, Sept. 2, 1864, McClellan Papers. [74] Entry of Sept. 9, “Diary, 1864,” Smith Papers; Wisconsin Daily Patriot Sept. 7, 1864; letter Daniel W. Voorhees to McClellan, Sept. 15, 1864, McClellan Papers. [75] Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Sept. 6, 1864. [76] Dubuque Daily Times (n. d.), quoted in the Mineral Point Tribune July 22, 1863. [77] Entry of Sept. 3, “Diary, 1864,” Smith Papers. [78] Dayton Daily Journal, Sept. 1, 1864; Wisconsin State Journal, Sept. 5, 1864. [79] The pamphlet was one of 15 propaganda-booklets brought out by the Union Congressional Executive Committee and published in Washington, D.C. [80] Letter, T. E. Alien to “Friend Sam,” Sept. 22. 1864, Horatio Seymour Papers (New York State Library, Albany). See also William Frank Zornow, “Lincoln Voters Among the Boys in Blue,” Lincoln Herald, LIV (Fall, 1952), 22-25. [81] Letter, George H. Otis to Lucius Fairchild, Sept. 10, 1864, Fairchild Papers. [82] Entries of Sept. 4, 27, “Diary, 1864,” Smith Papers; Wisconsin State Journal, July 13, 1864. [83] Letter. Zachariah Chandler to “Dear Wife,” Sept. 24, 1864, Zachariah Chandler Papers (Library of Congress). [84] La Crosse Weekly Democrat, Oct. 3, 1864. [85] Ibid., Oct. 10, 17, 24, 31, 1864. [86] Wisconsin Daily Patriot, July 19, 1864 [87] Beaver Dam Argus, Sept. 14, 1864. [88] London Times, March 17, 1863, Sept. 25, 1864; Cincinnati Daily Gazette, Nov. 9, 1863; letter, Samuel J. Riddle to Elihu B. Washburne, May 16, 1864, Elihu B. Washburne Papers (Library of Congress). [89] Milwaukee News, Sept. 29, 1864; Wisconsin State Journal, Sept. 2, 30, Oct. 27, 1864; Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Sept. 29, 1864; letter Horace Rublee to James R. Doolittle, Oct. 27, 1864, James R. Doolittle Papers (State Historical Society of Wisconsin); letter, Philetus Sawyer to Elisha W. Keyes, Oct. 7, 1864, Keyes Papers; letters G. W. Hazeton to Fairchild, Oct 14, 1864, and J. R. Bingham to Fairchild, Oct. 21, 1864, Fairchild Papers.


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[90] Jacobi, “Wisconsin Civil War Governors,” 190. [91] Entry of Oct. 16, “Diary, 1864,” Smith Papers. [92] Wisconsin State Journal, Dec. 5, 1864. Lincoln carried 36 counties, McClellan 21. The canvassers counted 68,906 Lincoln and 62,494 McClellan votes of those cast in the State’s polling booths. The Kewanee County votes (157 for Lincoln and 753 for McClellan) were not counted because “no seal was attached.” In 1860 Lincoln had carried Wisconsin over Douglas by more than 20,000 votes—the official tally read: Lincoln 86,110; Douglas, 65,021; Breckenridge, 889: and Bell, 151 (Lincoln carried 46 of the 57 counties). [93] Voting by Wisconsin soldiers in-the-field is discussed in Frank L. Klement, “The Soldier Vote in Wisconsin during the Civil War,” Wisconsin Magazine of History. XXVIII (Sept., 1944), 37-47. [94] Legislative Manual of the State of Wisconsin . . . 1864 (Madison, 1864), 166. Scandanavia Township of Waupaca County gave Lincoln 122 votes, McClellan but 4. [95] Letter, Preston King to James R. Doolittle, Nov. 26, 1864, Doolittle Papers. [96] Ibid. [97] Letter, Lucious Fairchild to James R. Doolittle, Nov. 14, 1864, Doolittle Papers. [98] Wisconsin Daily Patriot, Nov. 10, 1864. [99] Montello Express (n.d.), quoted in the Wisconsin State Journal, Dec. 3, 1864. [100] Letter, A. F. Peek to Horatio Seymour, Dec. 1, 1864, Seymour Papers. [101] Letter (copy), Manton Marble to George B. McClellan, Nov. 13, 1864. Marble Papers. [102] Letter, Mary Giddings to “My dear friend” (George W. Julian), Sept. 4. 1864, Joshua R. Giddings-George W. Julian Papers (Library of Congress).

Mayor David Rose (David S. Rose file)

The Political Campaigns of Mayor David S. Rose by

Joseph A. Ranney Milwaukee History, Spring 1981

T

he years from 1898 to 1910 form one of the most colorful periods of Milwaukee’s political history. During all but two years of that time, the mayor’s office was occupied by David S. Rose, who resurrected the city’s moribund Democratic party to win office and held it through five terms principally by his personal vigor and flamboyance. He was successful despite the fact that his administration was plagued by constant and often well-founded charges of corruption and by failure to achieve badly needed municipal improvements. Rose was actively opposed by a city Republican party which, from 1877 to 1898, had been the leading force in Milwaukee politics and remained strong for many years thereafter. He was also opposed by the Social Democratic party, which during his years rose from splinter party status to parity with the major parties and eventually won the mayor’s office in 1910. The drama of Rose’s career and of the Social Democrats’ rise to power has obscured the fact that, at the turn of the century, fundamental changes were also taking place in the campaign techniques of Milwaukee’s parties and politicians and in the ways in which voters looked at politics. An account of those shifts and a systematic analysis of voting patterns in Milwaukee during the Rose years to determine the bases of each party’s support merit serious consideration. Taken together, the changes in Milwaukee’s political culture and voting patterns at the turn of the century furnish a new historical perspective on why city voters kept Rose in power as long as they did, and why

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they ultimately decided that the Social Democrats could be entrusted with the mayor’s office. A brief chronology of the Rose years is useful for understanding the changes in Milwaukee’s political culture at the turn of the century. Rose first ran for mayor of Milwaukee in 1898. From the start he was dogged by charges that he had engaged in ventures of questionable honesty as a lawyer and lobbyist. As a Democrat, he was given little chance of being elected in a city which had generally been controlled by Republicans over the past twenty years. But to the surprise of both supporters and opponents, Rose waged an aggressive and effective campaign. He negotiated fusion with the Populists, who had polled 21 percent of the vote in the previous mayoral election, portrayed himself as the workingman’s friend, and decisively defeated his conservative Republican opponent. The Social Democratic party, which had been founded only a year before, was still in the throes of organization and polled only 5 percent of the vote. As mayor, Rose continued to capture Milwaukee’s imagination. His expressive face and elegant dress were familiar sights downtown, and he became known for his personal charm. But his administration disappointed the hopes of many reform-minded supporters by making few municipal improvements. In early 1900, Rose approved a charter giving The Milwaukee Electric Railway & Light Company a 35-year franchise for the city streetcar system on terms widely regarded as unfavorable to the city. The charter was highly unpopular, and for a time it appeared that Rose’s part in it might cost him his office in that year’s election. But thanks to an exhausting personal campaign and pledges to defend Milwaukeeans’ “personal liberty” to enjoy beer, boxing, and other pleasures, Rose won reelection by a reduced margin. He again was reelected in 1902, this time with help from Milwaukee Republicans who supported Governor Robert LaFollette but who were outnumbered in the local Republican party by the conservative “stalwart” faction. The Social Democratic party was slowly growing, but it finished a distant third to both major parties in the 1900 and 1902 elections. As early as the 1902 campaign, Rose’s administration was charged with manipulating the city’s financial records to conceal deficits and with other irregularities. These accusations multiplied in 1903 and


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1904. Milwaukee attracted attention in the national press as one of the leading cities on “the boodle map of America,” and Francis McGovern, the Milwaukee County district attorney, undertook a large-scale investigation of corruption in city and county government. Rose was never charged with personal wrongdoing, but several top officials in his administration were indicted for rigging bids on city contracts and accepting bribes. Mass meetings were called to protest corruption. The Social Democrats used this method to publicize their thesis that the current sad state of municipal government was due to both old parties viewing politics as a game, with prestige and patronage as the prize, rather than as a means and a duty to improve life for Milwaukee’s people. Only by putting a Social Democratic administration in power, party speakers insisted, could this civic disease be eradicated, and the facilities and services provided which were necessary to bring Milwaukee into the ranks of the great cities of America. Both the Republicans and the Social Democrats challenged Rose vigorously in the 1904 mayoral election. The Republican candidate, Guy D. Goff, departed from his predecessors’ practice of a few limited speeches to the party faithful promising good government, and actively attacked Rose before audiences all over the city. The Social Democrats nominated Victor Berger, their founder and most famous member, who also waged a vigorous campaign. Rose fought back, promising more public works; both he and Goff treated the Social Democrats as a real threat for the first time. Rose won with a plurality that exceeded everyone’s expectation. After the election, the leading Republican newspaper conceded that “Rose has got Milwaukee and no one can take it away from him.” But the Social Democrats doubled their percentage of the vote for the second election in a row, gaining votes from both of the old parties and coming close to parity with them.[1] In 1905, LaFollette’s supporters in the state legislature enacted a law which required Milwaukee’s parties to choose their mayoral and other city-wide candidates through open primaries rather than the closed party conventions of the past. Although the law was probably intended to weaken LaFollette’s opponents in the Milwaukee Republican party, in 1906 its major effect was on the Democrats. In that year, Rose barely survived a primary challenge by his long-time lieutenant William George Bruce, and for the first time, Democratic

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leaders were not able to arrange the placement of a member of the local Polish-American community on the city ticket. The Republican primary produced Sherburn Becker, a young alderman with limited political experience but a natural talent for public relations, as that party’s mayoral candidate. due to erosion of Rose’s support in the Polish-American community and to Becker’s campaigning talents, the Republican was able to put an end to Rose’s eight-year tenure as mayor. The Social Democrats’ share of the vote, 28 percent, was roughly the same as in 1904.[2] Becker was less successful as a mayor than as a campaigner. He retired at the end of his term in 1908, leaving a stalwart Republican candidate to face Rose and Emil Seidel, the Social Democratic nominee. the Social Democrats now had 17,000 registered members in Milwaukee, and Seidel was attractive to the more conservative voters because he was a small businessman and therefore appeared “safer” than previous Social Democratic nominees. In addition to these advantages, the Social Democrats were becoming an accepted part of the Milwaukee political scene. When Becker attacked them in 1907 as “the scum of the earth,” he was rebuked by city newspapers of all political affiliations. There were few issues of importance in the 1908 campaign. Rose narrowly won back the mayoralty, but the Social Democrats finished second for the first time. Two years later, Rose retired. Sensing a shift in the public mood, both the Democrats and Republicans nominated progressive candidates, but this time Seidel won a decisive victory and became the first Socialist mayor ever of a major American city.[3] The changing nature and extent of the American public’s interest in politics over time and the variety of campaign techniques with which politicians have attempted to influence the public are important but little-explored facets of American political history. The political scientist Walter Dean Burnham developed a theory that politics served as a major source of recreation for Americans until about 1920. Local campaign debates and rallies were a popular means of diversion in a predominantly rural society, and as a result most voters were firmly committed to one or the other of the major parties and voter turnout was consistently high. After 1920, with the advent of radio and the sudden great expansion of the electorate through women’s suffrage,


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politics became less of a personal matter for most voters. Voters became consumers and chose candidates on the basis of their positions and packaging. Voter turnout and party loyalty declined. Politicians depended less on their party’s organization and activities, and more on advertising and actions calculated to attract publicity in order to win elections. The theory fits Milwaukee politics well. The city started to shift from the old political model to the new during the Rose years, and those years provide a good case study of the contrast between the two political cultures.[4] In 1898, when the Social Democratic party was a fledgling and Rose was preparing for his first campaign, Milwaukee political activity centered around formal ward meetings of the party faithful. State law required political parties in Milwaukee to nominate candidates for city offices at conventions of delegates, who in turn were elected at meetings in each of Milwaukee’s twenty-one wards. Only recognized party members could attend ward meetings and city conventions. If challenged, participants had to affirm on oath that they had voted for the party ticket at the last election, and if they would not do so they were ejected. As a result, preconvention campaigning for office was directed almost exclusively at known party loyalists and influential figures in each ward. Even after the conventions, campaigning consisted largely of speeches at rallies called in each ward.[5] The Democrats and Republicans would hold large kickoff rallies immediately after the conventions, usually at the Davidson Theater or one of the other large halls downtown. These rallies were always well attended by several thousand of the party faithful. They featured songs by male singing groups (often in German and Polish as well as English) and other entertainments to warm up the crowd. The speakers’ platform often had a huge portrait of one or another party leader as an inspirational backdrop. After the announcement of the party’s “speakers list” for the campaign, which usually included veteran party leaders and promising young members who were being given a chance to make their mark, plus one or two introductory speeches, the mayoral candidate came forth. He gave a long speech setting forth the party platform, explaining how he could improve life for Milwaukeeans if elected and describing in loving detail the flaws of his opponent.

