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CIVIC WARS
WARS
Democracy and Public Life
in the American City during the
Nineteenth Century

M A R Y P. R Y A N

University of California Press

Berkeley Los Angeles London

University of California Press
Berkeley and Los Angeles, California

University of California Press, Ltd.

London, England

©1997 by
The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ryan, Mary P.
Civic wars : democracy and public life in the American city during
the nineteenth century / Mary P. Ryan,
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.
ISBN 0-520-20441-7 (alk. paper)
1. Political participation—United States—History—19th century.
2. Political culture—United States—History—19th century.
3. Democracy—United States—History—19th century. 4. City and
town life—United States—History— 19th century. 5. United States-
Politics and government—19th century. 6. New York (N.Y.)—
Politics and government—To 1898. 7. New Orleans (La.)—Politics
and government. 8. San Francisco (Calif) —Politics and government.
I. Title.
JKI764-R9 1997
320.973—dc20 96-25630
CIP

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of

American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of
Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
For Anne
 CONTENTS

List of Illustrations / ix

Acknowledgments / xi

Introduction: From Public Realm to

Civic Warfare / /

PART ONE
Heterogeneous Compounds and Kaleidoscopic
Varieties: Creating a Democratic Public, 1825-1849

CHAPTER 1

People's Places / 21

CHAPTER 2
The Performance of People in Association / s8

CHAPTEB 3

Public Meetings and the "Principles

of Pure Democracy" / 94

PART TWO
The Interregnum, 1850-1865

CHAPTER 4
Civil Wars in the Cities / 13s
viii Contents
PART THREE
"The Huge Conglomerate Mass":
Democracy Contained and Continued, 1866-1880

CHAPTER 5

The "Vague and Vast Harmony"

of People in Space / 183

CHAPTER 6

The People in Ceremony: Multiply, Divide,

Explode, Transcend / 223

CHAPTER 7

Publicity and Democratic Practice / 259

Epilogue / 30s

Notes / 317

Selected Bibliography / 341

Index / 363
 ILLUSTRATIONS

I. Plan of New Orleans, Louisiana, 1815 24

2. Map of San Francisco, California, 1853 24
3- Map of the city of New York 2$
4- City Hall Park, New York 33
5- Canal Street, New Orleans, 1850 41
6. View of New York looking south from Union Square, 1849 44
7- View of New Orleans, 1852 4S
8. Chatham Square, ca. 1847 48
9. San Francisco view, 1851 Si
IO. Lafayette's visit: engraving of Triumphal Arch 63
il. Invitation: Erie Canal celebration 67
12. View of the Plaza, July 4,1851, San Francisco 71
13- New York procession passing Brougham's Lyceum,
July 4,1851 72

14- Volkfest, New Orleans, 1859 86

15- Inauguration of the Jackson statue, New Orleans 107

i6. Council chamber, New York City Hall, 1830-1831 IIS
17- San Francisco election, 1850s 116
i8. Astor Place riot, 1849 137
19- Execution of James P. Casey and Charles Cora 143
20. "War Song of the Natives," ca. 1855 147
21. Metropolitan Police storm City Hall, 1857 IS4
22. Charge of the police at the Tribune office, 1863 m
23- Panel from the Muybridge panorama, San Francisco, 1877 186
24. Panel from panorama of New Orleans, ca. 1870 186

25- Panel from panorama of New York, 1876 187

ix
X Illustrations
26. Chinatown alley, ca. 1 8 8 0 192
2 7 . Stewart's mansion 194
28. Five Points, 1 8 7 5 m
2 9 . Canal Street, Clay statue, 1 8 8 4 199
3 0 . Shelter, Golden Gate Park, ca. 1 8 7 4 208
3i- Map of Golden Gate Park 210
32. Lincoln funeral procession, 1 8 6 5 22s
33- Attack on the Orange Societies' parade, 1 8 7 1 232
3 + . Mardi Gras, 1 8 7 2 241
35- Missing Links 243
3 6 . St. Patrick's Day, Union Square, 1 8 7 0 247

37- "Coming Races," 1 8 8 0 2S3

38. New Orleans riot, 1 8 6 6 26s
39- "Rout of the Metropolitans," 1 8 7 4 268
4 o. "Who Stole the People's Money?" 1 8 7 1 278
4 1 . "The Latest Phase of American Politics," 1 8 8 0 289
42. The San Francisco Illustrated Wasp, 1 8 8 0 298
4 3 - "A Republican Form of Government, and N o Domestic
Violence," 1 8 7 5 299
4 4 - "U.S. A Plague upon All Your Goes," 1 8 7 9 300
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
have practiced the historian's craft too long to pretend that I am the
solitary author of the following pages. In creating this book I have
transcribed, transmitted, and lifted out of context the work of
countless chroniclers and historians, most of whom I will never meet.
Because this investigation took me far from the fields of my training or
expertise, I was dependent on a vast and rich secondary literature that
deserves far more recognition than the simple citations in the bibliogra-
phy. It would not diminish my debt to all these strangers by naming my
personal and specific benefactors. My special thanks go to those very
generous and tolerant colleagues who read messy early drafts of this
book and tendered invaluable advice and criticism. In thanking them I
also assure them that I have left: abundant grounds for continuing de-
bate and disagreement among us. I am most indebted to Thomas Ben-
der, Robin Einhorn, Philip Ethington, Eric Foner, Michael Kazin,
Suzanne Lebsock, Joseph Logsdon, Timothy Gilfoyle, Terence Mac-
Donald, Christine Stansell, and Dell Upton.
Several institutions have generously supported this project with their
funds, their facilities, and their staffs. My research commenced long ago
at the Center for Advanced Studies in the Behavioral Sciences at Stan-
ford University; it was sustained while I was a member of the faculty at
the University of California at Berkeley; and it was rejuvenated for one
ecstatic year when the French American Foundation sent me to the Cen-
ter for North American Studies, École des Hautes Etudes en Science So-
ciales in Paris. I send special thanks to Jean Heffer, François Weil, and

xi
xii Acknowledgments

Carolyn Kaufman at CENA. This project would never have been

finished without the skillful efforts of graduate research assistants at
Berkeley: Jennifer Gold, Valerie Mendoza, Jessica Weiss, and the heroic
Gabrielle Tenaglia. I am deeply indebted to the librarians and staff of the
Bancroft Library, Historic New Orleans Collection, Louisiana Division
of the New Orleans Public Library, the Louisiana State Museum, and
the Municipal Archives of New York. The editorial staff at the University
of California Press—Sheila Levine, Nola Burger, and Scott Norton—has
my gratitude and affection, as does my copy editor, David Severtson.
Finally, I would like to acknowledge those who diverted me from
working on this book, yet kept me right on course to creating it, as to-
gether we walked city streets and reveled in public places. My heartfelt
appreciation goes to old New York friends David Gurin, Bert Hansen,
Carroll Seron, Joanne Vanek, and Judy Walkowitz. I am indebted to Joe
and Mary Logsdon for introducing me to New Orleans, her restaurants,
her fetes, her people. I thank Ted and Joby Margadant for the pleasures
of their company on the boulevards of Paris as well as the streets of San
Francisco. Thanks and a purple heart go to Judy Stacey and Carol Stack
for rescuing me with walks through the neighborhood. Richard Busacca
has done double duty as usual, by tending the homes fires when I es-
caped to distant cities and by joining me at city playgrounds near and far.
I thank Anne Busacca-Ryan for constantly reminding me to cherish the
cities of our world for their fun and for our future.
 INTRODUCTION

From Public Realm

to Civic Warfare

T hose awaiting the turn of the millennium can easily find evidence
for the gloomy forecasts often associated with such an ominous
date. The approach of the year 2000 finds many observers of
American civic life, including historians, in a curmudgeonly frame of
mind, their pessimism fed by more than the usual references to rising
crime, debased morals, and irresponsible youth. Complaints first heard
in the mid-1980s about how the American citizenry was fragmenting
into narrow circles of interest and identity had given way by 1995 to far
more alarming and widespread signs of the disintegration of the na-
tional consensus. Those earlier squabbles about what was alternately la-
beled multiculturalism and political correctness paled next to the clash-
ing cultures of the 1990s—urban riots, rural militia companies, and
bombed-out federal buildings—while the new political identities that
emerged in the 1960s might seem paper tigers compared to the insur-
gents of the 1994 congressional election who not only asserted them-
selves but also set out to dismantle the basic social programs that had, at
least since the New Deal, linked Americans together in the recognition
of basic public needs. Historians' alarm about the rumored demise of a
unified national narrative might seem inconsequential in a popular cul-
ture that shunned the printed word as it sated itself on talk shows, MTV,
and cyberspace. The end of the twentieth century threatened to bring
not just the contest and rivalry to be expected in a democracy but a
whole other order of change, a withdrawal from the civic project as we
had known it.

