Calendar plate, 1909

It’s almost time to say goodbye to 2011, and hello to 1909!

This 8.25″ diameter calendar plate, “Compliments of W. Hicks, Rockville, Md.,” was given or sold by Washington Hicks, owner of a general store in downtown Rockville, 104 years ago. 

Calendar plates have been made since the late 19th century, and are still produced today (though in my experience, modern freebie advertising calendars tend to be paper, not ceramic).  They were particularly popular as an advertising medium in the early 20th century; a search of the internet, or your local collectibles/antiques store, reveals many such plates, with their pleasant images, useful (if often extremely small) calendar markings, and an added “Compliments of…” inscription.  The history of our plate between leaving Mr. Hicks’ store and arriving at the Society (donated by Mrs. Merritt Techter) is unknown, but the wear marks indicate that it was used as a plate, not as a decoration (though perhaps it did spend a year serving as a functional calendar).

Washington Hicks operated his general or dry goods store in Rockville from the late 19th century until 1940 – hey, when you’re 90 years old, I guess you can retire (he died in 1944).  His son W. Guy Hicks continued to run the store until his own retirement in the late 1950s.  We have a few other odds and ends from the store, including letterhead from the 1900s proclaiming Hicks to be a “Dealer in Foreign and Domestic Dry Good, Notions.”  The photo below shows the storefront in 1910; signs above the door advertise “Dry Goods, Notions, Shoes, Clothing, Etc.  Crockeries, Queensware, Hardware,” and displayed outside are rakes, wash tubs, a lawnmower, and what I think might be ice cream makers. 

Charles Brewer collection, MCHS Library

 

Teacup and bread plate, 1919-1921

Today’s artifacts, a ceramic teacup and bread plate, come from the National Park Seminary (NPS), a late 19th – early 20th century girls’ school in Forest Glen. Both pieces are marked in gold with the Greek letters Chi Psi Upsilon. The bread plate is stamped on the reverse with the maker’s mark for Warwick China Co. of Wheeling, WV (1887-1951). They were donated to MCHS by Helen Gruver Kline, NPS class of 1921.

The Seminary is one of those Montgomery County places that bring just a hint of mystery to the landscape. In this case, the mystery tends to be either “What is that fancy, old-looking building you can see from the Beltway?” or “Did we really just drive past a pagoda?” The short answers are: 1) A fancy hotel/school/condo development, and 2) Yes. As for the long answers…

The first building at NPS was actually a resort hotel, Ye Forest Inne, built in 1887 to take advantage of the county’s new suburban railway. Many of these railroad hotels prospered, but the Forest Inne did not. It was purchased by Dr. and Mrs. Cassedy, experienced educators who opened the National Park Seminary, an elite girls’ preparatory school, on the site in 1894. Over the years additional dormitories, classroom buildings, and clubhouses (more on that in a bit) were built in and around the glen. The hilly, wooded landscape was dotted with picturesque bridges, romantic statuary, and elaborate architecture. Students came from across the country to take advantage of the school’s much-touted proximity to the culture and society of the Nation’s Capital.

The clubs, or sororities, at NPS were a unique feature – or, as the 1920-21 catalog phrased it, “peculiar and original with this school.” For one thing, they were not associated with national sororities; they were social clubs, with voluntary membership (no recruitment or hazing), created by the students and faculty to promote sociability, congeniality and the development of life skills. For another thing, each group’s clubhouse was built in a distinctive style. Thus a stroll through the NPS campus takes you past a Dutch windmill, a Swiss cottage, a “Spanish mission,” an English Colonial house, a bungalow, a “castle,” and, yes, a “Japanese” pagoda.

The Japanese Clubhouse pagoda was built in 1905 – in a style that veers a little more toward Chinese than Japanese, but what can you do. (Interestingly, the name was changed to the Chinese Pagoda during World War II.) It was home to the Chi Psi Upsilon club/sorority, and our teacup and plate were used here. I haven’t found a list of the club’s membership, but presumably our donor belonged to “Chi Psi U” during her years at NPS. (The 1920-21 school catalog does list Helen Russell Gruver of Washington D.C. amongst the registered students, but club affiliation is not inculded.) We have a nice assortment of catalogs, viewbooks, yearbooks, photo albums and scrapbooks in our library collections, allowing me to trace a little of the clubhouse history over time, but in the interest of brevity – or such brevity as I can muster – the images and text here come from the 1920-21 catalog/prospectus for potential and incoming students.