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Every night thereafter until the election, party rallies would be held at local halls in the wards, featuring speeches and entertainment, and usually a speech or at least an appearance by the mayoral candidate. The ward rallies were also well attended. Throughout the Rose years, on average a total of 25,000 people (in a city with a population of 285,000 in 1900 and 374,000 in 1910) attended rallies during the course of each campaign. The Social Democrats followed the same practice as the old parties, although they featured nationally as well as locally prominent Socialists. However, their rallies were less frequent, particularly in the early years when the party was small and struggling. Rose was generally considered the best political orator of his day in Milwaukee or, as a workman expressed it after listening to one of his speeches. “That fellow’s a good talker. He’s got a bluff and he is chinning over it in good style.” Rose’s ability to whip up enthusiasm and confound his opponents with his speeches at critical moments pulled him through several tight campaigns. But his success was due in greater part to his ability to quickly adapt to changes in political techniques which occurred during his time in office. In fact, he was one of the pioneers of the new campaign tactics in Milwaukee.[6] During the 1900 campaign, Rose inaugurated the practice of making noon-time speeches to workmen at their factories. Rose supporters who worked at a chosen factory would escort him onto the plant grounds or a nearby site, and often would pass out literature to the crowd while Rose spoke from his carriage or from a hastily-raised platform. In ensuing campaigns, both the Republicans and the Social Democrats copied this technique. The Social Democrats often sent speakers to follow Rose and compete with him for audiences. The major breweries, the railroad yards and such large industrial concerns as the Edward P. Allis works, the Vilter Company and the Filer & Stowell Company became favorite stops for Rose and other candidates. Rose’s facility both in the meeting hall and at the factories was noted by the Milwaukee Sentinel during the 1902 campaign: “Mayor Rose opened his third ‘campaign royal’ at the Davidson theater last evening. He was attired in a Prince Albert coat, a black vest exposing an immaculate shirt front, and, so far as personal appearances are concerned, bore a striking resemblance to Herrmann


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the Great in his palmist days of legerdemain, when he captured his audiences as much with his grace as with his feats of deception. The mayor on dress parade is a mayor of whom the citizens of Milwaukee may justly feel proud. Monday it will be transformed; he will be in his working clothes haranguing the workmen down in the Menomonee valley as they come forth from the hives of industry to their noonday lunches. In a word, Mr. Rose can be all things to all men and therein lies his campaign strength.”[7]

Rose made maximum use of his name as a campaign symbol. Lapel roses and rose stickpins were distributed to the electorate during campaigns, and sprays of roses invariably graced the platforms from which he spoke. At the height of the furor over the new streetcar franchise in the 1900 campaign, Rose’s cohorts tried to put a good face on the franchise by passing out little leather transfer slip holders, stamped with a rose and the motto: “A penny saved is a penny earned.” The Social Democrats at one point tried to counterattack by calling the mayor “Dave Roach,” but the label did not stick. Rose also appears to have recognized the uses of campaign posters earlier than his rivals, and to have been the only candidate honored with campaign songs extolling his virtues (albeit in lyrics somewhat less than soul-stirring): “We will sure elect you mayor, David Rose, ‘Cause you’ve always acted fair, David Rose, Some say our city’s not the best, But we have the least arrests, Put those knockers in their nests, David Rose.”[8]

Perhaps the clearest example of the advent of new campaign methods and the demise of old ways was provided by Sherburn Becker, the only candidate who ever outcampaigned Rose and defeated him during the 1898-1910 period. Instead of following the tradition of using a party leader or personal crony as his campaign manager, Becker hired William Hooker, an ex-newspaperman who had turned to public relations as a profession. “When I was a boy,” slated Hooker, “they used to march around with torches and carry banners and all that sort of thing, but in modern campaigning we’ve done away with that. You’ve noticed we’re getting out the Becker bulletin, advertising

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on billboards and generally doing things in an up-to-date way.” In the 1906 primaries, Becker and several others became the first municipal candidates to take out paid newspaper ads, and Becker also brought the jingle contest to local politics by offering a barrel of flour to the woman who could best state in twenty-five words or less why he should be elected mayor. The age of advertising and media politics had come to Milwaukee.[9] It should be noted, however, that Becker did not abandon traditional methods entirely. One of the highlights of his campaign was an election eve parade of 3,000 supporters equipped with torches, beribboned canes and with corncob pipes stuck in their oilskin capes. An estimated 30,000 Milwaukeeans watched this spectacle. Becker also introduced the auto to local politics. It was a great attention-getter at parades, and after 1906 was extensively used by all parties to enable their candidates to make more appearances and to transport voters to the polls. Rose quickly absorbed the lesson of Becker’s victory. In his 1908 campaign, he made extensive use of autos and of newspaper and large-scale billboard advertising. Hall meetings were still held in the wards, but they received less attention than formerly, and candidates no longer attempted to make speeches at all of them. A token appearance was considered sufficient for all but the major rallies. The Social Democrats were slower to adopt new campaign techniques than Rose and Becker. They made their principal effort to reach the public through the systematic distribution of informational pamphlets. The party organized “bundle brigades” of its supporters to distribute literature in every part of the city. By the 1910 election year, it had the experience and resources needed to publish its own campaign newspaper and distribute half a million pieces of literature. Distribution on such a scale was new to city politics, but the practice of distributing and mailing literature was well established before the turn of the century. The Milwaukee Republican party also conducted extensive campaigns by mail in several elections during the Rose years. In addition to changes in campaign techniques, changes in the law played a significant role in the creation of a new style of politics in Milwaukee. As has been noted, Wisconsin’s 1905 open primary law contributed substantially to Rose’s defeat in the 1906 mayoral election. More important, it forced politicians of all parties to con-


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centrate less on wooing the party faithful and more on appealing to the electorate at large. Since the open primary virtually destroyed the ability of party organizations to engineer balanced city tickets with something for all segments of the electorate, each candidate had to run more on his own and less as a party representative than before. Becker’s success in the 1906 election made this clear, and Rose and other politicians quickly learned from his example. Again, however, the Social Democrats were slow to follow this lead. They were insulated from the effects of the open primary to some extent because, under the party’s rules, its city ticket was decided on at a closed convention before the primary, and the convention nominees were never opposed on the primary ballot. An examination of the city’s voting patterns at the turn of the century reveals that, like Americans in general, Milwaukeeans then participated more actively in politics and had stronger party loyalties than they do now. For example, voter turnout was fairly high in all municipal elections between 1898 and 1910, ranging between 58 and 74 percent; but it showed a slow declining trend at the end of the period. The “drop-off ” rates for elections during this period (i.e., the difference between turnout in a given municipal election and in the closest state or national election) show that the Milwaukee turnout for municipal elections was almost as heavy as that for presidential elections and consistently heavier than that for state elections. Finally, the “roll-off ” rates (i.e., the difference in the total number of votes for each office to be filled) show that city’s electorate Milwaukeeans were sufficiently involved in the political process to vote diligently for minor positions further down the ballot, such as city attorney, treasurer and comptroller, as well as for mayor. There was little vote roll-off between the highest and lowest offices on the ballot. Turnout rates were significantly higher at the turn of the century than they are today, as shown in Figure 2. The differences between drop-off and roll-off rates at the turn of the century and today are also significant.[10]

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Figure 2 Election

1898 1900 1902 1904 1906 1908 1910 1976 1980

Voter Turnout 60.1 (%)

64.4

73.9

66.8

72.1 62.3 58.8 37.2 52.0

Drop-off (mayoral vote as % of total 117.5 138.7 107.6 105.9 127.4 101.7 112.2 115.0 117.3 vote cast in nearest state election) Drop-off (mayoral vote as % of total vote cast in 86.8 nearest presidential election) Roll-off (office with lowest total vote 97.0 as % of office with highest total vote)

87.6 100.4 93.0 100.4 100.8 95.2 57.5 81.6

94.9

92.7

98.3

97.9 99.4 99.6 73.5 69.9

The decline in Milwaukeeans’ involvement in municipal politics since 1910 is probably due in large part to the fall of hall-meeting, participation-oriented politics and the rise of spectator-oriented, advertising age politics. But it is interesting to note that although the shift from one model to the other started during the Rose years, it is not reflected in the constituent involvement statistics just discussed, except for the gradual decline in voter turnout starting in 1908. Per-


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haps this is one area where Milwaukee’s politicians anticipated rather than followed public sentiment. The 1898-1910 period witnessed significant changes in the strength of each party, particularly that of the Social Democrats, whose share of the city vote rose from 5.2 percent in 1898 to 46.5 percent in 1910. Nevertheless, analysis of Milwaukee’s voting patterns during these years indicates that the sectors of the electorate from which each party got its support remained generally the same over the entire period. For each election during this interval, a study was made of which precincts voted most strongly Democratic and which precincts voted most strongly Social Democratic. The results of each election were then correlated, using a statistical measure known as “r,” to determine to what extent the stronghold precincts for each party differed from election to election. An “r” value of +1 would indicate perfect similarity and consistency of support between two elections; an “r” value of –1 would indicate a complete reversal of bases of support. For the 1898-1910 period, Democratic “r” values ranged between +.809 and +.985 and Social Democratic “r” values ranged between +.616 and +.962. This indicates that the shifts in party strength which took place during the Rose years occurred to an equal degree among all groups of Milwaukeeans. Those groups which supported a given party relatively more or less than other groups did so during the entire period, and there was no major change in the coalitions of ethnic, economic, and other groups on which each party relied for its strength. The fact that the Social Democratic “r” values were slightly lower than the Democratic “r” values suggests that the former experienced some moderate changes in their bases of supports as they climbed to power. But this difference in values should not obscure the fact that the support of both parties was amazingly stable over the entire period. What were the bases of support for Democrats and Social Democrats? Adherents of each party were not spread evenly throughout the city. Figures 3 and 4 show that Rose had three principal strongholds: one in the Fourteenth Ward on the southwest side, which was the center of Milwaukee’s Polish community at the turn of the century; one encompassing the downtown area and the Menomonee valley; and one extending along the east bank of the Milwaukee River on the city’s north side. The Social Democrats’ strength was concentrated in

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the heavily German wards on the northwest side and in German areas just north of the Fourteenth Ward. A few precincts strongly supported both Rose and the Social Democrats over time, to the exclusion of the Republicans. An evaluation of the social and economic factors that prompted Milwaukee voters to support a particular party is hampered by the fact that the federal censuses of 1900 and 1910 report data only for the city as a whole, not for individual wards and precincts. However, the 1905 Wisconsin census reports ethnic and occupational data for each city ward. Correlation values were again calculated to measure the relationship between Democratic and Social Democratic strength and the power of various ethnic and occupational groups in Milwaukee during the 1898-1910 period. The results are given in Figure 5.