1
2 Introduction

Or so it might seem to an American Jeremiah at the fin de siècle. But

the revelers who will gather in Times Square on New Year's Eve 2000
will doubtless encounter some less dyspeptic citizens. The omens of cri-
sis in American public life can also be read as signs of civic rejuvenation.
The revolt against Washington at the ballot box could also open a
broader, more fundamental debate on the nature of the public trust. The
babel in cyberspace might give voice to the otherwise isolated and inar-
ticulate. Those who gather at a place such as Times Square on New Year's
Eve, furthermore, obstinately refuse to cede public space to urban
anomie or disorder. Indeed, the compulsion to gather in city space
seems more vigorous than ever. Witness the proliferation of cafes, street
fairs, and festivals in communities across the land. Since the mid-1970s
Americans have invented whole new occasions for citywide parties: Hal-
loween processions in Manhattan, annual jazz festivals in New Orleans,
foot races across San Francisco that bring as many as 100,000 giddy run-
ners into the streets. I would bet that many Americans will greet the next
century as the occasion to come joyously together, right in the heart of
the city. Not all Americans have lost the will to fashion some facsimile of
a civic whole.
As always, the markers of change can be read in many ways. And
much depends on where we stop to read the signs of the times, be it, for
example, on city streets or in front of TV screens. What strikes this ob-
server at the end of the twentieth century is not the expected prophecies
of national disorder and moral and political damnation but the fear that
Americans are withdrawing from civic space as we have known it, be it
in electoral campaigns, public festivals, or everyday encounters with one
another. In the past Americans managed to contain their rowdy civic be-
havior within the bounds of acceptable differences and were linked to-
gether by both regular associations of town and city life and a common
print culture, the very institutions that fostered the American experi-
ment in pluralistic democratic politics beginning in the eighteenth cen-
tury. The differences among Americans in the late twentieth century, by
contrast, rarely come together in the same public square or on the same
page of newsprint. Civic life seems socially adrift.
This book faces this troubling contemporary prospect in the perverse
manner of a historian: To better read the signs of change before me, I
have intentionally turned backward. By examining civic life a century
ago I hope to acquire some sharpened perception, even some ideas,
about how to exercise citizenship in these shifting times. In so doing I
have adopted a spatial strategy just as curious as my temporal move
 Introduction 3

backward. At a time when the connecting tissue of civic life seems as in-
substantial as the airwaves of mass media, I have set up my historical lab-
oratory in concrete places, in three nineteenth-century cities. In New
York, New Orleans, and San Francisco I have found some solid ground
on which to confront these civic fears and hopes. In the last century
these cities were arguably as full of cultural differences and as fractured
by social and economic changes as any metropolis today, and they pro-
vided equally challenging conditions under which to create civic com-
munication and identity. My years of foraging through these corners of
the American past have not yielded reassuring portraits of virtuous and
harmonious communities that can serve as models or admonitions for
the present. What I found instead is a trail of contestation that goes back
well beyond a century. What I learned, slowly and reluctandy, still in-
completely, is the necessity of facing these recurrent cultural and political
collisions, of embracing these civic wars as an essential feature of mod-
ern democracy. But before I report on this exercise of retrospective citi-
zenship, a brief comment on some of the personal concerns and more
abstract cogitation that informed and preceded it is in order.
Undertaken as both a historian's project and a citizen's mission, my
exploration began in the early 1980s amid growing unease with the frag-
mentation of the historical record that had accompanied the success of
the new social history. The elaboration and diversification of our history
that occurred in the 1970s and 1980s left a larger, infinitely improved,
but more splintered picture of the past. The disarray among historians,
the cracks in old syntheses, and the refuse of an untenable consensus
were more than by-products of a quantitative expansion of the popula-
tion included in the official historical record. A skilled and patient histo-
rian could fashion a social history from the studies of different races,
classes, ethnic groups, gender cultures, sexual orientations, ages, and so
forth. (My colleagues do it every day in survey courses and textbooks.)
But to be a usable and living history rather than a sociological portrait,
we are told that the parts of this enlarged picture need to be stitched to-
gether into a moving narrative. It needed a focal point, some major
characters, a plot. In the past the focal point had been politics on the na-
tional level. The central characters had been political leaders, and the
plot ended in the uniformity of a common culture or at the apex of intel-
lectual hegemony or political power.1
These ways of giving narrative coherence to history certainly re-
mained available to painstaking historians willing to draw the links be-
tween the social and the political, the local and the national, the social
4 Introduction

and the cultural, the everyday and the election day. Yet a rush to synthe-
sis often traveled the same well-worn paths, sacrificing the rich record
compiled by social historians, finding the easiest point of unity among
the powerful and prominent, and in the end giving starring roles to the
white, male, educated, and affluent. Still searching for some way of
bringing America's diverse peoples together on one plane of analysis,
but without subjecting them to the brute authority of a central govern-
ment or the cultural tyranny of national character, I came upon the idea
of the public, a symbol of the possibility of unification without homoge-
nization, of integration without assimilation. In my first musings it
evoked a broad and visible political space where a society's members
might come together without forfeiting their multiple social identities,
where they mounted debates rather than established consensus. In the
first instance the public was no more than an invitation to imagine a his-
torical plane of commonalty and connection that did not pulverize
differences, where power was recognized without erasing the less pow-
erful.2
From the first the word public had a second and especially seductive
reference point as well. This attraction was as much personal and aes-
thetic as scholarly and political, and it was rooted in my own niche in
American history. For someone growing up female after World War II,
in a small town where my lower-class Roman Catholic parentage was
still a mark of marginalization, the public gleamed as an object to covet,
a kind of brass ring. As a female child of a small town in the 1950s I also
saw the public as a liberation from stultifying privacy. It was a way out of
the house. It summoned images of a gregarious, open, cosmopolitan,
new, heterogeneous, anonymous world free of the constrictions of fam-
ily and the straitjacket of gender identity. To my parents' generation the
coveted public signaled the aspirations of the "little guy" for a public
voice that was heard only as recendy as the New Deal. In my adoles-
cence the public prize was the election of the first president who shared
my family's religious affiliation. My own political consciousness would
take form within those social movements of the 1960s that made the
dreams and protests of millions of once-silenced Americans a public
matter. To this very day, when my gender remains drastically underrepre-
sented in positions of state power and legislative deliberation, the public
still glows with the aura of a brass ring. For a feminist the public remains
an object of not fully requited desire. The turns in my own life and the
jolts of American politics since the 1970s have not dimmed the Utopian
imaginings of the word; they have only made them seem more precious
 Introduction 5

as they receded from the political horizon. In sum the word that set the
course of this book is bloated with social, personal, as well as political
promises. In its first incarnation the subject of this book was impossibly
broad, simply a study of American public life in the nineteenth century.
Although my search for the "public" was singular, personal, and a
mite eccentric, it was hardly solitary. The word public has one of the
longest and most distinguished lineages in the Western dictionary of
keywords. From the perspective of the history of ideas my musings
about the public are a dilute and base remnant of the classic vocabulary
of polis, politeia, and res publico.. The word public was present at the re-
puted origins of Western political culture, in its Renaissance, and at the
moments of greatest trial. The public was a conceptual life raft for politi-
cal thinkers, most notably Hannah Arendt, trying to set a humanistic
political course in the wake of twentieth-century totalitarianism. Yet I
have kin much closer than these in my association with the public. The
public is very much in the American grain. The word had a particularly
prominent place in the vocabulary of the Progressives and appeared in
the tides of books by Walter Lippman, Robert Park, and John Dewey in
the 1920s. And in the 1990s the chorus of concern for the public is full of
historians, social scientists, literary critics, and veterans of the social
movements of my generation, including most especially feminists.
My original fealty to the word public inspired a conversation with po-
litical theorists that became a long, rambling section of this book's
penultimate draft. The empirical historical study that followed, however,
broke the bounds of this theory and became a meandering story of how
Americans came together, for better and for worse, to share and shape a
conjoined life. That account, which will begin with chapter 1, is not a
paean to the public but a story I will call "civic wars." Before that story
begins, however, I offer the reader the briefest report on my foray into
the body of political philosophy to which I remain indebted.
The classic formulation of the public, especially as interpreted by
Hannah Arendt, offers the loftiest inspiration for the study and practice
of public life. Brought down from the Acropolis, this tradition heralds
the public realm, as Arendt names it, as the place where citizens surren-
der their private concerns and come together as equals to deliberate
about the common good. It is in the public realm, set aside from petty
material interests and devoted to mutual respect and rational discourse,
that humans express their highest natures and achieve a semblance of
immortality. Yet as many critics, most notably Hannah Pitkin, have
pointed out, whether it be ancient Greece or the Italian Renaissance re-
6 Introduction
publics, the public realm was as narrow in its membership as it was lofty
in its idealism. It was a gathering place of elite males, many of them
slavemasters.3
For a more democratic social base, contemporary political philoso-
phers turn more often to the work of Jiirgen Habermas. By locating his
"public sphere" in the eighteenth-century West, Habermas opened up
civic life to a much broader citizenry and wider realm of rights and free-
doms. His public sphere was a "realm of our social life in which some-
thing approaching public opinion can be formed. Access is quarantined
to all citizens. A portion of the public sphere comes into being in every
conversation in which private individuals assemble to form a public
body?' Habermas brought the public sphere not only into modern times
but into a broad historical plane of analysis. By locating public life out-
side the state, finding it in the press and the cafes and clubs of eighteenth-
century European capitals, wherever public opinion could be formed,
Habermas placed the humanistic political ideals on the grounds of social
practice and in the reach of many. His public sphere has been adapted by
many historians and literary scholars and is an indispensable guide
through the research for this book.4
Yet Habermas himself was circumspect in his own historical mapping
of the public sphere. Clinging to high standards of "rational-critical dis-
course," Habermas was wary of finding a genuine public sphere outside
the bourgeoisie and after the eighteenth century. To open a flank of the
public sphere in the nineteenth century, I next turned to the American
tradition of political philosophy and to John Dewey's The Public and Its
Problems. Conceived as a pragmatic human creation, not as an a priori ra-
tional norm, Dewey's public was an act of human discovery and organi-
zation that could, or could not, be found in any historical circumstance.
His formula for creating a public specified only this: "We take as our
point of departure from the objective fact that human acts have conse-
quences upon others, that some of these consequences are perceived,
and that their perception leads to subsequent effort to control action so
as to secure some consequences and avoid others." Dewey then con-
strues a public that, theoretically, could exist anywhere, even in the most
unseemly civic spaces of America in the 1990s.5
Writing in 1927, Dewey rarely gave specific social or political content
to the public. His major historical reference was to the New England
community of face-to-face public assembly. Reconvening a town meet-
ing is not a strategy likely to revive the public in the late twentieth cen-
tury. An update to Dewey's public can be found, however, in a number
 Introduction 7