Figure 5 Correlation between:

% born % born % professional % skilled % unskilled in in and workers workers Germany Poland proprietor

Democratic vote 1898 1900 1902 1904 1906 1908 1910

-.63 -.91 -.78 -.58 -.78 -.78 -.58

.37 .37 .46 .46 -.07 .46 -.07

-.21 .37 .46 .46 .46 .46 .85

.07 -.21 -.34 -.34 -.07 -.34 -.07

.07 .37 .20 .46 -.07 .46 -.07

.82 .96 .85 .46 .68 .68 .46

.07 .07 -.07 -.07 .20 .20 .46

-.51 -.21 -.58 -.78 -.93 -.93 -.99

.07 .37 .46 -.07 -.07 -.07 -.34

-.21 -.21 -.07 -.07 .20 .20 .46

Social Democratic vote 1898 1900 1902 1904 1906 1908 1910

These figures confirm the impression of historians and contemporary political observers that Milwaukee’s German community strongly supported the Social Democrats and that the Polish community tended to


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favor Rose. They also confirm that Rose lost Polish support in 1906, when the new open primary system stymied efforts of Democratic leaders to ensure that a Pole was placed on the city ticket. The figures also suggest that German-Americans were consistently antagonistic to Rose, but that the Social Democrats’ steady increase in strength from 1898 to 1910 may have been due in part to increasing support from the Polish community. Occupation and economic status had less effect than ethnic background on Milwaukeeans’ voting behavior. It was thought by politicians and newspapers during the Rose era that the city’s business community and other “haves” increasingly grouped behind Rose as he became entrenched in office, and that the Social Democrats drew their core of support from factory workers. The figures attest that Milwaukee’s businessmen and professionals favored Rose and opposed the Social Democrats as violently as did he. But neither skilled workers, who made up about one-fourth of the work force and were the largest single sector in it, nor unskilled workers had political preferences as marked as those of the business and professional groups. the figures show that there was always a weak antagonism between skilled workers and Rose, and that the core of Social Democratic support shifted from skilled to unskilled workers as the Social Democrats gained strength.[11] It is unfortunate that statistics on religious affiliations in each ward and precinct are not available for the Rose years. Many voting behavior studies have concluded that religion was the single most important determinant of party affiliation in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. They have found that in general. Catholics and other ritualistic denominations tended to favor the Democratic party, while pietistic Protestant denominations favored the Republicans. There is evidence that this pattern may have prevailed in Milwaukee also. The city’s Polish community was overwhelmingly Catholic, and the priests in Polish churches frequently discussed politics from the pulpit during the Rose years. In several elections, Rose received the endorsement of Father Rogozinski of St. Hedwig’s Church and of priests in the other large Polish parishes. Rose was allowed to speak to parish congregations on several occasions, and on at least one occasion ballots marked in his favor were passed out during services for use on election day. Rose in turn frequently made generous contributions to the building funds

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of these churches. Archbishop Messmer took little trouble to hide his distaste for the Social Democrats, and Victor Berger reciprocated by denouncing from time to time the Catholic Church’s support of the capitalist cabal. Berger moderated his tone as his party gained strength, and the Social Democrats made efforts to establish that they were not a threat to religion by making extensive use of Winfield Gaylord, an ordained minister and party leader, as a speaker to reassure audiences on this point. Some of the more conservative Protestant ministers in the city regularly denounced Rose’s lax attitude toward the control of demon alcohol and urged their congregations to vote for his Republican opponents. Rose skillfully portrayed his position as a defense of “personal liberty,” and by this means was able to capitalize on the animus which Milwaukee’s predominantly Catholic and wet population had against the ministers’ position without directly attacking the ministers.[12] Historians and observers of turn-of-the-century Milwaukee politics have advanced two theories of why David Rose was able to remain mayor as long as he did, and of why it took as long as it did for the Social Democrats to elect a mayor. One view holds that Rose possessed political and oratorical skills the like of which have seldom been seen in Milwaukee, and that by the sheer force of these skills he delayed the Social Democrats’ access to the mayor’s office by as much as eight to ten years. The other theory maintains that the Social Democratic party required thirteen years from the time of its founding to gain power because this was the natural length of time which Milwaukee voters needed to shift from their orientation to the traditional political system, based on patronage and loyalty to one of the two traditional parties, to the Social Democrats’ gospel of a progressive political system oriented toward issues and a comprehensive, rationalized system of city services. Both theories contain elements of truth, but neither completely explains the political forces afoot in Milwaukee between 1898 and 1910. Undeniably Rose’s personal magnetism was a force that both Republicans and Social Democrats had to reckon with, but his share of the total vote eroded over time and he obtained a clear majority only in his first campaign for mayor. Furthermore, the city was relatively free from the conditions which fostered the traditional political system


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even before the Social Democrats arrived on the scene. Its population had an unusually high proportion of skilled workers and a large German community with a tradition of active political inquiry and insistence on civic improvement. Positions of power in city politics changed hands regularly before 1898 and no recognized “ring” or other political leadership group existed.[13] Professor Burnham’s model of voter involvement in politics and the above analysis of the role which ethnic background, occupation, and religion played in Milwaukeeans’ voting behavior, provide a third theory for explaining city politics at the turn of the century. Like the others, this theory does not provide a complete explanation of the city’s political culture at that time, but it adds a perspective which the other two lack. The nineteenth-century pattern of citizen involvement in party politics as an essential means of recreation and self-expression, as marked by high voter turnouts and low voter dropoff and roll-off rates, continued in Milwaukee even after advertising and public relations replaced the meeting hall as the favored means of campaigning and Wisconsin’s 1905 open primary law undercut the party convention system. Yet between 1898 and 1910, it was the politicians on the lead edge of the new trend, Rose and Becker, who gained the mayor’s office. In fact, Milwaukee politics at the turn of the century was an amalgam of the old and the new. Candidates still relied in part on traditional voter loyalties and used traditional techniques to reinforce those ties. Ethnic and religious background, and to a lesser extent economic status, influenced the voters’ choice of parties. City politicians were well aware of this and tailored their campaigns accordingly. But the more astute and successful politicians marketed their own personalities as well as their party identification in order to attract the extra support necessary to win in a time of discontent and realignment of Milwaukee’s party system. By the same token, the Social Democrats were slow to gain success during this period because the newness of their party precluded them from having much support based on party traditions and loyalty. But as the Rose years wore on, they gained a core of supporters and adopted some of the new campaign techniques in an attempt to gain the additional voters necessary for victory. When Rose withdrew from

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the political scene, the disadvantage at which his dominant personality had put the Social Democrats receded and the increasingly large numbers of non-traditional, consumer-oriented Milwaukee voters were no longer able to be candidate-oriented consumers. In 1910 and after, the voters chose not to return to the former system of unswerving party identification and loyalty, but instead shifted their consumerism from candidates to issues. The Social Democrats was the only party with a longstanding, comprehensive program for Milwaukee city government. It was as a result of this that they gained power and the modern era of Milwaukee politics began.

Notes

[1] Milwaukee Sentinel, April 6, 190-1. [2] Wisconsin Laws of 1905, Chapter 3. This law was a modification of the original open primary law enacted by the legislature in 1903. Wisconsin Laws of 1903, Chapter 451. [3] Frederick I. Olson, ‘The Milwaukee Socialists, 1897-1941” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1952) pp. 157-59 (hereinafter cited as Olson). [4] Walter Dean Burnham, “The Changing Shape of the American Political Universe,” American Political Science Review, vol. 59 (March, 1965), pp. 7-28. Burnham concluded that lower modern levels of voter turnout and party identification are due to voter dissatisfaction with the increasingly limited range of candidates and value choices being offered by the two major parties; by contrast, the thesis of this article is that the decline is due at least as much to changes in American technology and culture as to political changes. [5] Milwaukee Journal, March 19, 1906. [6] Milwaukee Sentinel, March 27, 1902. [7] Milwaukee Sentinel, March 16, 1902. [8] Milwaukee Journal, March 17, 1902. [9] Milwaukee Sentinel, March 11, 1906. [10] The fact that voter turnout in Milwaukee was higher in city than in state elections raises the question of how Milwaukeeans perceived their role in Wisconsin politics: was their relative lack of interest in state elections due to a sense of isolation from the rest of the state? That question, though not within the scope of this article, would be well worth study. There was little variation in turnout, drop-off and roll-off rates between the individual wards. The only variation of interest is that the pro-Rose wards placed more importance on municipal elections relative to state and national elections than did other wards. The pro-Rose wards also tended to have heavier turnouts than did the Social Democratic wards. For example, the aggregate turnout for the four strongest Rose wards in each election from 1898 to 1908 was on average 17.5 percent higher than the turnout in the four strongest Social Democratic wards. [11] Bayrd Still, Milwaukee: The History of a City (Madison, 1948), pp. 308-09, 312, 316 (hereinafter cited as Still). Bernard E. Fuller, “Voting Patterns in Milwaukee, 1896-1920” (Master’s Thesis, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, 1973), has


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conducted similar correlation analyses which are in accord with the results obtained here. Fuller concluded that both skilled and unskilled workers supported the Social Democrats; however, the “r” values on which he relied do not appear to support this conclusion as strongly as he suggested. [12] See Paul Kleppner, The Cross of Culture (New York, 1970); Melvyn Hammarberg, The Indiana Voter: The Historical Dynamics of Party Allegiance During the 1870’s (Chicago, 1977); Roger Wyman, “Wisconsin Ethnic Groups and the Election of 1890”, Wisconsin Magazine of History, vol. 51, no. 1 (Summer, 1968), pp. 269-93. [13] See Still, pp. 303, 318-20; Olson, pp. 129-31.

Social-Democratic County Ticket (Socialist file)

Milwaukee’s Socialist Mayors: End of an Era and Its Beginning by

Frederick I. Olson

Historical Messenger, March 1960

W

hen mayor Frank P. Zeidler announced last October that he would not stand for reelection to a fourth four-year term, he brought to an irrevocable close the Socialist period in Milwaukee politics. For Zeidler, though he was thrice elected in a nonpartisan election as the candidate of the Public (earlier the Municipal) Enterprise Committee, was known as a Socialist party member whose socialist affiliation may have gained as many votes from non-Socialists as a guarantee of probity in public office as it alienated for fear of the ghost of Karl Marx. Unlike other American cities that elected a Socialist Mayor—Bridgeport, Connecticut, Reading, Pennsylvania, Schenectady, New York, and Berkeley, California—Milwaukee was a large city, and it elected not one but three Socialists, two of them for extended periods. Zeidler’s retirement coincides with the fiftieth anniversary of the election of the first, Emil Seidel, a Pennsylvania-born woodcarver of German antecedents, who served a single two-year term. The durable Daniel Webster Hoan, a sprightly 79 this year, served from 1916 to 1940, winning reelection six times and the title of “dean of American mayors,” until he was surprisingly defeated by Frank Zeidler’s non-Socialist elder brother Carl. Milwaukee was not by any definition a “socialist” city during the last half century, but it seems to have had no fear of having a Socialist chief executive for 38 of those years. While Hoan’s defeat in 1940 was a blow from which the Milwaukee Socialists never recovered, Zeidler’s voluntary withdrawal this year is even more conclusive evidence of the end of the once powerful and vigorous party. For in 1940 the party still held some patronage, and

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at least the nominal allegiance of some city and county officials; it still commanded the respect of many non- and anti-Socialists in the community for its long support of honest and constructive government; and though it was not immediately recognized, it had in Frank Zeidler a future candidate for mayor of attractive name and personality, one who nearly made the grade in 1944, won easily in 1948, and was reelected by a landslide in 1952 and, despite a bitter campaign, four years later. Now the party’s assets seem to have been almost exhausted. Socialist Zeidler’s twelve years as mayor cannot easily be appraised at such close range. The city’s major concerns during the post-World War II era have a curiously unsocialist ring—inflation, the end of pay-as-you-go, the building and rebuilding of the city’s capital plant, geographical spread and downtown decline, renewal of population growth, and tension with the surrounding suburbs, especially over water supply. The historian of the future may conclude that Milwaukee reflected the same housekeeping problems as almost all other American cities of its class, far more than the political philosophy or the personality of its mayor. If nevertheless Zeidler’s retirement marks the end of a political era, it may be fruitful to look back upon its beginning, to 1910 and earlier. Socialist doctrine was brought to Milwaukee as early as the 1840’s with the arrival of German immigrants, especially the Forty-Eighters, and was nurtured in liberal German societies such as the Turners. The Marxian version reached the west side of Lake Michigan by the late 1860’s, and in the next decade and a half Milwaukee witnessed slow growth of socialist thought and organization. During the 1880’s local radicalism was channeled into the eight-hour day agitation and the Knights of Labor, and in the 1890’s into an urban Populism, with labor leader Robert Schilling providing continuity. The leading socialist agitator was Paul Grottkau, whose jousts with the more conservative and unpredictable Schilling were offset by his effective debates with anarchist Johann Most. In the early 1890’s Austrian-born Victor L. Berger assumed leadership of an informal group of German-speaking socialists, holding them together by his editorship of the “Wisconsin Vorwarts,” formerly Grottkau’s organ. Possessed of a keen mind and extensive European education, Berger moved forward from a temporary flirtation with


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Henry George’s single tax to outspoken advocacy of Marxian socialism but with strong political interests. So pronounced was the German cast of Berger’s cohorts when they gathered to discuss socialist theories that the late Frederick Heath, a Mayflower descendant, was promptly labeled a “Yankee socialist” when he volunteered to join. One of the strengths of this study group was its close relation with organized labor. Frank J. Weber, a seaman who was a prime mover in the Wisconsin State Federation of Labor for a quarter of a century after its founding in 1893, gravitated into the socialist camp. Berger himself gained the confidence of trade union leaders sufficiently that his “Vorwarts” and later his English-language paper, the “Social Democratic Herald,” became official union organs. Fred Brockhausen, who worked alongside Weber during the first decade of the twentieth century in the WSFL, also favored socialism. The State Federation went so far as to imbed into its constitution a declaration of principles of socialist inspiration. Marxian socialist thought implied that the evolution of the capitalist economy would ultimately produce socialism, but it also sounded a call for revolution to overthrow the present system and end its attendant human misery. Milwaukee’s socialists talked in orthodox fashion, but they believed strongly in the use of the ballot box. In Berger’s case, revisionism went so far as to include advocacy of remedial legislation, thus softening the alleged evils of capitalism instead of permitting conditions to deteriorate until revolution became inevitable. In the middle 1890’s Berger and company expressed their political interests through the Populist party. In Milwaukee this involved some cooperation with Schilling, whom they distrusted, but it avoided the hated Socialist Laborites, now under Daniel De Leon. The fiasco of the Populists in the Bryan campaign of 1896, however, led Berger and his closest friends to conclude that the time had come for independent political action. Nationally their opportunity arose when Eugene V. Debs, labor’s hero in the Pullman strike of 1894, announced his conversion to socialism. Now, in Chicago in 1897, Berger helped Debs convert his Brotherhood of the Cooperative Commonwealth into the Social Democracy of America. The latter was committed to a western colonizing scheme, a variation on the contemporary form

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of communitarianism, but the Milwaukeeans had no interest in it whatsoever. The first branch of the Social Democracy of America, organized in Milwaukee soon after the national founding in Chicago, was so impatient to try politics that it obtained a special dispensation to run candidates in the city elections of 1898. While the entry of Social Democrats into Milwaukee politics took on great significance later, their mayoralty candidate did poorly in 1898, whereas the Democrats, now formally joined by Schilling’s Populists in a “Popocrat” ticket, swept all before them. The new mayor, elected on a platform of reform, public ownership, and business hostility, was David S. Rose. Handsome, goateed, dapper, an attractive compaigner, Rose captured the city’s attention so well that he was reelected in four of the next five campaigns and served ten years as the city’s chief executive. Between 1898 and 1910 the Milwaukee Socialists steadily gained in political power until they captured control of the city and county governments from the Democrats and Republicans. To be sure, their success in the April 1910 elections, when they won the mayoralty and other city-wide offices plus a majority of the Common Council and the County Board, came in a three-party contest by a plurality, not a clear-cut majority of the votes. That it was not political accident was demonstrated in the fall elections, however, when the Socialists increased their representation in the state legislature, won county offices, and, most significantly, sent Berger to Washington from the Fifth District as the party’s first Congressman. How can we account for these sweeping victories of a 12-year old party which bore a foreign label and advocated the political and economic doctrines of European thinkers? Only by reference to three levels of explanation: first, the quality of local Socialist leadership and the capacity of its supporters for party work, that is, factors lying within the party; second, favoring circumstances within the local political scene; and third, the existence of a strong reform spirit in state and nation which was not deflected by the socialist label. Of the third of these forces we need say little. The period from 1901 to 1917 has been designated the Progressive era, however imprecise that term may be. On the national scene Teddy Roosevelt was busting trusts, arraigning malefactors of great wealth, and saving our natural


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resources. His handpicked successor Taft, while innately conservative, dared not or could not resist the reform wave, and Wilson, also conservative by nature, was carried into sweeping changes in money and banking and in labor policy on a national scale. Concurrently, the muckrakers dug deep into political corruption, social evils, and economic abuse, exposing the enemies of democracy and praising reformers like Golden Rule Jones of Toledo and Bob La Follette of Wisconsin. For a time the complacency of the American public about which the muckrakers complained seemed to have yielded to a determination to set every wrong right. That Milwaukee needed reform was evident to every observer of the Cream City in the early twentieth century. Tolerance for gambling, prostitution, and liquor law violations was so broad as to bring the reputation of a wide open city. It was generally believed that the police, elected public officials, and even the mayor were implicated in vice. Public indignation led to protest meetings and resolutions demanding exposure and reform. From 1903 to 1909, hundreds of grand jury indictments involving public officials were handed down, confirming the suspicions of years and affording an opportunity for a crusading La Follette Republican District Attorney, Francis E. McGovern. Mayor Rose, elected in 1898 on a platform reflecting the Democratic alliance with the Populists, soon dispelled any expectation that he could clean up Milwaukee. Far from crusading for public ownership of the street railway and light company, he led the Common Council in acquiescence in a charter renewal which many observers felt sold out important public rights. Personally inclined to good living, the mayor saw no reason to interfere with the entertainment inclinations of others. He not only failed to press for strict law enforcement against suppliers of nocturnal merriment, but he even converted his reelection campaigns into votes of confidence in gaiety. “All the Time Rosy” ran his slogan. With Rose as the symbol of Democratic indifference or corruption, or both, the Republicans should have reaped a rich political harvest when the reform sentiment mounted. In fact, in 1906, when Rose even encountered opposition to his renomination within his own party, the Republicans elected the youthful Sherburn Becker as mayor. But Sherbie, who cut a dashing figure in his sports runabout, lacked the

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capacity and drive to carry out a reform program. Rose came back to the City Hall when Becker bowed out in 1908. Moreover, when indictments of city and county officials suggested that corruption and venality knew no party lines, the Republicans hardly seemed a logical alternative to more of Rose and the Democrats. It may be fairly argued that the national reform urge faced as challenging a local situation in many large cities throughout the country as in Milwaukee without bringing the Socialists to power. The ultimate difference is to be found in Milwaukee’s Socialists themselves. At their head stood Berger, ambitious, sometimes domineering, aggressive, but above all an astute politician, a skilled organizer, and an able editor. Before 1910 as after, some Milwaukeeans within the party and some outside disliked and feared the thickest, bespectacled Socialist leader with the pronounced German accent. But no one questioned his ability and no one who challenged his authority within the party survived. To Berger must go credit for the success of party strategy and organization. He insisted upon adherence to party principles as he conceived them, but he conceded enough to capitalist reform to carry many non-socialists along with the party, especially after 1904. He focused attention on the evils of local politics while insisting that every Socialist elected to public office demonstrate the highest principles of public conduct. Recognizing the value of the trade union connection early developed by the party leaders, he also assumed an obligation to participate in union activities and to represent the public interest to labor leaders. As a propagandist and agitator he developed no new techniques, but he used the old ones well—German and English language propaganda papers (and finally one in Polish), constant public meetings, total use of political campaigns for party advantage. He believed in a well-disciplined membership party, organized down to the ward unit and dedicated to party, not personal, success. Berger alone could not have gained the 1910 successes. The new mayor Emil Seidel was widely respected as an idealist and an urban patriot. Labor leaders like Brockhausen, Weber, Ed Berner, Jack Handley, and Henry Ohl brought union support. The public was so favorably impressed with the qualifications of Dan Hoan, Carl Dietz, and Charles B. Whitnall, all of them key Socialists, that they elected them city attorney, comptroller, and treasurer. In the state senate


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Winfield R. Gaylord, an ordained minister, attracted attention by his logical parliamentary leadership. And Ed Melms, party secretary and organizer for a quarter of a century, was probably as talented and efficient a party professional as the nation held. But all the leadership in the world would have failed without the dedication of the party rank and file, what the Socialists then called the “Jimmy Higginses.” What did the Milwaukee Socialists do with their sensational successes of April 5, 1910? From the standpoint of socialist doctrine, not very much. They had only two years to prove themselves. Their basically cautious, unrevolutionary approach was reinforced by knowledge that they had received a plurality, not a majority, of the votes, and would have to face the voters within two years. Had they been more radical in temper, they would still have faced the obstacles of a city charter which precluded home rule, of capitalist state laws and constitution and a hostile state legislature, of unsympathetic courts, and of a determined if temporarily unhorsed political opposition. Therefore the Seidel years, 1910-12, while bringing about some reorientation of the city’s politics along Socialist-anti-Socialist lines, were primarily devoted to housekeeping reforms as appropriate to a capitalist party as to the Socialists.

Daniel Hoan (Daniel Hoan file)

Daniel W. Hoan and Municipal Reform in Milwaukee, 1910-1920 by

Robert C. Reinders

Historical Messenger, June 1965

O

n Wednesday, April 6, 1910 newspapers in Milwaukee and throughout the nation announced the startling news that the Socialist Party had captured the government of Milwaukee, the first major city in the United States to have a Socialist administration. To Victor Berger, leader of the party in the city, the event was “a great moment in American history,” while in New York “a thrill passed through the Socialists present” at news of the Milwaukee victory. Capitalist papers in Milwaukee were hardly alarmed; “one may look forward,” remarked the “Free Press,” to the city government of the next two years with equanimity.” There were sour notes also; a newspaper in Boston decided that the victory was due to failure of German and Polish priests to combat socialism and to the chaotic conditions on the “frontier” where law and order were not fully established. Elected mayor of this “frontier” city was Emil Seidel, “Unser Emil,” and with him were twenty-one Socialist aldermen as well as a Socialist Comptroller, Treasurer, and City Attorney. The last position was held by Daniel W. Hoan. (Who was this twenty-nine year old lawyer? What was this Irish country boy from Waukesha doing amidst all of these big city Germans? What were his credentials?) Hoan was born on March 12, 1881, youngest son of a peculiarly nineteenth century phenomenon, the village radical. Daniel Webster Hoan Sr., a Waukesha well driller, supported various third parties; he admired Single Taxer Father Edward McGlynn; he was the local agent for Edward Bellamy’s Utopian novel “Looking Backward”; and he subscribed to several radical publications. In May, 1886 when Albert

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Parsons, the famed anarchist, fled Chicago following the Haymarket Riot, he sought refuge at the Hoan house, though Parsons knew of the elder Hoan only as a subscriber to his journal. In this atmosphere the young Hoan imbibed his father’s zeal for humanitarian—and unpopular—causes. A year after the death of his father in 1894 Hoan was forced to seek employment. He started out as a cook in Waukesha (the “Saratoga of the West”) and in the next five years he worked at many hotels and restaurants including some of the most famous dining places of the day: the Blatz and Globe Hotels and the Plankinton House in Milwaukee; in Chicago at the Sherman House, Rector’s Cafe, the North American Restaurant, and the Great Northern. (Throughout his life Hoan took a pride in his cooking and as one who has eaten at the Mayor’s table I can say with authority that even late in life he had lost none of his culinary skills.) Tired of kitchen work, with its long hours and strain on his feet and ankles, Hoan in 1901 decided to study law. By chance he met in Chicago Voyta Wrabetz, Sr., who persuaded Hoan to attend the University of Wisconsin. The former cook blossomed in the atmosphere of the state university, then at the beginning of what many consider to be its “golden years.” While at the University Hoan organized the first campus socialist society in the United States, and he became acquainted with the handful of Social Democrats in the state legislature. Though considered an anarchist by some fraternity boys, Hoan was nonetheless a popular student. He was a member of debating societies; he took part in a campus circus; he was a member of the honorary Iron Cross Society; he even spent a short time on the football team (Hoan needed money more than glory and returned to cooking in a fraternity house); on one occasion he led a pre-game pep rally; and like so many students he had a run-in with a Dean. Hoan climaxed his college career with the presidency of the graduating class. On graduation day Hoan shared the platform with Carl Schurz and Robert M. LaFollette; the three men—Mugwump, Progressive Socialist,—represented, each in different ways, three generations of Wisconsin-bred reformers. Following graduation Hoan went to Chicago where, after operating a restaurant and enrolling for a night course in a law school, he took a, position as a clerk at six dollars weekly in the law firm of Stedman


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and Soelke. Seymour Stedman had been in the Socialist Party since its inception in 1898 and was a prominent lawyer. A frequent visitor to the Stedman office was Clarence Darrow. Hoan had excellent teachers. In 1908, shortly after passing the Illinois and Wisconsin bar examinations, Hoan was visited by Victor Berger and Frederick Heath and offered the position of attorney for the Wisconsin State Federation of Labor. Hoan accepted but on the condition that he could develop a practice on his own and would not have to run for public office. The young attorney’s chief duty for the State Federation was to serve as their representative before a legislative committee on industrial insurance. Though Hoan’s role in preparing Wisconsin’s pioneer Workman’s Compensation Act was not as great as he later insisted, certainly his knowledge of the problems posed by industrial accidents and his willingness to accept compromise provisions were important factors in the eventual passage of the act. Hoan was approached in 1909 with an offer to serve as the Socialist Party candidate for city attorney in the forthcoming city elections. With some reluctance he accepted. Berger and other party leader’s considered him their weakest major candidate. Hoan served on the platform committee, a platform which, with changes, was to provide the guidelines for the party for the next several years. The platform endorsed home rule for Milwaukee, public ownership of public utilities, public ownership of a municipal harbor, abattoir, ice house, stone quarry, markets, coal yard, and a “proletarian clubhouse,” a more equitable and scientific tax appraisal, a program of city planning expansion of the Auditorium facilities, employment of public schools as social centers, revision of the rules, standards, and wages of the police and fire departments and utilization of city sewerage and garbage. It was not a radical statement; it hardly differed from demands advocated by reformers in most contemporary American cities. The Milwaukee Socialists were, stated Charles A. Beard, “endeavoring to combine efficient administration and practical ideas with large and generous notions of public policy.” (Less polite were Eastern comrades who labeled the Milwaukee group “Sewer Socialists” because they involved themselves in the mundane problems of municipal administration.)