of contemporary writers, including postmodernists and neopragmatists,

many of them veterans of the social movements of the 1960s. They argue
for a public created through the piecemeal identification of new political
constituencies. Social movements not only make new public claims for
isolated groups but expand the rights of all. The feminist movement is a
prime example of this pluralistic expansion of the public; it not only en-
rolled the second sex in the public realm but formulated whole new sets
of human rights, naming them such things as privacy, reproductive free-
dom, family entitlement. These contemporary theorists dispute the sin-
gularity of the classic notion of the public but reclaim the term in the
plural or prefix it with adjectives such as heterogeneous or democratic.6
At this point in the search for a civic lodestar I came to wonder if the
public should be the exclusive focus of my attention. A qualifying term
used by everyone from Dewey on began to assume a central place in my
thinking. That term was democratic. Turning directly to recent demo-
cratic theorists, most notably Claude Lefort and Chantal Mouffe, I
found classic and Renaissance notions of the public demoted to sec-
ondary importance, behind the political practices of representative gov-
ernment dating from the nineteenth century. Lefort focuses not on a
preconceived public realm but on the process of representation, the ways
in which the "people" become sovereign. To democratic theorists such
as Lefort the participation of the people is the measure of civic well-
being, and yet who the people are is never established in any finite,
stable, or absolute way. Democratic politics and decisions about the con-
joined life of a polity are worked out in an unremitting practice whereby
citizens name, assert, and give meaning to themselves and one another.
"The identity of the people remains latent. . . . Representation is depen-
dent upon a political discourse and upon a sociological and historical
elaboration always bound up with ideological debate." Convinced that
the democratic public I valued requires this unremitting representative
practice, I retitled my project The Public and the People and vowed to
place the two concepts in constant, fluid relationship to one another.7
Once the search for civic ideals shifts from the Olympian plane of the
polis to the pragmatic practices of democracy, the public sphere or realm
splinters, inevitably and unregrettably, into more mundane and multiple
political spaces. Democratic theorists are particularly intent on locating
politics in actual physical spaces, historical sites that are public in the
more pedestrian, colloquial, but critical way—in their openness and ac-
cessibility to the people. The writings of Lefort and Dewey no less than
those of Habermas refer at critical points to mundane public places
8 Introduction
called, variously, civil society, New England communities, face-to-face
ties—that is, multiple, finite, often small and decentered publics where
people formulate their democratic aspirations and mobilize for political
action. Conversely, one cannot imagine Dewey's pragmatic method of
locating the public or Lefort's model of popular democracy operating in
private space—the intimacy of the home, the recesses of the individual
soul, and what Habermas calls the "rooms and anterooms of bureaucra-
cies." By decentering politics and underplaying the role of the state, dem-
ocratic theorists invest the social space between the government and the
private home with more significance, by default if not intention. Even
Hannah Arendt was enticed into this earthbound social dimension of
the public as a "space" where "men act together in concert."8
Theories of democracy seem especially to gravitate toward this social
and spatial public. The germination of democratic institutions may even
require open, accessible, shared space, sites where the people can actually
see each other in all their diversity and can mobilize, debate, form identi-
ties, and forge coalitions. Contemporary theory also adumbrates an aes-
thetic dimension to public democracy that is nurtured by the diverse and
unpredictable encounters possible in open social space. Lefort repeatedly
and approvingly quotes Tocqueville's observation that the "ceaseless agi-
tation which democratic government has introduced into the political
world influences all social intercourse. I am not sure that on the whole,
this is not the greatest advantage of democracy."9
As the course of this search for the public shifted from the classic
public to modern democracy it was inevitable that it should come back
to Alexis de Tocqueville. First, Tocqueville's own search for a political
system and culture to succeed the cmcien regime led not just to democ-
racy but to a social rendering of the public: It was founded not in the su-
perior virtue of Americans but in their inveterate habit of forming
groups to obtain common social goals. "Wherever, at the head of some
new undertaking you see the government in France, or a man of rank in
England, in the United States you will be sure to find an association.
.. .Thus, the most democratic country on the face of the earth is that in
which men have, in our time, carried to the highest perfection the art of
pursuing in common the object of their common desires, and have ap-
plied this new science to the greatest number of purposes." Tocqueville's
democracy was composed of associated peoples, of voluntary organiza-
tions, or of local governments; his is a politics of public sociality. It is
Tocqueville who located civic life in a place that is most congenial to this
investigator. Its coordinates are not the goodness and virtue of the clas-
 Introduction 9
sic public sphere, nor the austerity of pure pragmatic practice, but the
democratic associations of people.
Tocqueville guides the story that follows in a second, fundamental
way: He identified the empirical center of the history of democracy pe-
culiar to the United States. He discovered democracy not just in associa-
tion but in a critical place and time. Touring America in 1831 and 1832, he
was struck by sights such as these: "The people of one quarter of a town
are met to decide the building of a church; there, the election of a repre-
sentative is going on; a litde further, the delegates of a district are post-
ing to the town in order to consult some local improvements; the labor-
ers of the village quit their ploughs to deliberate upon the project of a
road or a public school." Tocqueville located democracy, in other words,
in relatively dense human settlements, towns, villages, or cities. Tocque-
ville's America is distinguished not just from the classic or Enlighten-
ment public sphere but also from another great theory of American
democracy, Turner's frontier thesis, which traced the distinctive politics
of the United States not to public associations but to the individual free-
doms practiced in the supposedly open territories of the American West.
The human settlements that so sparked Tocqueville's political imagi-
nation point to an ideal time and place in which to examine the demo-
cratic public practices of an associated people. Tocqueville's visit, occur-
ring in the second quarter of the nineteenth century, intersected with the
moment when the term democracy became the best designation of the
new nation's political ideology and institutions. By 1825, despite some
contrary and curmudgeonly opinions, American politicians operated on
the assumption that the people had to be consulted in public matters. A
stance of superiority to the mass of men and deference to the opinions of
the better sort, once proudly espoused by the likes of John Adams and
James Madison, was now taboo. In the second quarter of the nineteenth
century the term democracy was rarely qualified by allusions to those as-
pects of republican theory that constrained the voice of the people
within the confines of a mixed constitution, with its aristocratic and
monarchical elements. The frank exhaltation of democracy had become
the presumption of national politics with Jackson's bank message in
1832. Ever since, politicians have courted the common man and bowed
to the people in their homeliest aspects and humbler statuses. After ac-
knowledging the accomplishments of a generation of historians who
traced survivals of a republican ethic in nineteenth-century America, it is
time to give this explicidy democratic strand of American political his-
tory a central place as of the 1830s. Thereafter neither politicians nor his-
10 Introduction
torians could sanction restrictions on popular participation in govern-
ment, no matter how rational and critical were the discussions that tran-
spired within the public sphere.10
The triumph of democratic rhetoric was no mere chimera but the
product of a slow yet revolutionary change in the methods of represen-
tative government. The chief element in this transformation was the ex-
pansion of the elected sector of the government, which under republican
theory and early American practice was kept in balance by constitutional
restraints and restrictions on suffrage. By the date that begins this study,
and exemplified by the New York State Constitution of 1821, legislative
bodies were elected more directly, and property restriction on both vot-
ing and office holding had been abolished for white males. Democratic
life was breathed into these representative procedures by political par-
ties, mobilizations in civil society that the "founding fathers" had once
bitterly excoriated. Still suspect as late as 1820, partisan loyalty was the
focal point of politics by the raucous presidential election of 1840. With
it came the assumption of permanent opposition, contest, and debate in
public affairs and the removal of inhibitions about partisan loyalty. It
was in the process of partisan elections that a public constituted itself in
a participatory and expressive way. Only after several decades of practic-
ing democratic politics in heated electoral contests for relatively low po-
litical stakes did Americans begin to invest public institutions with the
extensive administrative power and responsibilities associated with the
modern state—things (such as income taxes and standing armies) that
were established during the Civil War. 11
Although this democratic public life was acted out on the national
stage and orchestrated with particular virtuosity during presidential elec-
tions, its origins and constitution can be discerned best at the local level
by eavesdropping, like Tocqueville, on the political practices of associ-
ated Americans. Those ubiquitous meetings that dotted his itinerary,
while less remote and more down to earth than those in the Acropolis,
seem far too bucolic to offer models for democratic practice in late
twentieth-century America. Tocqueville painted Americans as a relatively
settled, homogeneous people who traced a cultural and political ancestry
to Anglo-Saxon England. While he pointed out, perhaps correcdy, that
democracy flourished under such homogeneous social conditions, the
village setting did not subject the democratic public to a severe test, cer-
tainly not by contemporary standards of diversity and disorder. My strat-
egy in selecting exact sites for this study was to place the representative
institutions established by 1825 in direct confrontation with a particularly
 Introduction 11
heterogeneous and fractious people. Therefore, I mounted my histori-
ans' canvas squarely in the middle of rapidly growing, soon industrial-
ized, garishly diversified cities.
To maximize the pressures on public life, I chose three sites that also
reflected regional differences and antagonisms; one north and one south
of the great rent in the nineteenth-century national order and a third lo-
cated in the contested territory of the West. These three particular cities,
New York, New Orleans, and San Francisco, meet my criteria for being
ungainly, urban mongrels. Each is the antithesis of the other putative cra-
dles of democracy, the New England town or the sparsely settled frontier
where a sense of the common good or the unanimous public interest
could be read off the surface of social relations within a relatively homo-
geneous community. The diversity of the citizenries of New York, New
Orleans, and San Francisco precluded any assumption of an organic, au-
tomatic public consensus. Each was a port city tied to a transoceanic hin-
terland and open to waves of immigration. Already by the Revolution,
New York boasted a cosmopolitan history. Having passed from Dutch to
English colonial control, it hosted a mix of Western European immi-
grants along with significant numbers of African-born slaves and toler-
ated a range of religious sects as well as the usual number of urban
infidels. The roots of city people were even more tangled in New
Orleans. French, Spanish, English, African, Afro-Caribbean, and Ameri-
can Indian accents mingled in one of the most polyphonic cultures on
this planet. The transient population that hastily staked a claim beside
the Bay of San Francisco in 1849 was fed by especially strong demo-
graphic currents from the South. Migrants from Australia, Chile, Mex-
ico, and elsewhere in Latin America pitched their tents beside refugees
from back East. Soon the ocean traffic came from Asia, bringing thou-
sands of Chinese. In none of these cities is there much evidence that the
simmering social diversity ever boiled away. During the Civil War and af-
ter each city experienced vicious interracial conflict at the time that it ad-
mitted enough immigrants to make one third to one half the population
foreign born.
The heterogeneity of the city was not as easily corralled into a single
political jurisdiction as historians often assume. Even the national affilia-
tion of each of these cities was a recent, fragile, and reversible creation.
New York was invaded by the British as late as 1812. The teleology that
affixes a basic stable national identity on the ports of North America is
especially inappropriate to the other cities in this triad. In just one
month, November 1804, New Orleans officially passed from Spanish to
12 Introduction
French to U.S. authority. Well into the 1840s, city business was still con-
ducted in French. The national identity of the settlement beside San
Francisco Bay was also unstable. In just a few decades the hunting and
fishing grounds of native Ohlone Indians passed through the hegemony
of the Spanish crown, to the Republic of Mexico, and on to some for-
tune hunters calling themselves the Bear Flag Republic before it became
a U.S. territory and finally a sovereign state in the Union. Then, in 1861,
the Union itself was violently torn in two, causing particularly bitter in-
ternal political divisions in these three cities.
The instability of nationality during the nineteenth century is just one
indication that democratic civic life is not a simple transcription from a
singular national culture, nor is it centered in a singular political institu-
tion such as the state. Accordingly, this search for the public will focus
not on centers of government but on the far more dispersed and elusive
habitats of the people. The people of course do not present themselves
to historians directly, transparently, as pure essences. A major objective
of this investigation is to discover how people actually defined them-
selves as political actors and recognized one another. At best, some citi-
zens left fleeting, partial, and ambiguous traces of themselves on selec-
tive sets of documents, few of which bear those exquisite signs of
authenticity characteristic of the elite citizens who transcribed their lives
and thoughts for posterity. Of necessity the search for the democratic
public will be conducted in that second-class stock of historical docu-
ments called the published sources. It is there, in published proceedings
of municipal governments, printed guides to city life, public commen-
taries of literate citizens, and above all the daily newspapers that the pub-
lic discloses itself to citizens and historians.
The impurities of these raw materials do not require an apology, for
in this instance they have their virtues as well as their limitations.
Michael Warner, among others, has demonstrated how the emergence
of the democratic public in the modern West was inextricably bound up
with publication. Until the mid-eighteenth century the idea of calling
upon officials to publish, much less explain or justify, their actions was
considered libelous. Soon thereafter, the first halting attempts to ques-
tion colonial authority took the form of demands for the publication of
colonial procedures and mushroomed into a printing industry premised
on the radical assumption of open debate, public discussion, and gov-
ernmental accountability to citizens. The political literature of the early
national period was more than a printed transcript of public debate. The
process of publishing government actions created an imaginary but con-
 Introduction 13
sequential republic of letters. Print linked author to reader and readers
to one another in an ongoing, widespread, deeply thought if unspoken
conversation. A political culture of print made government a public
rather than a private matter; it was critical to the democratization of
civic life. 12
By 1825 the republic of letters was on its way to becoming a democ-
racy of print. With steady growth of the penny press the majority of
adult males became parties to the public discussions on a whole range of
political issues. Early in the century the expensive newspapers not only
were few, of narrow distribution, and small in size but scarcely men-
tioned local or national events. It was through the fiercely partisan cam-
paigns of the press in the 1830s and 1840s that readers were introduced
to a daily diet of public discussion of local and national politics. By 1850,
when the press began to assume a nonpartisan but nonetheless politi-
cally engaged stance, the whole electorate was mobilized by newsprint.
Circulation figures in individual cities reached to six digits, newspaper
offices became gathering spots for obtaining political information, and
even the illiterate congregated on street corners and in grogshops for a
public reading of the dailies. After midcentury the press became more
aggressive in courting and organizing public opinion by sending re-
porters onto the streets to survey and report on grassroots political dis-
cussions. Through it all newspaper editors were major public actors,
candidates for public office, sponsors of major public projects, targets of
violent crowd action and even assassination. By the late nineteenth cen-
tury the big city newspapers had come to dominate civic space itself: the
office towers of the New York Herald, San Francisco Chronicle, and New
Orleans Picayune provided a spatial as well as an ideological focal point
of public life. By scanning pages of newsprint, the chief informant for
this account of the people and the public, the historian becomes witness
to the oral, the imagined, the distorted, the living public.13
As the printed nexus of an extended, multivoiced conversation the
newspaper may be as close as historians can get to the voice of the pub-
lic. This is not to say that these published records speak of the people
any more accurately and authentically than does any other species of his-
torical document. At the same time newspapers and published records
supply an admirably complete empirical record of local events and pub-
lic actions. Nearly every political body, from Sunday school societies to
the city council, reported to the local newspapers, while very few de-
posited their private papers in historical archives. Repeatedly, the fullest,
most intricate and extended accounts of public events are to be found in
14 Introduction
neither the minutes of the city council nor the private papers of mayors
but in the newspapers. Once again it was Tocqueville who spied the
practical as well as the theoretical significance of the press for democracy.
He noted that an independent press was not only the "chief, and so to
speak, the constitutive element of liberty" but the most efficient channel
of communication and most audible call to the association so necessary
to democracy. In Tocqueville's pithy but overly modest image the city
presses "drop the same thought into a thousand minds at the same mo-
ment." This newspaper democracy has the final advantage that it extends
across time as well as across the space of the city, making the historian
just another citizen reader.14
The following chapters report one citizen's reading of this public
record. My selective itinerary through this boundless universe has been
plotted around a few signposts, or what Dewey called markers, of the
public. My route will begin among the people and circle slowly in on
the more formal institutions of the public. The first marker of the public
is within the domain of everyday sociability, of face-to-face or shoulder-
to-shoulder encounters between city residents, most of whom were
strangers to one another if not representatives of alien cultures. This
public life transpired in streets, squares, and parks, places of informal, ca-
sual, largely unplanned social interaction. The search for the public be-
gins here, because such actual social interactions may nurture, under-
mine, or otherwise fundamentally condition the discovery of a more
formal and organized public. Dewey, among others, maintained that
sustained face-to-face associations (like those of the New England town
of his birth) were the necessary precondition for discovering a public.
Portraits of urban sociability such as those drawn by Lyn Lofland or
Richard Sennett point to city streets as schools of public spirit more ap-
propriate to complex modern cultures. City sidewalks were spaces where
citizens could learn the cosmopolitan skills of discerning and accepting
differences. The most exquisite evocation of such urban civility came
from the pen of Jane Jacobs, who described the makings of the public
on the sidewalks of New York some thirty years ago. "The sum of such
casual, public contact at a local level—most of it fortuitous, most of it as-
sociated with errands, all of it metered by the person concerned and not
thrust upon him by any one—is a feeling for the public identity of peo-
ple, a web of public respect and trust and a resource in time of personal
or neighborhood need."15
I have been alert to any evidence that city people found the first dim
recognition of a public identity in encounters like these. The civilities of
 Introduction IS
the streets may be the most basic training exercises of democratic citizen-
ship. The possibility of nurturing such public civility, as Jacobs clearly
demonstrated, depends on the sidewalks themselves, on the actual phys-
ical organization of city space. Accordingly, charting the roots of the
public in everyday sociability has required attention to the changing or-
ganization of urban space—such things as the layout of streets, creation
of parks, maintenance of squares, and construction of public buildings.
These spaces are also the sites of a second flank of my research in
which I examine how public culture was organized through civic cere-
monies. The performances and festivities that were enacted in public
spaces on civic holidays served as both staging grounds and exercises of
public life. Fourth of July parades, to give the obvious example, brought
city residents together in a short-term commitment to some larger civic
identity. In the process the celebrants might acquire a cultural cohesion
that would gird them to undertake more costly and difficult public proj-
ects. At the very least public ceremonies allowed vast numbers of citizens
to learn, invent, and practice a common language that could be con-
verted to other civic or political uses. This public record is subject, like
any other, to different readings. It can, in the manner of some symbolic
anthropologists, be seen as the reservoir of a complex but seamless com-
munity identity, a pool reflecting an unproblematic common culture.
But in the three bustling towns under study here, public ceremony is
just as likely to present fractured images, outlines of the distinctive
publics that formed in each city: ethnic contingents who skirmished on
the sidelines of parades, racial minorities who were banished to the back
of the line of marches, women who could be found only back stage or
on the balconies, whole classes who strategically retreated from public
festival. This second part of the investigation is an especially sensitive
measure of the degree of public consciousness among the people. It may
speak either of unity or diversity, harmony or conflict, exclusion or
openness, but it always puts a large and vivid representation of the peo-
ple on or near a public stage. The luxurious ceremonial life of the last
century will at least reveal some of the many possibilities of the urban
civic imagination.16
The ceremonial civic lessons were carried onto the next plane of my
analysis, to a space of more formal and direcdy political public action.
Perhaps the most intense focus of public attention in a nineteenth-
century city was not a promenade or parade, neither casual socializing
nor festive solidarity, but a knock-down-drag-out political contest called
an election campaign. The operating principles of urban politics in 1825
16 Introduction
and after was not an allegiance to some Olympian public good but a
radically democratic procedure, an agreement to disagree. Conventional
wisdom downplays the level of permissible disagreement and tells us
that American electoral procedures compressed the diversity of the peo-
ple into two parties with narrow ideological differences. In these three
cities between 1825 and 1880, however, the voting public was far more
distended than dualistic. Even the most rigid schemes of classifying par-
tisan politics recognize three party systems in less than fifty years—Fed-
eralists and Democratic Republicans, Jacksonians and Whigs, Demo-
crats and Republicans. At the local level the major parties regularly
splintered into contending factions that were joined by an array of seri-
ous and sometimes successful contenders for local power, chief among
them working men, abolitionists, nativists, and municipal reformers. An
investigation of these partisan formations of the public, their ceremonies
and symbols, as well as their platforms and speeches will be a critical test
of the democratic public.
Because neither elections nor city council meetings ever enrolled all
the people or expressed all public needs, it is also necessary to be atten-
tive to the many occasions when politics spilled into the streets, in less
than civil ways. Vociferous, often violent crowds took regularly to the
streets of New York, New Orleans, and San Francisco to articulate inter-
ests, opinions, and demands that had not been heard in the more formal
arenas of political discourse and decision making. Although the rioting
public included relatively large cross sections of the urban population, it
was more likely than a civic ceremony or a political party to enroll the
more disorganized populations—the poor, unenfranchised, women,
racial minorities, underrepresented peoples. In addition to functioning
as an active part of the public, these urban crowds broke the silence of
the formal public about certain issues and certain citizens: They are es-
sential reminders that the democratic procedures of the nineteenth cen-
tury consulted and enacted the will of only some people.
Much of the heterogeneity of the democratic public was washed out
when established governments took action in the name of the whole
polity. In the end only a few of the infinite matters of public relevance
(or, in Dewey's terms, indirect consequences) reached city hall. Groups
such as racial minorities and women seldom were able to place issues of
greatest concern to them on the public agenda, much less translate them
into public policy. Accordingly, any attempt to retrace the steps whereby
people discovered the public must move beyond the space of discourse,
demonstration, and contention to consider public decisions and public
 Introduction 17