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Hoan ran against John T. Kelley and John Runge, the present and past city attorneys respectively. During the campaign an event occurred which has become part of Milwaukee’s political folklore. Arriving a few minutes early for a noon hour speech at a factory, Hoan was told by a policeman not to loiter. His Irish temper up, Hoan informed his worker audience of the incident and stated that his opponents would not be subject to police harassment and that the men would be forced to listen to them. Prophetically a few days later City Attorney Kelley appeared at the plant and the men were requested by the company to listen to his campaign speech. Kelley had hardly started when a laborer began to sing a popular song, “Slide Kelley, Slide” and was joined by his fellow workingmen. Poor Kelley; at his next factory appearance he was met with the strains of “Has Anybody Here Seen Kelley.” Years later Hoan stated that Kelley’s plight lent an element of humor to the campaign and undoubtedly benefited the Socialists. (I might add that Hoan in this campaign made use of his favorite pollsters, street car motormen, whom he felt were more aware of political trends than any other group in the community. When I mentioned Hoan’s practice to my Uncle Jacob Manthey, his admiration for Mayor Hoan rose even greater. Perhaps the fact that my Uncle Jake was a street car conductor for forty years had something to do with his attitude.) Being a reform-minded city attorney in the Progressive Period was a bit like being a “fighting D.A.” in more recent times. The embattled city attorney was called on to grapple with the powers of darkness; he was to tackle the “invisible government” of the trusts and to defeat the “malefactors of great wealth.” To do this Hoan gathered around him a group of young, talented, underpaid (and non-Socialist) lawyers ready and eager to enter the fray against the “interests.” No company more nearly epitomized the “evil of big business” than the Milwaukee Electric Railway and Light Company and its subsidiary the Milwaukee Light, Heat and Traction Company; they were part of J. P. Morgan’s North American Company and had been originally purchased by Wall Street financiers Henry Villard and Thomas Fortune Ryan. Even the Milwaukee “Sentinel” was hard pressed to defend the street car company, and attacks on the company’s rolling stock by aroused citizens were common events.


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The several confrontations of the city attorney’s office with the street railway company may be observed in one area: cases involving paving by the street car line. Shortly after the 1910 election Hoan and his special assistant, Clifton Williams, made a study of municipal franchises and ordinances, discovering that the city could force the street railways to pave between tracks. Paving requirements were generally written into each street franchise, therefore necessitating legal action on every line. In 1911 the city placed asphalt over wooden blocks on Walnut Street and insisted that the street railway company do likewise, but the latter refused. Supported by a common council resolution Hoan opened a suit in February, 1912 to make the company pave its portion of the street. The Milwaukee County Circuit Court ruled in favor of the city and the case went to the Wisconsin Supreme Court. The street railway attorneys pointed out that the Walnut Street franchise of 1887 ordered the company to repair, not to repave. Chief Justice Winslow was critical of the company’s subtleties and stated that where the language is capable of dual meanings, the meaning that benefits the general public takes precedence. He added laconically that after thirty-seven years the pavement must need more than incidental repair. The company was accordingly ordered to pave its section of the street, though not necessarily with asphalt. After losing three more paving cases to the city attorney, the company decided to pave without the benefit of legal counsel. The efforts of the city attorney to have the Milwaukee Road depress their tracks on the northwest side of the city—one of several such cases instituted by Hoan—is worth noting in detail. When Hoan came to office hearings on track depression were already before the Railroad Commission. Hoan was fearful that the Commission would adopt the Milwaukee Road plan of raising its track level four feet and thus require the city to place its streets below the track level. To counter this possibility Hoan led John Roemer, a Railroad Commissioner, to state for the record that the Commission would never urge the city to lower its streets. Nothing further was accomplished until 1913 when engineers employed by the Railroad Commission compiled a report favoring track depression and on March 24, 1914, a tentative order was issued calling for track depression; a permanent order was delayed until interested groups could study the plans.

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The Milwaukee “Leader” and several civic organizations on the strongly Socialist northwest side supported track depression. The Northwest Side Manufactures and Shippers Association opposed the order; they feared that track depression would mean an added expense in rebuilding spur lines. This group and the influential Merchants and Manufacturers Association prevailed upon the Railroad Commission to grant a stay of action. (In October, 1913 the city engineer, George Staal, came to Hoan’s office and informed him that Mayor Gerhard Bading had asked him to change his testimony and favor street depression. Hoan advised him not to unless so ordered by the common council.) The Railroad Commission on October 12 evaded the issue by ordering track depression if the common council approved. Hoan immediately informed shop keepers near the tracks that if the city had to depress its streets customers would enter their stores by step ladders. Almost to the man they came out for track depression. Meanwhile public meetings were held nightly throughout the area and aldermen, always keen to the winds of public opinion, quickly passed a resolution calling for track depression. Hoan was elated and on January 28, 1916 he went to Madison to arrange for the final signature of the Railroad Commissioner, John Roemer. To Hoan’s amazement the Commissioner refused to sign the order. The City Attorney returned to Milwaukee, gathered a group at the Globe Hotel from whom he obtained a list of couple of hundred friends of Roemer. Hoan then telephoned or sent telegrams to each of these individuals urging them to contact Roemer and protest the Commissioner’s action. It worked; at eleven the next morning Hoan received news from Madison that Roemer had signed. Thirty years later Hoan recorded that this was his “most important victory” as city attorney. Hoan’s experience with the Railroad Commission led him to question the basis of state regulation of public utilities and common carriers. Accordingly he wrote a pamphlet, published in 1914, entitled “The Failure of Regulation.” Hoan analyzed the weaknesses of regulatory commissions abroad and, using his own experiences, he presented a case by case criticism of the operation of the public service commission in Wisconsin. Since in Hoan’s mind regulation was a failure—it fostered rather than deterred monopolies—the only practical answer


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was public ownership of municipal utilities. The City Attorney’s attack was the first serious left-wing critique of the regulatory idea. The book was hardly a “solar plexus [blow] for the LaFollettes and the Progressives,” as the Socialist Wisconsin “Comrade” saw it, but it aroused interest among some municipal reformers and undoubtedly strengthened the public ownership movement. With the approach of the mayoralty campaign of 1916 Hoan could view his years as city attorney with a considerable sense of satisfaction. His work had attracted the admiration of Socialists and non-Socialists alike—one reason he was re-elected in 1914 when other Socialists were defeated. In 1948, looking back on a long and noteworthy career. Hoan told me that his six years as city attorney were his happiest in office. With a show of reluctance Hoan accepted the Socialist standard for mayor in 1916. The platform was similar to the one in 1910 and, at Hoan’s insistence, it included an endorsement of the merit system. During the campaign Hoan stressed his work as city attorney: he ran, as he did in all of his elections, “on the record.” Gerhard Bading, who had been re-elected mayor in 1914, provided Hoan’s chief opposition. Disliked by most aldermen, identified closely with the unpopular Milwaukee Electric Railway and Light Company, Bading did not benefit his cause appreciably by falsely insisting that the Socialists were responsible for a typhoid epidemic because they had opposed a sewerage treatment plant. Furthermore statements by Bading that “The fang of the viper is ready to suck Milwaukee’s life blood” and that only his election could insure that “Milwaukee will never again allow the Red flag to replace the Stars and Stripes on the flag of the City Hall,” were, from what voters knew of local Socialists and of Hoan, just plain silly. (By way of contrast the non-partisan Milwaukee City Club reported that Hoan “will do his best to give the city an honest, efficient and democratic administration.”) Hoan won the election by slightly over 1600 votes. In the homespun language of the Waukesha “Freeman”: “His election was as striking a piece of romance as the well-known legend of Dick Wittington.” (And from graft-ridden New Orleans came the keen prediction that “Milwaukee will probably be as interesting to students of municipal government for the next two years as any city in the nation.” Unfortunately New

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Orleans students of municipal government seemed to have slept the next two—the next twenty—years.) In the new mayor’s inaugural address he asked for continuation of the work on the municipal street lighting system, a rational program of water filtration and sewerage disposal, city planning, improved harbor construction, administrative economy and efficiency, and a wider application of the living wage and merit system toward municipal employees. Hoan vowed to help create “a better, bigger, and brighter Milwaukee.” Hoan’s first act as mayor was to “brighten” Milwaukee by signing bonds for construction of a municipally-owned street lighting system. Unfortunately the common council—only a minority of whom were Socialists—refused to set up a construction program. The electric company meanwhile offered to light the streets at less than the cost to the city and in ten years turn over their facilities to the municipality. The common council, prodded by Hoan and aware that voters since 1896 had favored a city-owned system, filed the electric company proposal and adopted a plan formulated by city engineers. Construction was delayed by the World War, but by the Spring of 1921 the city street lighting system was completed. At the heart of Mayor Hoan’s program of municipal reform—indeed the source of most of his successes throughout his mayorship—was city planning. It was not a new idea in Milwaukee; in the half dozen years after 1907 there had been several city planning studies involving such famous individuals as Frederick Law Olmsted, who had laid out New York’s Central Park, and Professor John R. Commons of the University of Wisconsin. But by 1916 city planning in Milwaukee was neither a popular nor an organized movement. In an effort to revive interest in city planning the Mayor took advantage of that old saw that when two Germans get together they shake hands; when three gather they organize a Verein. That is, he hoped to use the city’s many civic and improvement groups to foster city planning. And to this end he formed the Mayor’s Advisory Committee which, at the first meeting in June, 1916, consisted of representatives of ten regional advancement associations, ten civic clubs, and four professional societies. It was agreed by the members that the “object of this organization is to advise with his Honor, the


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mayor of the City of Milwaukee, on all questions of public and citywide interest.” The Advisory Committee formed subcommittees to investigate and report on city planning, city beautifying, municipal legislation, park lighting, river and harbor improvements, street paving, traffic regulation, and municipal salary revision. Hoan found the Committee an excellent sounding board for his proposals; since it had only one Socialist the Committee could not be accuse of being, as the “Daily News” contended, under the “influence” of “Brisbane Hall.” Committee members served as city lobbyists in Madison and in the common council, thus winning non-Socialist support for the Mayor’s programs and forcing recalcitrant officials into line. This was never, however, a conscious or deliberate part of the organization program. This “civic cabinet” as non-Socialist John F. Putman called it, was a “beneficial and helpful organization.” Hoan certainly was pleased with the Committee. “Milwaukee,” he stated in his first yearly review, “is the first American city to successfully work out a method by which its city government and its citizens who are interested in municipal affairs are brought directly into contact.” The passions inflamed by the municipal election of 1918 led Hoan to disband the Advisory Committee—he felt that later he could chose a less politically-involved committee. The role of the Advisory Committee was taken over by the semi-official Civic Commission, but in the early 1920’s Hoan reorganized the Committee and it has remained a permanent part of Milwaukee’s city government. In addition to the Mayor’s Advisory Committee Hoan organized planning groups which consisted of representatives of civic associations, public officials, and municipal employees. One such group was the City Beautiful Commission; the title alone gave it a strong appeal to a whole range of civic uplifters. The Commission induced property owners to beautify their buildings along the Milwaukee River; it secured improvements along railroad right of ways; it reduced the number of unsightly billboards on the city’s main thoroughfare; and it put eager boy scouts to work selling ivy to manufacturers whose structures were deemed ugly. The Commission did not, however, endorse Mayor Hoan’s scheme of placing flower pots on lamp posts. In October, 1919, Paul Gauer, Hoan’s secretary, reported: “Mayor Daniel W. Hoan believes that the biggest thing during the past year