policies. At this final plane of analysis the discrepancy between the public
and the people will appear once again and in boldest relief, inscribed in
the limited number of issues, interests, and public goods that culmi-
nated in government actions.
In fact the range of municipal actions in the nineteenth century was
relatively small, and extremely hesitant: from partial responsibility for
street improvements, to private contracting of major services such as the
water supply, and occasionally a major investment in civic improvement
such as a municipal hall or grand park. Although a number of historians
have shown how antebellum cities were busy staging grounds of differ-
ent public interests, they had a very small set of public programs and ser-
vices to show for themselves. There is still little reason to expect that
these three cities managed to disprove Sam Bass Warner's interpretation
of nineteenth-century urban history as the domain of the private city.
Too often the machinations of the capitalist market, rather than demo-
cratic deliberations, were left to determine the public good. During and
after the Civil War, furthermore, military force, governmental bureau-
cracy, and corporate franchises became larger forces in municipal life,
posing a potential threat to democratic freedoms, without necessarily
promising to distribute the beneficence of government to all the people.
One should not expect a simple story of triumphant public democracy in
the pages ahead.
The meaning of civic life in these three cities almost 170 years ago, as
today, was confusing and contradictory. Was it possible for so diverse a
people, with such different beliefs and competing interests, to mold
themselves into one public, even a harmonious circle of publics? Would
the decentralized practices of democratic associations create pandemo-
nium or a working coalition? Can a public composed of men and
women separated by their different resources and flagrant inequities op-
erate in a truly democratic manner? Can (must) democracy attempt to
moderate inequality? Could democratic politics meet the needs of so
many people living so closely together and yet often so culturally and
politically apart? Can government administer to public needs without
jeopardizing individual freedoms?
To address these basic questions I adopted a mundane empirical strat-
egy that can be quickly recapitulated. After parting with the lofty aspira-
tions of political philosophers who sought an Apollonian public realm, I
come down to earth to explore the associated democratic practices of
specific places. My research plan then takes on a tidy trinitarian shape.
To explore a full range of civic possibilities, I set my story in three differ-
18 Introduction
ent cities, each chosen to test the fiber of democracy under the most ri-
otously heterogeneous social conditions. Convinced that the quality of
civic life could not be measured or explained within the narrow com-
partments of historical specializations, I proceed on three planes of in-
vestigation—the social, the cultural, and the political. I have plotted the
history of the democratic public in an old-fashioned, linear narrative,
told from a single but hardly omniscient vantage point. Eschewing a
more fashionable posture, such as telling multiple or open-ended sto-
ries, I have indulged an irrepressible urge to make my own sense of
things and thereby give the reader a firm and fallible position to contest
against. (Such straightforward contention can be a useful mode of dis-
course in a democracy.) The narrative is divided just as predictably into
three parts. Part one describes the creation of a robust democratic politi-
cal culture between the approximate dates of 1825 and 1850: It builds up
from the first chapter on city space, to a second describing civic cere-
monies, to a third addressing politics in the conventional sense but as
conducted both inside and outside the electoral and legislative arenas.
Part two is but one chapter that recounts how, around the time of the
Civil War, the municipal public exploded into quite uncivil warfare. Part
three also contains three uneasy chapters that detail a sequence of critical
alterations in the organization of city space, culture, and politics. By its
termination, in the year 1880, civic life had quieted down significandy
and had been reshaped in some fundamental (not always democratic)
ways.
But in New York, New Orleans, and San Francisco the tidy plan ran
amuck and created some major disorder. Writing urban history, much
like touching down in a busy city street, can be a delightfully disorient-
ing experience. Early in the story the civic center splinters into a kaleido-
scope of urban associations. Soon thereafter, and even before the out-
break of the Civil War, segments of the public went to war with one
another. By the end of part three, which reaches the year 1880, this ac-
count of municipal life will have earned and maintained its new tide,
"Civic Wars." Running through the whole story of democracy in the city
is a spirit of public contention, which I will first report and then, in the
conclusion, attempt to come to terms with, if not explain. For now I
will only say that I have come to believe that the often uncivil history
that I am about to describe betokens something of a civic accomplish-
ment. An indelicate balance between civility and belligerence may, in the
last analysis, be a precious contribution of the nineteenth-century city to
American democracy.
 CHAPTER 1

People's Places

V
isiting New York City in 1849, Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley
fumbled for words to capture a place "unlike every city ever be-
held before." That a tourist was bewildered by "the cosmopoli-
tanism" of Gotham and "the extraordinary stir and bustle and tumult of
business going on perpetually" will surprise no one familiar with the
place and its people. But Lady Stuart Wortley did provide one more
original observation about civic life in the second quarter of the nine-
teenth century: In antebellum New York she saw "heterogeneous com-
pounds and kaleidescopical varieties presented at every turn." With these
two awkward pairs of words Lady Stuart Wordey compressed the life of
the city into an image of variety and cohesion—a "heterogeneous com-
pound"—and drew an unstable alliance between diversity and symme-
try—those "kaleidescopical varieties."1
Part one of this book will describe how, in the second quarter of the
nineteenth century, American cities indeed held the complexity and con-
stant movement of urban populations together in an intricate but com-
prehensible and even pleasing whole. Before 1850 those who walked the
busy streets of New York, as well as the lively promenades of New Or-
leans or the rugged pathways of San Francisco, were less likely to express
anxious disorientation, so common in latter-day urban chronicles.
Surely the antebellum city had its detractors, and historians properly
point to growing apprehension of urban danger, especially as midcen-
tury approached.2 But the antiurban bias that has pervaded American
thought for the last century has cast a teleological shadow over a time of

21
22 Heterogeneous Compounds and Kaleidoscopic Varieties

relative urban contentment. My reading of the historical record will, for

the sake of balance, lean in the direction of a more sanguine interpreta-
tion. The people of these three cities managed to construct a mechanism
that brought differences together into a colorful whole, something that
resembled an urban kaleidoscope. This complex social creation was con-
structed from the ground up, on the concrete spaces of the city. These el-
emental building blocks of civic consciousness are the subject of this
chapter, which will describe the particular arrangements of people and
space that supported American democracy during a critical period be-
tween approximately 1825 and 1850.
No one could dispute that by the midpoint of the last century the
cities of New York, New Orleans, and San Francisco were well supplied
with the raw materials from which to construct a kaleidoscope or blend
a compound. The human fragments numbered over half a million in
New York and 110,000 in New Orleans. In each city, including the up-
start settlement of San Francisco, the pieces of the kaleidoscope were
very much in motion. The 35,000 residents whom the census takers
found just within the Golden Gate in 1850 were almost to a man (and a
very rare woman) newcomers to a village only recently claimed from the
Mexicans (and the Spanish and Native Americans just before them). The
city had acquired its name and corporate status only three years before.
Meanwhile, in the relatively ancient cities of New York and New Or-
leans the population had grown fivefold in the two preceding decades.
These two ports were, respectively, the first and second major points of
entry into the United States. New Orleans saw an estimated 188,000 im-
migrants (one and one-half times its official population) pass through its
port in the preceding decade. The diverse origins of these mobile thou-
sands meant that unusually disparate languages, cultures, and peoples
came together in these port cities. Over 40 percent of the residents of
both New York and New Orleans had been born abroad, with the Irish
and Germans constituting the largest immigrant groups. A full majority
of San Franciscans were foreign born as of 1852. The population flowing
into San Francisco and New Orleans was replenished from Asia, the
Caribbean, and South America as well as Europe. Already in 1850 hun-
dreds of immigrants from China were arriving in San Francisco. In New
Orleans the balance between those of European and African descent was
slowly stabilizing after an erratic half-century. In 1820 African Ameri-
cans, free people of color as well as slaves, were a majority in the Cres-
cent City. Thereafter steady migration from the Northern states and
immigration from Europe gave Caucasians the demographic edge, ac-
counting for almost three fourths of the population by 1850. From the
 People's Places 23
perspective of New Orleans natives, the migrants from the Northern
United States were as disruptive a presence as any: Just a few years after
the French-speaking majority of New Orleans voted against enrolling
Louisiana among the United States of America, they found that English
had become the predominant tongue spoken in the city.3 The "Ameri-
can" majority had shallow roots in all antebellum cities. As of 1850 over
55 percent of New Yorkers and New Orleanians had been born out of
state if not out of the country.
These newcomers swept into the city at a time of frenetic economic
expansion that splintered the polity along yet another axis. Social histo-
rians have demonstrated that the decades before 1850 saw the demolition
of the bonds of interdependency that once linked master and servant,
journeymen and apprentice, shopkeepers and clerks into joint house-
holds and under a web of deference and stewardship. It is equally clear
that differences in wealth became more dramatic over the course of the
antebellum period. Yet the shifts in occupational structure did not sort
themselves into clear class divisions. The period between 1825 and 1850
saw both the expansion of independent wage labor and the continuing
predominance of small-shop production. The militant producer con-
sciousness of Anglo-Saxon Protestant artisans waxed its strongest just as
unskilled foreign-born, often Catholic laborers came to dominate the
manual work force. Finally, the whole modcy marketplace was turned
topsy-turvy by the prolonged depression that followed the financial
panic of 1837. In sum the diverse and growing urban economies of these
commercial cities tended to fracture the occupational structure, giving
another bewildering turn to the urban kaleidoscope.4
The populations of these three cities were diverse in national origins,
place of birth, lines of descent, and economic status and were composed
of people who had resided together for only a short time. Such a popu-
lation is unlikely to manifest the coherence of a folk, or common, cul-
ture or a singular and seamless community. Still, this does not mean that
the coresidents of American cities were merely stray atoms strewn across
the urban landscape. At the most basic level they were drawn into rela-
tions with one another by the necessity of sharing densely settled urban
turf. During the second quarter of the century the physical arrangement
of this common ground fostered public sociability and democratic asso-
ciation. Although the antebellum urban plan was a haphazard creation,
to say the least, it was, to use Kevin Lynch's phrase, a readable city: Its
basic spatial organization was clear enough that residents could compre-
hend where they were in relation to the whole urban polity (figs. 1-3).
The social life of antebellum cities flowed along three spatial coordinates,
 «U1JTJCS*

Figure 1. Plan of New Orleans, Louisiana, 1815. Courtesy The Historic New
Orleans Collection, Museum/Research Center.

8. hit «met.
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E AidfbTWi. • S M i S Q l ^ a p i l i B B a i i m
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Figure 2. Map of San Francisco, California, 1853. Courtesy of the Bancroft

Library.
Figure 3. Map of the city of New York. Courtesy of the Bancroft Library.
26 Heterogeneous Compounds and Kaleidoscopic Varieties

which I have labeled centers, sectors, and arteries, that made the city in-
telligible to its inhabitants. After mapping these elements of the antebel-
lum urban plan (all of which are visible in contemporary maps), this
chapter will populate city space with some of the ordinary people who
lived and created a public there.5

Grounding the Public in Space: Centers, Sectors, Arteries

In 1825 the peoples of New York and New Orleans, like the stray settlers
in the village of Yerba Buena that would become San Francisco, still ex-
perienced their urban environment as a meeting place of nature and hu-
manity, of land, water, and flora as well as buildings, pavement, and
fences. Most New Yorkers resided below Fourteenth Street, where the
densely populated but still narrow island bound them to rivers and
bays. Waterfront borders served as recreation in Battery Park on the
west and as a place of work and business on the docks of the East River.
Place names such as Spring Street and Collect Pond still referred to the
natural topography of the island. It was not until almost mid-century
that the island became so densely and extensively settled that New
Yorkers began to notice the absence of green spaces within the city lim-
its. Ground for the first multifamily dwelling unit on the island was not
broken until 1843 (the first proper apartment building would not ap-
pear until late in the 1860s), and even then the skyline was unscathed by
buildings taller than a few stories. But closeness to the natural landscape
and the small scale of construction do not necessarily create a bucolic
habitat. The city of New Orleans, for example, confronted nature in a
particularly abrasive mood. Built below sea level along the curves and
twists of the Mississippi River and just below Lake Pontchartrain and
its tributary swamps, the Crescent City marked the seasons with floods,
torrents, and pestilence. Still, a brisk social life was conducted on
storm-ravished streets and on fortifications against the temperamental
waterways of the Mississippi Delta, especially the Levee, which served
as a major promenade. New Orleanians took it for granted that the
streets would be uninhabitable for much of the year and that epidemics
would rage through the city almost annually. Off San Francisco Bay the
forty-niners defied natural limits as they occupied a piece of bayshore
whose sediments could swallow up their ships, whose steep hills con-
strained their mobility, where winds, fog, and sandstorms obstructed
their view. One early settler dubbed her new home a "city of dust, not
altogether gold dust." The lines on the real estate maps of early San
 People's Places 27
Francisco were a brash fiction superimposed on eroding sand dunes
and a shifting shoreline.6
The locomotive powers of the human body as much as topography
set natural limits on the conquest of urban land. With but a few rail lines
and an occasional omnibus service, both prohibitively expensive, the res-
idents of even the big city of New York knew much of the city in their
very limbs. They could walk through most of it in less than six hours.
Before 1850 only a small vanguard of houses extended very far to the
north along a little-known street unpretentiously named Fifth Avenue.
Downtown, in the heart of the city, the proud municipal center of City
Hall Park and the eyesore of the Five Points slum were within a few
minutes' walk of one another. In New Orleans settlement had grown
both up and down river from the original French and Spanish settle-
ments but not so far that any settled point was more than a short walk
away. The pattern of land use in San Francisco as late as 1850 was ex-
tremely simple to describe: It was a few tents and rough-hewn buildings
clustered around one plaza and just a few feet away from the spot where
the new setders had disembarked on the Pacific shore. Their dry-docked
ships actually served as an early market street.
If the accounts of travelers can be believed, these rather ramshackle
walking cities fostered an easy, ambulatory familiarity with urban space.
In her LettersfromNew York in the late 1840s Lydia Marie Child reports
having sauntered the whole length of the island in a leisurely afternoon
and having spent an evening strolling Broadway and the Bowery with-
out an escort. English visitors such as Lady Stuart Wortley and Mrs.
Trollop might picture crossing the bustling Broadway as a harrowing ad-
venture, but they seemed never to hesitate about making the trip. Local
residents such as Philip Hone, a member of the affluent carriage-owning
set, found it remarkable when he had gone a year without walking on
the Battery. And then he and his wife walked effortlessly for an hour and
a half. A humbler sojourner from Ireland also paced his diary to a pedes-
trian rhythm: "we begin the walking," "take our morning excursion,"
"much walking." Visitors to New Orleans in the 1830s and 1840s were
also forever on the move through expansive patches of city space: a typi-
cal entry in the diary of Thomas Richards, who visited the Crescent City
in 1839, charted his movements from a sidewalk auction sale where he
met a friend, and the two proceeded to "walk together for more than
two hours." Richards seemed to conduct his business while in transit
through the streets and let chance encounters in public spaces set his
daily schedule.7
28 Heterogeneous Compounds and Kaleidoscopic Varieties
Some of the pathways through New York and New Orleans had once
been deliberately planned. Thomas Richards's itinerary through New
Orleans, for example, followed streets that were plotted out many years
before by the French. This plan, designed in 1721 by Adrien de Pauger, is
a good example of the old-world assumptions that set the patterns for
the quotidian peopling of America's walking cities. The French engineer,
appointed by Governor Bienville, surveyed the land along the Missis-
sippi and plotted a rectangular grid of streets hugging the shoreline. For
all the symmetry and order of his plan it did not present a monotonous
and unrelieved web of right angles. The rectangular blocks were
arranged along a combination of broad and narrow streets sloping be-
tween the river and the lake and anchored by a central square. The whole
city plan followed the gende arc of the riverfront. The earliest plans
marked that centering space with the spire of a church. Through periods
of both French and Spanish administration of Louisiana, that central
square and much of the surrounding territory was inscribed with mili-
tary authority: It was called Place d'Armes or Plaza des Armas. A sense of
medieval hierarchy and ecclesiastical authority mingled with the Enlight-
enment rationality of the eighteenth-century plan. The French set St.
Louis Cathedral in the center of the Place and marked nearby streets
with the imperial insignia of fleur de lys.8
It would take more than a century to furnish the Place d'Armes with
the public buildings that made it a complete and enchanting focal point
of urban space. The side of the square across from the river had been
built up in the eighteenth century first with St. Louis Cathedral at its
center, then with the French presbytère (or parish house) on one side, and
finally with the Cabildo (or town hall) on the other side. The latter
structure was erected by the Spanish in 1799 and gave an international
balance to civic space. It was not until the 1840s that this triptych of
colonial architecture was girded to the enterprising spirit of the com-
mercial American city. In that decade the Baroness de Pontalba erected
row houses with shops below on either side of the cathedral block. The
iron galleries, wide verandas, and graceful balconies typical of the Pon-
talba buildings soon became the architectural trademark of the city. The
city council picked up the spirit of improvement, put a new marble face
on the Cabildo, fenced off and landscaped the square into a pedestrian
garden, and added a third story to both the Cabildo and the presbytère,
both of which were designed to echo the style of the Pontalba blocks. As
a consequence New Orleans in 1850 was graced not only with a proper,
 People's Places 29
enclosed city square but also with one of the most gracious public places
in the nation.
By 1850 the Place d'Armes had been rechristened Jackson Square and
the territory surrounding it had already been labeled the Vieux Carré—
the old quarter and relic of the French past. But even as a confident
American culture took hold over the Crescent City in the 1840s the pat-
tern of land use laid down by the French and decorated by Spanish ar-
chitects was maintained. When the Yankees moved upriver across Canal
Street into what quickly became known as the American sector they con-
formed to the street plan that had been established by an eighteenth-
century French planter. American businessmen and politicians pro-
ceeded to erect their own major private and public buildings around a
central square that had been laid out in 1796 and named after Lafayette.
Although Lafayette Square had a distincdy American character and was
built up with banks, Masonic lodges, Protestant churches, and shaded
private residences, all these Yankee institutions were still grouped
around an unmistakable central space and anchored by the same sym-
metrical arrangement of intersecting streets to be found in the French
quarter. When in the 1840s a humbler stock of immigrants, chiefly from
Ireland and Germany, began to settle downriver in the third municipal-
ity they too were reined into a French faubourg. They shared a third cen-
tral plaza, called Washington Square, with many French-speaking resi-
dents, including large numbers of African Americans, both slave and
free. This bookend to Lafayette Square completed the trinity of center-
ing urban spaces that still give a bold spatial definition to New Orleans.9
San Francisco's early history was enacted on a stage set by Spanish
rather than French colonists. The Spanish colonial administration issued
elaborate plans for pueblos in the New World that featured spacious
central plazas and prominent edifices for both secular and ecclesiastical
authorities. Long before the Yankees had been attracted to San Francisco
Bay by visions of gold in the nearby hills, Spanish clerics had planted a
mission on San Francisco Peninsula and Mexican settlers built a pueblo
called Yerba Buena amid the fragrant fields of mint to the north. In lay-
ing out that village in 1835 a representative of newly independent Mex-
ico, Francisco de Haro, created a central space called simply the Plaza.
When Yerba Buena was surveyed by Governor Alvarado four years later,
he further prescribed that houses "be in as good order and arrangement
as possible, in order that the streets and plazas which may be formed
may have from the beginning proper uniformity and harmony." When
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“Come, will you wager something worth the while? Say two cans of
ale.”