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is the complete crystallization and functioning of popular opinion in favor of city planning.” Essentially the Mayor’s Advisory Committee, the City Beautiful Commission, and several other semi-official groups of the same nature did much to make a large number of citizens aware of the need for city planning and the need for active citizen participation in the improvement of their city. In these first few years of operation they undoubtedly prepared the public for many of the reforms which were in the two decades after the World War to make Milwaukee a model city. The formation of civic committees was only one part of Hoan’s many reforms in his first four years as Mayor. He worked earnestly, though none too successfully, to obtain a greater degree of home rule for the city; he fostered further studies of water filtration and sewerage treatment which led eventually to an enlarged filtration plant in the 1920’s and a sewerage treatment plant constructed a decade later. With Mayor Hoan’s blessing state and municipal ordinances to improve zoning, platting, and, annexation were passed. At the Mayor’s instigation the Milwaukee Engineers Society surveyed traffic on the upper part of the Milwaukee River; most of their report was carried out in the next three decades. In June, 1918 Hoan formed a Housing Commission to study the city’s housing needs and recommend further remedies. Their report, stated the editor of the “Journal of the American Institute of Architects,” “is the first one I ever saw that squarely and fairly attacked the problem at its roots.” (The Milwaukee “Journal” called the report “radical.”) Out of the report came “the first specific cooperative housing law passed by any state in the Union” and Garden Homes, Incorporated, a city, county and private sponsored housing development. In 1916 Hoan organized the nation’s first municipal safety commission, and in the same year he began the movement which culminated in 1917 with a state law to provide for a city central purchasing department. The safety commission and central purchasing were later to receive the accolades of municipal administrators [Sic] lake shore property for park purposes were begun by the Mayor in 1918. The merit system was rigidly adhered to and Hoan, desiring to make municipal service more professional, urged several Wisconsin educators to sponsor courses for training civil servants. Nothing was accomplished


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in 1916, but several years later such courses were offered at the University of Wisconsin’s extension division in Milwaukee. It might be worth adding that the Mayor was able to secure civil liberties to all citizens during the War and the Red Scare that follower. Milwaukee was a torch of reason in a nation darkened by wholesale violations of constitutional rights. Hoan’s record as mayor might have been even more impressive had it not been for World War I. In fact the Mayor had to face warengendered issues as early as May, 1916, when he was approached by local and national groups to organize a Preparedness Parade. Hoan was caught in a dilemma; his party and much of its trade union support was adamantly opposed to military preparations; conversely if Hoan and his fellow Socialists did not favor a parade they might be considered un-American and lose many of their independent backers. Hoan decided to hold the affair, but to label it a Milwaukee Civic Demonstration rather than a Preparedness Parade. The event was a success as Hoan led 70,000 participants, paced by fifty-two bands, and cheered on by 100,000 observers. The Milwaukee Socialist Party, realizing the difficult choice Hoan had to make, did not criticize his action, but Theodore Debs, Eugene’s brother, accused Hoan of forcing thousands of party members to leave in disgust. “I would have been,” Debs stated sternly, “eternally damned before I would have marched in it.” This was not the last time Hoan was to feel the party lash. On February 15, 1917 Hoan wrote to the Woman’s Club of Wisconsin: ‘’While I personally believe every living soul would regret to see our country involved in a war, still if war should come then the loyal support and assistance of every citizen will be absolutely necessary.” This was not, however, to be the position of the Socialist Party. The St. Louis platform of April 7, 1918, which Hoan voted against, took a militant anti-war stand; it branded the struggle “a crime of the capitalist class against the people of the United States” and it pledged “Continuous active and public opposition to the war . . .” In Milwaukee Hoan, with the endorsement of Victor Berger, ignored the party line In May Hoan received word that he was responsible for the administration of the draft registration. He accomplished his duty with such efficiency and dispatch that Milwaukee was the first major city in the nation to complete registration.

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Hoan also took an active role in establishing the Milwaukee County Council of Defense and served as its co-chairman. Functioning through 1500 volunteer workers, the council formed a food control board to handle food shortages and emergency relief; it set up a labor board to adjust employer-employee differences; and it publicized and secured the cooperation of local organizations in “Hooverizing” Milwaukee. In addition the Council investigated rent profiteering, endeavored to secure an adequate supply of coal and reasonable coal prices through a fuel board, and participated in various other programs involving the war effort: staging going-away parties for soldiers, furnishing fourminute speakers for Liberty Loan drives, endorsing relief societies, and launching a program of vacant land cultivation. It was Mayor Hoan’s view, and one shared by other discerning Socialists that the war offered an opportunity to test public ownership and that the Socialist Party should be at the forefront of the movement rather than cavilling from the sidelines. With this in mind Hoan attempted to secure the establishment of city markets to sell food purchased by public bodies. Frustrated by the common council and the State Council of Defense, the Food Control Board of the County Council, chaired by Hoan and dominated by Socialists, secured private funds and sold groceries in public markets. While the statement of one contemporary that “Carp is a good healthful food” might not have appealed to local gourmets, the supply of carp and sucker were sold out and so were carloads of potatoes, cherries, apples, cheese, and split peas. In 1919 Hoan continued the program by purchasing $175,000 worth of surplus Army and Navy goods, chiefly canned food, and selling them at reasonable prices. Hoan informed the common council that the profit he had made would be turned over to the city if the aldermen passed a public marketing ordinance. They didn’t and every four years thereafter the $10,000 was a campaign issue Hoan might have been able to pass through the War free of criticism by professional patriots on the one hand and his party on the other if it had not been for a series of events in early 1918. While campaigning in January for Edmund T. Melms, a Socialist candidate in a special election to fill the term of a deceased State Senator, Hoan was asked by Winfield Gaylor, a pro-war Socialist, where the Mayor stood on the St. Louis platform. Hoan replied that he was not a candidate and


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snapped, “When I am, I will tell you.” The following day the “Leader” printed an editorial by Victor Berger castigating party members, “especially…those seeking office” who “hedge” and “wobble” on the St. Louis platform. “Any man,” Berger wrote, “who can not accept our international position—be that man mayor or constable—must get out of the party in justice to himself and the party.” Hoan and many party members were infuriated by Berger’s editorial, particularly since the party chief had urged Hoan to cooperate with the government during the war. The Mayor soon heard from the other side of the fence. On March 8, Wheeler Bloodgood, who shared the chairmanship of the Council of Defense with Hoan and who had hitherto been a, strong supporter of the Mayor, stated that “Mr. Hoan can neither [sic] straddle the St. Louis platform and at the same time head an organization which has for its object doing its part in the winning of the war . . . .” Five days later Hoan was asked to resign before the full membership of the Council. The Mayor accused the Council of playing polities and contended that the body had neither a moral nor a legal right to depose him. “I say you cannot get rid of Dan Hoan so easily” he warned them. The Council voted sixteen to five to remove Hoan and thirteen to seven to depose its Socialists members. Final action was delayed until after the forthcoming municipal election. At that time the Council removed Hoan from his co-chairman post, but he and several Socialists remained on the Council of Defense. All of these events provide the background for what was probably the bitterest political campaign m Milwaukee’s history. Berger convinced Hoan that it was his duty to the Party to run again and the split which threatened in January was overlooked in a platform love test. The platform incidentally took an anti-war stand. (Thirty years later Hoan told me the platform was a “Son of a Bitch!”) Hoan’s principal opponent, Percy Braman, opened his campaign on March 1 by preaching loyalty and promising to foster a law against seditious talk in Milwaukee. “The true blue Americanism of Mr. Braman is unquestionable” the “Journal” editorialized approvingly the following day. Hoan in turn reviled the “Paytriots.” hiding behind the loyalty issue and pointed with pride to his record. After Hoan’s primary victory Wheeler Bloodgood declared darkly: “If the people of this

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county are ready—as the primary votes would indicate—to abandon the Honor of the nation, and stab in the back the boys in France, then we should be treated as an enemy stronghold ... a province of the German Imperial Government.” Hoan won the election, Bloodgood brooded, and President Wilson did not send troops to the German Athens on Lake Michigan. If Hoan thought that the war-time bitterness would dissipate on November 11, 1918 he was soon to learn differently. On January 18, 1919 Hoan and Governor Emanuel L. Philipp were to be guest speakers at a soldiers homecoming celebration. A few days before the meeting, the Milwaukee “Journal” began printing protests against the Mayor’s appearance from individual citizens, anti-Socialist aldermen, trade associations, and even from the weighty little minds of the Junior Naval and Marine Scouts. A group of army officers approached Hoan and asked him to resign from the reception committee. He refused. When Hoan rose to speak he was greeted by an audience that “hissed and howled, shouted and whistled, stamped and sang.” Governor Philipp was unable to quiet the crowd until Hoan left the Auditorium. Several months later A. T. Van Scoy of the Milwaukee Association of Commerce wrote to Hoan and requested the Mayor to submit the Association’s invitation to the State Department to bring the touring King of Belgium to Milwaukee. Hoan, in his reply agreed and then indiscreetly, if not nonsensically, added: Please do not ask me to invite any king, kaiser, or czar. While I mean no disrespect to the Belgium people whom I love, nor discourtesy to you, yet these are days that try men’s souls. We must take our places with kings ... or line up with the rights of common man. I should go to my grave in everlasting shame were I to boost one iota the stock of any king. Mr. Van Scoy re mind your associates, I STAND FOR THE MAN WHO WORKS, TO HELL WITH KINGS.

If nothing else Hoan’s reply made him a short-lived national celebrity. An editor in dry Kansas moralized: “Only a man capable of so coarse a remark could in the first place have been elected mayor of Milwaukee.” The Chicago “Herald-Examiner” headlined: “Milwaukee No Place For Kings.” A Southern paper reported that Hoan: “Profanely


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Scores Gallant Belgium In Letter.” The New York “Times” expressed its usual state of outraged propriety. Several hundred individuals wrote to Hoan, most of them laudatory; a few compared Hoan’s statement to famous remarks of Patrick Henry, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, and General Grant; some suggested Hoan run for President on the strength of his patriotism. There were other expressions too; they ranged in vituperation from considering Hoan “misguided” to calling him a “sow-pig.” By the 1920 election passions had cooled and Hoan found himself facing Clifton Williams, his former assistant city attorney. Williams was a liberal (ex-Mayor Bading called him a “Socialist”) and it was thought that he would cut deeply into Hoan’s non-Socialist support. However, Hoan carried eighteen of twenty-five wards and had a majority of 3,325 votes. The 1920 election revealed again what had been true since 1914 and was to remain true for another twenty years; the Mayor was far more popular with Milwaukee voters than his party. Except for Hoan, after 1910 the city only once (1932) elected a major Socialist official and never sent a majority of Socialists into the common council. As Hoan was inaugurated for the third time he could look back on his four years as mayor and six years as city attorney with a deep feeling of accomplishment. “He came to symbolize for Milwaukeeans,” Frederick Olson has written, “the concept of honest and progressive municipal government.” There was still much to be done, but Hoan in the decade 1910-1920 had laid the groundwork for the changes which would in the years ahead bring him and his beloved city national acclaim. William George Bruce, friend and sometimes political foe, probably spoke for all Milwaukeeans when he declared: “I must say that I was proud of him ...”

Wheaton for U.S. Senator (Political Groups file)

Milwaukee County Voting: A Declaration of Independents by

Sarah C. Ettenheim

Historical Messenger, December 1970

C

ontroversy surrounds the computerized reporting of election returns. TV networks attempt to scoop one another, politicians in western states voice concern about the effect upon those who have not yet voted, and the general public is dubious about the ability to predict from a minute sampling. Although many factors enter into the prognostications, one important source is the record of past election results. Predictions in Milwaukee County during the past quarter century would be based upon a relatively stable voting pattern; but this pattern, which emerged only after World War II, was preceded by several distinct periods of voting behavior. Unlike Milwaukee County, Wisconsin has voted essentially Republican for the last twenty years.

Milwaukee County—Democratic During the first eight years of statehood, both Wisconsin and Milwaukee voted Democratic. But in 1856, the state embraced the fledgling Republican Party while Milwaukee County remained steadfastly Democratic for two decades. There appear to be several factors which account for this difference in voting pattern between Milwaukee County and the state as a whole. Under the Wisconsin Constitution, franchise was granted to all white males, twenty-one years of age or older, who had lived in the state for

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one year; this included both citizens of the United States and those who had declared their intention of becoming citizens.[1] The strong nativist position of the Whigs could have little appeal to an electorate which contained large segments of Irish and German immigrants. Both of the groups had a strong voice in the local press. The Courier was the voice of the Irish; the German language Wiskonsin-Banner and Volksfreund, originally weeklies, had become daily papers by 1861 and had been joined by the Seebote, Atlas, and Phoenix.[2] An additional influence was the Puritanism, either active or latent, among the Milwaukee Yankees. “The original New England settlers had brought with them the crusading spirit against alcoholic beverages. The temperance movement was a natural part of the life of Yankee element in the state and issued eventually into legislative action. This outcome was not at all relished by the recent immigrants from Europe.”[3] Since the German population was concentrated in the counties contiguous to Milwaukee, the temperance issue had greater impact locally than on the state as a whole. The most dramatic evidence of this was the defeat of Republican Governor Washburn by William R. Taylor, the Democratic nominee, in 1873. Washburn had exerted pressure on the legislature to regulate saloons. But his defeat could not be attributed solely to the temperance issue. He had vetoed a bill authorizing the St. Paul railway to bridge the Mississippi River, thus antagonizing Milwaukee railroad magnate, Alexander Mitchell. Taylor’s majority within the county was seventy-six hundred, almost half his majority in the entire state. Mitchell was part of the Eastern group which dominated so much of the early business and political life of the community. Their assumption of roles of leadership and responsibility would appear to follow like development in frontier towns. Almost all of the early mayors of Milwaukee were merchants, land speculators, and developers; most were from New England. In any new and rapidly growing community, the immediate and internal needs overshadow external issues. This, coupled with the fact that mayorality elections were held annually, gave the Milwaukee electorate a local-issue orientation. It is noteworthy that until 1870 the Milwaukee mayors were Democrats.[4] The effect of the non-city


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vote within the county at this juncture was minimal. In 1860, the area outside of the City of Milwaukee contained only eight percent of the county’s population and voted more strongly Democratic than the city. Not only did Milwaukee support Democratic candidates for local offices and for governor, but Abraham Lincoln won only 42 percent of the vote in 1860, and fared even worse with 32 percent in 1864. Nor did Ulysses S. Grant fare much better within the county. In those same elections the Republicans carried the state. The Wisconsin congressional delegation reflected this local Democratic strength; witness the success of Alexander Mitchell in gaining the First District seat on the Democratic ticket. In 1872 he defeated Frederick C. Winkler, well-known lawyer of the era. When Mitchell declined renomination in 1874, William P. Lynde, another Democrat, secured the congressional seat by defeating Harrison Ludington, then mayor of Milwaukee and Taylor’s successor as governor of Wisconsin.

Switch to Republicanism Party fortunes were reversed as the Republican Party enjoyed dominance in Milwaukee County in the twenty years prior to the turn of the century. The reason for the reversal in party performance is not readily apparent. There was significant population growth between 1870 and 1880, but such growth was typical throughout the nineteenth century. Moreover, Republican gains occurred uniformly throughout the city and county, rather than as pockets of new strength. The latter would have been expected had additions to the population been the primary reason for the growth of Republicanism in the county. Certainly there had been a change in the nature of immigration. The Forty-eighters and Frei Gemeinde from Germany had been followed by other Germans of a more conservative bent. The Polish community numbered some thirty families in the late sixties. By the turn of the century, those born in Poland constituted six percent of the city’s population. The Polish newcomers were generally conservative. Areas outside of the city were beginning to incorporate; Cudahy, North and South Milwaukee, Wauwatosa, and Whitefish Bay had

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become municipalities before 1900. But the city population and voter turnout still dominated the county with roughly 87 percent of each total. However, the non-city vote had become more Republican than the city. The foreign language press continued to play an important part in the political life of the community. In 1884, the Herold, Germania, and Seebote, all German language papers, had double the combined circulation of the Sentinel, Journal, and Evening Wisconsin.[5] The Kuryer Polski began publication in 1888 and played an effective role in the political aspiration of this group. Where Milwaukee County had not supported a Republican presidential candidate through 1876, it reversed this pattern and voted Democratic only once from 1880 through 1896. The Democratic victory occurred in 1892 when Grover Cleveland carried the county by a scant five votes; in that same election, the state also voted Democratic. However in 1884, in the Cleveland-Blaine contest, the Republican margin was less than six hundred votes out of a total of more than 33,000. In gubernatorial elections a like pattern prevailed. From 1879 until the end of the century, the county supported Republican candidates with two exceptions. In one instance, 1890, both city and state supported Democrat George W. Peck, Mayor of Milwaukee. This election revolved primarily around the Bennett Law, passed by the legislature in Spring, 1890. This law, which required that standard subjects should be taught in the English language, was viewed as a threat to all parochial schools. Poles and Germans, Protestant and Catholic, united on this issue. The foreign language press and the pulpit denounced the legislation and the Republicans who were held responsible for enacting it. While Peck was successful in seeking re-election in 1892, he was narrowly defeated in Milwaukee County. However, the gubernatorial election of 1886 is more noteworthy because it represented the victory of a third-party candidate in Milwaukee County. People’s Party candidate, John Cochrane, carried both city and county. In May, 1886, Milwaukee was beset by labor strife which was of such nature that the mayor and sheriff informed Governor Rusk, who responded by sending seventeen companies of militia to preserve order. The most serious trouble was the Illinois


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Steel Company in Bay View. Members of the National Guard, drawn from Milwaukee, were protecting this plant; in the ensuing violence, seven persons were killed. Although the local reaction carried over to the support of Cochrane, Rusk was re-elected statewide in November by an increased majority.[6] While Cochrane’s showing was the most impressive by any third-party candidate, it was by no means the only evidence of the emergence of noteworthy minority-party support. In 1877, industrialist Edward P. Allis ran as the Greenback candidate and polled slightly more than eight percent of the total vote cast for governor within the county. Prohibition and Labor joined the ranks of the People’s Party in polling significant numbers of votes in Milwaukee County. Congressional elections provided an even clearer omen of the burgeoning third-parties and the independence of Milwaukee voters. In the twelve congressional elections held from 1878 through 1898, the Democrats won the seat six times, the Republicans five times, and the representative of the People’s Party once, in 1886. But in four additional races, there was a substantial third-party vote. Among the Democrats who were successful was Peter V. Deuster of Der Seebote, who won three times. In 1882, Deuster founded the English language Milwaukee Daily Journal to promote and support his candidacy. After his re-election, Deuster sold the Journal to Lucius W. Nieman. Republican, People’s Party, Republican followed in that order; then the seat was captured by Democrat John L. Mitchell,[7] whose father, Alexander, had held the seat twenty years earlier. After two unsuccessful attempts for the office, Republican Theobald Otjen from Bay View won the seat in 1894, a post which he held for six consecutive terms. Blue Books of the state printed during Otjen’s terms in office emphasize that he devoted himself primarily to the improvement of the Milwaukee harbor and the establishment of the Great Lakes Training Station. In 1894, David S. Rose, who was to become mayor of Milwaukee in 1898, challenged Otjen unsuccessfully for the congressional seat. These results were precursors of the situation throughout nearly all of the first half of the twentieth century when multi-partyism was the norm in Milwaukee County elections. The elections of 1900 reveal that Milwaukee voted with the state and nation to re-elect William McKinley. At the same time, the majority

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in county and city supported Robert M. La Follette in his first bid for the governorship. The importance of the La Follette influence on Wisconsin politics cannot be minimized, but the same date marks the beginning of strong and sustained competition by the Milwaukee Socialists, an impact which lasted for more than three decades. Thus we find the first native-born governor and a movement whose roots could be traced to Europe appearing simultaneously as major political influences.

The Socialist Impact

The emergence of the Socialists as a political power was not an overnight phenomenon. Several of the leaders in the young city had been adherents of the Fabian Society and the German Socialist ideology. As early as 1875, Joseph Brucker had edited a Socialist paper in Milwaukee. Organized labor had shown signs of activity almost from the time of the city’s incorporation. This influence had extended gradually, given special impetus by the economic expansion of the Civil War and the large proportion of skilled craftsmen among Milwaukee’s labor force. The marriage of Labor and the Socialists produced a viable political offspring, the Socialist Party. However, this union did not occur until the Socialists had spurned the People’s Party on a national level. As in all marriages, there were disagreements within the family, but at least at election time, the Socialists were discreet and family spats were not reflected on party tickets. An examination of primary contests for the entire period during which Socialists presented candidates for political office reveals that Socialists did not oppose one another for any office. Organization and discipline would seem to be the key. As in earlier Milwaukee history, the press continued to be used as a political vehicle. The Milwaukee Leader, the Socialist daily of which Victor Berger was editor, played an essential role in the life of the party; in fact, its vicissitudes parallel those of some of the party members. Nor was the use of the foreign language press ignored. Edmund T. Melms organized the “bundle brigade” by which Socialist literature in seven languages was distributed house to house.[8] The names of Berger and Melms were joined by Charles B. Whitnall, Emil Seidel, and Frederic Heath, names which appeared repeatedly on ballots in the county.


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It is significant to note that county and state voted for Republican presidents until Wilson’s victory in 1912. But worthy of note in these same elections is the fact that Eugene V. Debs polled an impressive number of votes. He amassed 26 percent of the presidential total in the county in 1904, and 24 percent in 1908. In fact, with the exception of 1924, when Robert M. La Follette was a candidate, Socialist candidates Debs and Norman Thomas attracted a substantial portion of the vote. The most important impact is noted in the 1920 election when Debs polled 30 percent of the city vote, and James M. Cox, the Democratic candidate, ran a poor third. In 1916, when Hughes carried Wisconsin while Milwaukee County voted for Wilson, the pro-German sympathies of Milwaukee were a contributing factor. State and county split again in 1928, the latter supporting Alfred E. Smith. As noted earlier, La Follette won the gubernatorial election in 1900. There followed a succession of Republican governors until 1932. During that period the county voted Democratic twice in supporting John Aylward and John C. Karel. But the Socialists mounted candidates at each election. In 1910, W. A. Jacobs carried the county; in 1918, the county again supported the former Socialist mayor, Emil Seidel. In several other races, the Socialists outpolled the Democrats. It should be pointed out that this vote was restricted largely to Milwaukee County and made relatively little impact on statewide contests. As the result of Constitutional amendment, United States senators were first selected by popular vote in 1914. Paul O. Husting, a Democrat and strong supporter of Wilson, was the first to be chosen in this manner. Beginning with La Follette’s election to the senate in 1916, the Republicans held the office until 1932. Popular election of senators had been followed by another electoral amendment, suffrage for women. The 1922 senatorial election was noteworthy because of the candidacy of Jessie Jack Hooper, an “Independent Democrat” who was the first woman to seek a senatorial seat in Wisconsin.[9] The 1928 election pitted Republican and Independent Republican against one another with no Democratic candidate; of the three minor-party candidates, none was a Socialist. But the Socialists did not neglect the office. Labor leader Frank J. Weber polled 41,393 votes in 1920 to carry the county. In four other senatorial contests, the Socialists garnered from 20 to 32 percent of the

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vote. In the thirty-four elections from 1900 to 1932 for the offices of president, governor, and senator, the Socialists polled an average of 23 percent of the vote within the city, and 16 percent in the suburbs. Prior to 1912, the northern part of Milwaukee County was joined with Waukesha, Ozaukee, Washington, and Sheboygan Counties to form the Fifth Congressional District. In 1912, all of the Fifth was contained within Milwaukee County, and from that date until 1932, the Fifth was a marginal district. In all but one of the congressional races, there were at least three candidates. It was in this period that Victor Berger was successful in winning the seat five times. Berger’s three consecutive terms constitute the longest tenure in the district in a forty-two year period. The district was marked by long-time rivalries; pitted against one another in 1904 were William H. Stafford, Harvard-trained lawyer, and Victor Berger. After the redistricting of 1912, Stafford and Berger were opponents eight times. In 1910, the unsuccessful Republican candidate against Berger was Henry Cochems, who two years later, was instrumental in nominating Theodore Roosevelt on the Bull Moose Ticket. Surely the most dramatic event in the history of the Fifth was the indictment of Berger for violation of the Espionage Act of 1917 because of anti-war articles in the Milwaukee Leader. The Leader’s mailing rights were suppressed. In spite of the indictment, Berger was re-elected. Congress refused him the seat and Berger was sentenced to twenty years in prison. The Supreme Court reversed the decision and Berger regained his seat in Congress. But the loss of mailing privileges for the Leader was upheld by the court, a blow from which the paper and the Socialist Party never recovered. Unlike the Fifth, the Fourth District was solidly Republican from 1900 until 1932. William J. Cary occupied the seat from 1907 to 1919. However, Socialist candidates ran in all elections and polled larger votes than the Democrats in ten elections. Edmund T. Melms ran six times and was defeated in 1922 by a scant 631 votes. Reference has been made to the fact that the impact of the Socialists was limited largely to Milwaukee County; it was most effective within the city. Having mounted successful campaigns in aldermanic elections, and significant totals in mayoralty and congressional races, they achieved their greatest success in 1910 when Emil Seidel was elected mayor.