“Done! Two cans of ale, it shall be.” And the [13]company betook
themselves to the yard in front of the hut.

It was a frosty autumn evening. The wind chased the clouds over the
sky, and the half moon cast fitful reflections through the breaks over
the neighborhood. In a few minutes a something was seen moving
rapidly along the edge of a thicket on the farther side of a little glade.
The watchman threw his gun carelessly to his shoulder and fired. A
derisive laugh was echo to the report. No mortal, thought they, in
such uncertain light and at such a distance, could shoot a deer in
flight.

The watchman, certain of his game, hastened across the glade,

followed by his companions, to whom the event meant, at least, two
cans of ale.

It would not be easy to picture the surprise of the doubters, when,

upon arriving at the thicket, they discovered, lying upon the ground,
bathed in foam and his tongue hanging from his mouth, a magnificent
stag, pierced through the heart by the deadly bullet, his life blood fast
coloring his bed of autumn leaves a brighter hue.

What unseen power has brought this poor animal from Halland’s
Mountains in a bare half hour? Such were the thoughts of the
watchman’s companions as they retired in silence to the hut.

The watchman received his two cans of ale, but no one seemed
inclined to join him in disposing of them. They now understood with
what sort of a man they were having to do. It was evident to them that
the [14]watchman was in league with the Evil One himself, and they
henceforth guarded themselves carefully against companionship with
him after dark. [15]

1 See also Skåne Gammalt Och Nytt. ↑

[Contents]
 Stompe Pilt.

At a little distance from Baal Mountain, in the parish of Filkestad, in

Willand’s Härad, lies a hill where, formerly, lived a giant named
Stompe Pilt.

It happened one day, that a Goatherd came that way, driving his
goats before him, up the hill.

“Who comes there?” demanded the Giant, rushing out of the hill, with
a large flint stone in his fist, when he discovered the Goatherd.

“It is I, if you will know,” responded the Herder, continuing his way up
the hill with his flock.

“If you come up here I will squeeze you into fragments as I do this
stone,” shrieked the Giant, and crushed the stone between his
fingers into fine sand.

“Then I will squeeze water out of you as I do out of this stone,”

replied the Herder, taking a new-made cheese from his bag and
squeezing it so that the whey ran between his fingers to the ground.

“Are you not afraid?” asked the Giant.

“Not of you,” replied the Herder.

“Then let us fight,” continued Stompe Pilt.

“All right,” responded the Goatherd, “but let us first taunt each other
so that we will become right angry, for taunting will beget anger and
anger will give us cause to fight.”
“Very well, and I will begin,” said the Giant.

“Go ahead, and I will follow you,” said the Herder. [16]

“You shall become a crooked nose hobgoblin,” cried the Giant.

“You shall become a flying devil,” retorted the Herder, and from his
bow shot a sharp arrow into the body of the Giant.

“What is that?” inquired the Giant, endeavoring to pull the arrow from
his flesh.

“That is a taunt,” replied the Herder.

“Why has it feathers?” asked the Giant.

“In order that it may fly straight and rapidly,” answered the Herder.

“Why does it stick so fast?” asked the Giant.

“Because it has taken root in your body,” was the answer.

“Have you more of such?” inquired the Giant.

“There, you have another,” said the Herder, and shot another arrow
into the Giant’s body.

“Aj! aj!” shrieked Stompe Pilt; “are you not angry enough to fight?”

“No, I have not yet taunted you enough,” replied the Herder, setting
an arrow to his bowstring.

“Drive your goats where you will. I can’t endure your taunting, much
less your blows,” shrieked Stompe Pilt, and sprang into the hill again.
Thus the Herder was saved by means of his bravery and ingenuity.
[17]
[Contents]
 The Giant Finn and Lund’s Cathedral. 1

In the days long gone by there lived in Helgonabacken—the Hills of

Helgona—near Lund, a family of giants who one day heard, with
great anxiety and consternation, that a holy man had come into the
country, from Saxony, to build a church to the White Christ.

While Laurentius, such was the holy man’s name, was selecting his
site and laying out the plans for the temple, there stood at his side,
one day, none other than Finn, the giant of Helgonabacken, who
thus addressed him: “Truly the White Christ is a God worthy of such
a temple, and I will build it for you, if, when it is finished, you will tell
me what my name is; but, mark well my condition, oh, wise man, if
you can not tell me, you must give to my little ones the two small
torches—the sun and the moon—that travel yonder over heaven’s
expanse.”

Now, it is so ordered in the giant world that it is of vital importance

the name of the giant should be kept from mankind. Should it be
revealed the giant [18]must die, and man is freed from all obligations
that may have been imposed upon him by compact with the giant.

Laurentius could not reasonably promise so much but anxious to

have the church built, he offered, instead, his eyes, trusting to
fortune to discover to him the giant’s name before the completion of
the church. The giant, satisfied with the bargain, entered at once
upon his work, and with wonderful rapidity the church grew upward.
Soon there remained nothing more to complete it than to set one
stone on the tower.
The day preceding that on which it was expected this last stone
would be put in place Laurentius stood on Helgonabacken in deep
melancholy. It seemed inevitable that he must lose his eyes, and that
he was now taking his last look at the light of heaven and all that had
made the world and life so attractive to him. Next day all would be
darkness and sorrow. During these gloomy reflections he heard the
cry of a child from within the hill, and the voice of the giant mother
endeavoring to quiet it with a song, in which he clearly distinguished
the words: “Silent, silent, little son of mine, morning will bring your
father Finn, with either moon and sun or the priest Laurentius’ eyes.”

Beside himself with joy, Laurentius hastened to the church. “Come

down, Finn!” he cried, “the stone that now remains we ourselves can
set—come down, Finn, we no longer need your help!”