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This victory was coupled with success in other citywide offices, and in enough aldermanic races to give Socialists control of the Council. The results of this election contributed to the state legislature’s decision to adopt a non-partisan ballot for municipal elections. Socialist Daniel W. Hoan was elected mayor of Milwaukee in 1916 and held that office until 1940. “... for all its failings, it was in Milwaukee that the American Socialist movement came nearest to success . . . and to establish a political party which, in its opportunistic approach and its disavowal of the revolutionary posturing so common in American Socialism, came nearest the pattern of the strong social-democratic parties of the British Commonwealth and of Scandinavia.”[10]

A Decade of Progressives

The Democratic sweep of 1932 brought on by the Great Depression marked the end of the Socialist era; practically simultaneously the Progressive Party was born. Heretofore the progressive wing fought for supremacy within the Republican Party, but separated from the Republicans to create the new party under the leadership of Philip F. and Robert M. La Follette, Jr. Unlike the Socialists, the Progressives held substantial strength throughout the state. This strength was derived from the Farmer-Labor Federation which formed the basis of the party; the Socialists virtually disappeared as they merged with the aforementioned coalition. On the national scene, county and state voted for Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1932, 1936, and 1940. But the state returned to the Republican column in Roosevelt’s fourth bid for the presidency, while the county continued to vote Democratic. Whereas Socialist presidential candidates had polled significant votes in Milwaukee County, the Progressives did not mount national tickets and third-party voting became an unimportant scatter. The Democratic sweep of 1932 carried Albert Schmedeman into the governorship, the first Democratic governor of Wisconsin since Peck won his second term in 1892. The Progressives won the seat in 1934 although Milwaukee County still voted Democratic. In 1940, the county gave Progressive Orland Loomis a plurality while Republican

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Julius Heil was carrying the state. Overall, the Progressives won three of the six gubernatorial contests in which they competed. F. Ryan Duffy became U.S. Senator in 1932, the first time a Wisconsin Democrat held a senatorial seat since capturing it in 1914. Two years later, Robert M. La Follette, Jr., who had won the seat as a Republican, was re-elected as a Progressive, a feat which he repeated in 1940. Milwaukee County supported him both times. Republican Alexander Wiley won the seat in 1938 and again in 1944. Milwaukee County supported Wiley in 1938, but Howard McMurray, the Democratic candidate, received heavy support in Milwaukee. The city voted 63 percent Democratic, and the suburbs gave McMurray 55 percent of the vote. The multi-party trend in congressional races which began in 1894 continued. In the Fourth District, Socialists, Progressives, and “Independent Democrats” challenged the candidates of the major parties. From 1932 until 1946, the year of the last multi-party race in that district, the Democrats won all elections but 1938 and 1946. Republican John C. Schafer won in 1938 in a four-way race which pitted, him, against the Democratic nominee Thaddeus Wasielewski, “Independent Democrat” Raymond Cannon,[11] and progressive Paul Gauer. Schafer’s margin over Wasielewski was 637 votes. While no “Independent Democrats” ran in the Fifth, all of the races during this decade reveal at least three candidates. The Democratic sweep of 1932 included the congressional seat with 45 percent in a four-way race. In 1934, incumbent O’Malley retained the seat with the Socialist running second, again in a four-way race. The only time thereafter that a Socialist appeared on the ballot in the Fifth was in 1946 when Frank P. Zeidler polled less than four percent of the vote. The Republicans won the contests of 1938 and 1940. The shifting allegiances of the period are best illustrated by the candidacy of Andrew J. Biemiller, a protégé of Norman Thomas. Having entered the Milwaukee scene as a Socialist, Biemiller was active in the movement to merge the Socialists and Progressives. As a Progressive, he was elected to the state legislature for three terms. In 1944, he gained a congressional seat as a Democrat. In this last year of Progressive era, the party was not represented on the ballot in the Fifth.


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The Progressives, as a clearly identifiable political party, had a life span of approximately ten years. Born as a result of the depression and the belief that government had to play a strong role in recovery, the party could not survive the economic surge which accompanied World War II.

Return to “Normalcy”

With the death of the Progressives and the decline of the Socialists, Milwaukee County returned to two-party competition for the first time in the century. Apart from the Wallace presidential race in 1968, no third-party candidate has received as much as five percent of the vote. The 1948 presidential campaign confounded the political prognosticators, and Harry S. Truman defeated Thomas E. Dewey. Wisconsin, which had voted Republican in 1944, gave Democrat Truman a narrow margin. The city voted substantially Democratic, the suburbs, Republican. The name of Norman Thomas continued to appear on the ballot, but statewide he garnered slightly less than one percent of the vote. Henry A. Wallace, People’s Progressive Party candidate, fared little better. The name of J. Strom Thurmond did not appear on the ballot.[12] Milwaukee County and Wisconsin returned to the Republican column for Eisenhower in 1952 and 1956. However, the city defected from the Democratic ranks only in the second of these elections; the suburban vote carried the day for the Republicans. The disparity between city and suburban support of Democratic candidates remained almost constant—between 12 and 13 percent, the city vote being more Democratic. This spread has continued to the present. John F. Kennedy won the county but lost the state. However, Johnson carried both in 1964. Suburban support of President Johnson, with 57 percent of the vote, marked the single instance since President Roosevelt’s third campaign when the suburbs were not safely in the Republican column. Finally, in 1968, Richard Nixon won the state and the suburbs; the city supported Humphrey. There has been less consistency in the outcome of gubernatorial races. Incumbent Walter S. Goodland defeated Daniel W. Hoan who ran on the Democratic ticket in 1946. That race marked the last time that Milwaukee County supported the Republican candidate for governor.

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Democrats have carried the city with regularity; the high was reached with 66 percent support for Gaylord Nelson in 1958. Meanwhile, the non-city vote continued to be Republican, the exception being the support of Nelson in his two races for governor. The partisan spread between city and non-city vote within Milwaukee County was greater in gubernatorial than in presidential races. The high was reached in 1968 when Bronson La Follette carried the city with 59 percent of the vote, and lost the suburbs, receiving only 40 percent support. The two terms of Gaylord Nelson as governor and the one of John W. Reynolds fall only one term short of the number of times the office was held by Democrats from the formation of the Republican Party in 1856 until Nelson’s election one hundred years later—Taylor in 1873, Peck in 1890 and 1892, and Schmedeman in 1932. For thirty years, Wisconsin was represented in the United States Senate by the La Follettes, father and son. That era ended in the primary of 1946 when Joseph R. McCarthy defeated Robert M. La Follette, Jr., and proceeded to win handily over Howard McMurray in the November election; in fact, McMurray carried only Dane County in the entire state. Milwaukee County, which had supported McMurray against Wiley in 1944, ejected him, and supported McCarthy with 56 percent of the vote. This election marks the last time that the City of Milwaukee supported a Republican for the office of senator. Thomas E. Fairchild carried the county in his unsuccessful attempt to unseat Wiley in 1950. When McCarthy sought re-election two years later, both city and county reversed the support which they had given the controversial senator in 1946 and backed Fairchild who was carrying the Democratic banner for a second time. In this post-war era, other senatorial elections were noteworthy. Incumbent Alexander Wiley failed to receive party endorsement and carried his fight to the voters. Henry W. Maier ran for the office four years before his successful campaign to become mayor of Milwaukee. But the most significant change was the victory of Democrat William Proxmire in the special election of 1957 followed by the success of fellow Democrat Gaylord Nelson in 1962. This was the first time since Walker and Dodge represented Wisconsin in 1848 that the state was represented by two Democratic senators. Both city and county


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gave them strong support, the high in 1968 when Nelson received 68 percent of the county vote against his opponent, Jerris Leonard. Congressional races within the county have changed appreciably. The Republicans last captured the Fourth District in 1946. Clement J. Zablocki, former state senator, won the seat for the Democrats two years later; he has been successful in every election since that date. His margins of victory have ranged from 59 percent of his initial election to a high of 74 percent. The Fifth District remained marginal for eight years. The Democrats held the seat once, the Republicans, three times. In all but one of these, the city portion of the District voted Democratic, the suburbs, Republican. Henry S. Reuss captured the seat in 1954; since that election his margin of victory has mounted. The redistricting of 1964 removed the normally Republican suburbs from the Fifth, making it apparently safe for the Democrats. Unlike the long-time Berger-Stafford rivalry, or the four contests between Andrew Biemiller and Chares Kersten for the seat between 1946 and 1952, Reuss has been faced by a different Republican opponent in each election. While the Fourth and Fifth Districts have been Democratic, the Ninth, as redrawn, is presumably safe for the Republicans. Representative Glenn R. Davis, who had representated [Sic] the former Second District, was returned to Congress after an interval of ten years. Only a small portion of the city is within his district. The major portion lies in the northshore suburbs of Milwaukee County which has been a Republican stronghold, and in Waukesha County with a similar political record. Political longevity has been a characteristic of modern Milwaukee mayors. Dan Hoan’s tenure of twenty-four years has not been equaled. But Socialist Frank P. Zeidler held the office for twelve years until 1960 when he did not seek .re-election. In that year he was succeeded by Henry W. Maier, the present mayor; in his third bid for the office, Maier received the highest vote ever obtained by a candidate in any major, citywide election. The vote of the city of Milwaukee has contributed greatly to the Democratic strength of the county as a whole. The party’s greatest support has come from the near northside wards, which include most of the Negro ghetto, and from the near southside wards.

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Unlike the city, where variations are found mainly in the degree of Democratic vote, the suburbs present a house divided. The general rule is that suburbs in the northern half of the county are Republican; those in the southern half are Democratic. The degree of Democratic strength in those latter, while substantial, is not as high as the overwhelming Republican strength in many of their northern counterparts. In the first census after Wisconsin became a state, the city dominated the county in population and even more strongly in voter turn-out. Since 1920, the non-city impact has been increasing; in the 1968 presidential election, the suburban vote was more than one-third of the total cast in Milwaukee County. If the present trend continues, a new voting pattern for the county may be in the offing. But to date, Milwaukee County has experienced five distinct periods of voting behavior, some of which have been unique. Solidly Democratic was followed by solidly Republican with an underlying Populist theme. The Socialists and Progressives, which succeeded one another as identifiable parties, have disappeared from the ballot, and “normalcy” has held sway since 1946. Beware of putting Milwaukee votes into a computer. Milwaukeeans have been rugged individualists politically, and crossover voting is still the order of the day.

Notes

[1] Wisconsin Constitution, Article III, Section 1, which relates to suffrage contained additional provisions especially with regard to Indians. [2] Bayrd Still, Milwaukee, The History of a City (Madison: The State Historical Society, 1965), p. 125. [3] William Francis Raney, Wisconsin: A Story of Progress (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1940), p. 143. [4] John Goadby Gregory, History of Milwaukee, Wisconsin (Chicago: The S. J. Clarke Publishing Company, 1931), Vol. II, p. 1095. [5] Still, op. cit., p. 265. [6] Raney, op. cit., p. 270. [7] Father of General Billy Mitchell. [8] Still, op. cit., p. 311. [9] There have been two additional women candidates for the senate. Ella Tenney Sanford ran on the Prohibition ticket in 1926; Socialist Labor was represented by Georgia Cozzini in three elections. Mrs. Cozzini also sought the gubernatorial seat in three elections. There have been only two women candidates for a congressional seat within Milwaukee County. Rose Horwitz ran on the Democratic ticket in the Fifth in 1926; Carol Baumann sought the seat from the Ninth, also as a Democrat, in 1968.

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