Foaming with rage, the Giant rushed from the tower to the ground,
and laying hold of one of the pillars tried to pull the church down. At
this instant his wife with her child joined him. She, too, [19]grasped a
pillar and would help her husband in the work of destruction, but just
as the building was tottering to the point of falling, they were both
turned to stones, and there they lie to-day, each embracing a pillar.
[20]

1 Similar legends are connected with a number of our churches, as the cathedral
of Trondhjem, where the Troll is called “Skalle.” Also with Eskellsätter’s church
in the department of Näs in Vermland, where the giant architect is called Kinn, who
fell from the tower when the priest Eskil called, “Kinn, set the point right!” Again,
with a church in Norrland, where the Troll is called “Wind and Weather,” and
concerning whom the legend relates “that just as the giant was putting up the
cross, St. Olof said ‘Wind and Weather you have set the spire awry.’” Of the church
at Kallundborg in Själland, whose designer, Ebern Snare, it is said, entered into a
contract much the same as that made with the Giant Finn by the holy Laurentius. ↑
[Contents]
 The Lord of Rosendal. 1

In the beginning of the Sixteenth Century there lived in Skåne a

nobleman, Andres Bille, Lord of [21]Rosendal, who was very severe
toward his dependents, and it was not unusual that a disobedient
servant was put in chains, and even into the castle dungeons.

One day Bille’s intended made a visit to Rosendal. Upon entering the
court-yard almost the first object that attracted her attention was a
peasant tethered like a horse. She inquiring as to the cause of such
treatment, Bille informed her that the servant had come late to work,
and was now suffering only well-merited punishment. The young
woman begged Bille to set the man at liberty, but this he refused to
do, and told her, emphatically, that she must not interpose in his
affairs.

“When the intended wife,” said the young lady, as she returned to
her carriage, “is refused a boon so small, what will be the fate of the
wife?” and thereupon she commanded her coachman to drive her
home at once, and resolved to come no more to Rosendal.

People predicted that such a heartless man could not possibly be at

rest in his grave, and true to the prediction, Bille, after his death and
burial, came every night, in spirit, to Rosendal. Halting his white
team in the court-yard, with stealthy steps he would make his way to
his former bed-chamber where he would spend the night until cock-
crow. If the bed had been prepared all was quiet in the chamber,
otherwise such a dreadful noise followed that there was no such
thing as sleep in the castle. Always, upon going to the room in the
morning, the bed clothes were found tossed about and soiled as if a
dog had occupied the bed.
When the specter had gone on in this manner for a [22]number of
years, the new owner of the estate applied to a pious priest in
Hässlunda, Master Steffan, and begged him to put a stop to these
troublesome visits. To this end the priest, one day, accompanied by a
fellow priest, set out for Kropp’s Church, where Bille was buried. On
the stroke of 12 o’clock, midnight, the grave opened and the ghost of
the dead lord stepped forth. Father Steffan’s companion at once took
to his heels, but Father Steffan remained and began to read from a
book he had with him. During the reading the ghost became larger
and larger, but the priest would not be frightened. Finally the
apparition interrupted the reading and addressed the priest.

“Is that you, Steffan, the goose thief?”

“It is, indeed, I,” replied the priest, “and it is true that in my boyhood I
stole a goose, but with the money received for the goose I bought a
Bible, and with that Bible I will send you to hell, you evil spirit.”
Whereupon he struck the specter such a blow on the forehead with
the Bible that it sank again into purgatory.

Unfortunately, because of the truth of Bille’s accusation and that it

came from Bille, the priest’s prayers and reading lost much of
potency, and he was unable to enforce upon the ghost entire
quietude. Nevertheless, so much was accomplished that Bille now
comes to Rosendal only once a year. [23]

1 See G. Lundgren’s Skanska Herrgårdar, Vol. I. ↑

[Contents]
 The Master of Ugerup. 1

In the parish of Köpinge, on the northern bank of a stream which, a

short distance below Lake Helga, flows into the river Helga, lies an
old mansion, Ugerup or Ugarp, known in early days as the seat of
the Ugerup family, famous in the history of Denmark.

In the middle of the Sixteenth Century the estate was owned by

Senator Axel Ugerup. On the Näs estate, a few miles distant, dwelt
the wealthy Tage Thott, at that time one of the richest men in Skåne.

Herr Arild, Alex Ugerup’s son, and Thale, Tage Thott’s fair daughter,
had, it may be said, grown up together, and even in childhood, had
conceived a strong love for each other.

When Arild was yet a young man he was made [24]embassador to

Sweden by the Danish Government, in which capacity he took part in
the coronation of Erik XIV. Upon his return to Ugerup he renewed his
attentions to his boyhood’s love, and without difficulty obtained her
consent and that of her parents to a union.

Not long thereafter war broke out between Sweden and Denmark.
With anxiety and distress the lovers heard the call to arms. The
flower of Danish knighthood hastened to place themselves under the
ensign of their country, where even for Arild Ugerup a place was
prepared. At leave taking the lovers promised each other eternal
fidelity, and Arild was soon in Copenhagen, where he was given a
position in the navy.

In the beginning the Danes met with some success, but soon the
tables were turned. At Öland Klas Kristenson Horn defeated the
united Danish and Leibich flotillas, capturing three ships, with their
crews and belongings. Among the captured was Arild Ugerup, who
was carried, a prisoner, to Stockholm, where three short years
before he was an honored visitor and won his knightly spurs.

The friends of Arild entertained little hope that they would ever see
him again, and his rivals for the hand of Thale persistently renewed
their suits. Tage Thott, who saw his daughter decline the attentions
of one lover after another, decided, finally, that this conduct must not
continue, and made known to his daughter that she must choose a
husband from among the many available and desirable young men
seeking [25]her hand. Thale took this announcement very much to
heart, but her prayers and tears were without avail. Spring
succeeded winter and no Arild came. Meanwhile, the unrelenting
father had made a choice and fixed upon a day when the union
should take place.

During this time Arild, languishing in his prison, busied his brain in
the effort to find some means of escape, but plan after plan was
rejected as impracticable, until it occurred to him to make use of his
rank and acquaintance with the King. So, not long thereafter, he sent
to King Erik a petition, asking permission to go home on parole, for
the purpose of solemnizing his wedding, also to be permitted to
remain long enough in Ugerup to sow and gather his crops. The King
readily granted his petition, since Arild promised, on his knightly
honor, to return to his confinement as soon as his harvest was ripe.

He at once hastened to Skåne where he was not long in learning

what had transpired during his absence, and that Thale, at her
father’s bidding, was about to be wedded to another. Continuing his
journey to Näs, where his arrival caused both rejoicing and
consternation, he presented himself to Tage and demanded Thale to
wife, as had been promised him. Knight Tage, however, would not
listen to such a thing as a change from his plans, and declared firmly
that his daughter should belong to him whom he had selected for
her, but Arild made a speedy end to the trouble. By strategy, he
carried his bride away in secret to Denmark, where they were shortly
afterward married. Tage, outwitted, made the best of the matter and
[26]accepted the situation, whereupon Arild and his wife returned to
Ugerup.

Arild now had time to think about his promise to the King, and how
he might, at the same time, keep it and not be separated from his
wife. It would now profit to sow seeds that would not mature soon, so
the fields that had heretofore been devoted to corn were planted with
the seeds of the pine tree.

When the autumn had passed, and the King thought the harvest
must, by this time, have been gathered, he sent Arild a request to
come to Stockholm. But Arild convinced the messenger that his
seeds had not yet sprouted, much less ripened.

When King Erik was made acquainted with the state of affairs, he
could do no less than approve the ingenious method adopted by
Arild to obtain his freedom without breaking his word, and allowed
the matter to rest.

The product of Arild’s pine seeds is now shown in a magnificent

forest at Ugerup.

Many other stories are told in Skåne about Arild Ugerup and his wife.
Among others, it is related of the former that he was endowed with
marvelous strength, and that in the arch of the gateway opening into
the estate was a pair of iron hooks, which, when coming home from
Helsingborg, Arild was wont to catch hold of, and lift himself and
horse together some distance off the ground, after which little
exercise he would ride on.
His wife, Thale, was, like her husband, very strong, very good and
benevolent, likewise very generous [27]toward her dependents. A
story is told of her, that one mid-summer evening, when the servants
of the estate were gathered on the green for a dance, she requested
her husband to give the people as much food and drink as she could
carry at one load, and her request being, of course, granted, she
piled up two great heaps of beef, pork and bread, which, with two
barrels of ale, one under each arm, she carried out onto the green,
with ease. [28]

1 Arild Ugerup, the character in chief of this legend, was born in the year 1528 in
the castle of Sölversborg, where his father, Axel Ugerup, was master. When the
son had passed through the parochial school of Herrevad, and had attained to the
age of manhood, he marched, with others, to guard the old Kristian Tyrann in
Kallundborg castle. Some years later he was sent as Danish embassador, to be
present at the crowning of King Erik XIV., when he was made Knight of the Order
of St. Salvador. Later he was sent as envoy to the Russian court, and in 1587 was
raised to Lord of Helsingborg, where he died in 1587, and was buried in Ugerup
(now Köpinge) church.
Another legend, in which the seeds of the pine tree were sown, comes from
Östergötland. A lady of the nobility, living in Sölberga, had a son, who, in the battle
of Stångebro took sides with King Sigismund, and when the battle was lost had to
fly the country. The aged mother mourned deeply over her son’s absence, and
besieged Duke Karl with prayers to allow her misguided son to return home, to
make her a visit, at least.
At last he was granted permission to return and visit his mother until—the order
read, “The next harvest.” Whereupon the mother sowed pine seeds on the fields of
Sölberg, which accounts for the uncommonly fine forests of pine even now existing
on the estate. ↑
[Contents]