The broad purpose of the club system is summed up next to some of the photographs of the “artistically beautiful” houses: “The Clubs mean the sub-division of the school into small families with the mother-relation sustained in each. . . . A Student’s retreat for rest and recreation. A club girl learns how to work in organization; how to respond to the needs of community life; how to render efficient social service; how to be a companionable woman.” And finally, in case you, as a parent of a potential student, are still not convinced that it is worth the time and money to send June/Dorothy/Helen/Marian to school: “A companionable woman makes the best wife and mother.”

(Please don’t think I’m making fun of the school, its administration or its students – I’m not! The ins and outs, whys and wherefores of women’s education throughout history is fascinating to me, and I love NPS. A lot of very positive things came out of schools such as this one, and if convincing Mother and Father that an NPS education was the surest ticket to a good marriage with a diplomat’s son was the way to get things done, so be it.  I do my best to remember that the work of people like the Cassedys and Mrs. Kline gave Modern Me the space, distance and opportunity to be a teeny bit sneery.)

And what happened to the school? Well, to make a long story short, the campus was bought by the US Army early in World War II, and became the Walter Reed Hospital Annex; for many years, the classrooms, dormitories and grand spaces once occupied by young women were occupied instead by convalescing soldiers. Over the years the various structures fell into disrepair, and in the late 1980s members of the surrounding community formed Save Our Seminary, a group dedicated to finding new uses for the old buildings. Happily for those of us who love a bit of architectural variety in our suburbia, the remaining dorms, classrooms, clubhouses and support structures are in the midst of a major renovation. You can – if you choose and are able – live in the Seminary. (But I’m sorry, I believe the Pagoda has already been purchased!)

For more information – since here I have blithely whipped through 100+ years of the school’s history, and have hardly done it justice – please visit the Save Our Seminary site, or this site, created a few years ago by an NPS fan.

 

The Little Things

It’s A Fine Collection’s second anniversary, which means our readers should be sending me/the blog some cotton (for you traditionalists) or china (as the “modern” choice).  While I await all those packages, here are some cotton, china and other artifacts for you, dear readers.

Today’s post is all about the details, the visual ones.  Since our museums are chock full of artifacts, and we discourage our visitors from crawling around on the floor with a magnifying glass, some of the finer points of the pieces on display can be lost in the shuffle.  Here are a few close-up views to whet your appetite; next time you visit, keep an eye out for these and other hidden gems!  (And if any of these strike your fancy, let me know you’d like a full post on the object and I’ll try to oblige.)

Red-and-black patterned cotton fabric on the late 19th century “Log Cabin” quilt in the slaves’ room.

One of the images on the Flow Blue ceramic pitcher in the bedroom.

A brass paw on the dining room fireplace fender, early 19^th century.

Close-up of the painted designs on the circa 1805 tall-case clock in the front hall.

And a (not necessarily very difficult) mystery for you: Can you identify the location of this woman? [She's on our campus in Rockville - don't worry, it's not a county-wide search.]

 

Teapot and chocolate pot, circa 1900

In last week’s coffee pot post, I mentioned the differences between pots for tea, coffee and chocolate. A reader requested further information on chocolate pots, so today we have a chocolate pot for him, plus a teapot for one of my coworkers – thus completing a Breakfast Beverage Trifecta. (We’ll leave orange juice, ale and other morning drinks out of the picture for now.)

Seven inches tall.

First, my favorite teapot, which features the owner’s monogram (for you, Liz!). This brown-glazed pot was given as a wedding present to Julia Prout Vinson, who married George Minor Anderson on November 19^th, 1901. Both bride and groom were from prominent Rockville families; their Anderson descendants donated the teapot to the Society. The relatively plain pot (maker unknown) is made elegant by the addition of silver chains and bands, which attach an elaborate silver “JPV,” the bride’s initials*, to the body. Inside, a white ceramic tea infuser fastens to the underside of the lid, avoiding the need for extra strainers or the like.

Ten inches tall.

Next, a chocolate pot, circa 1890-95. Donated by Jean Krumm, its original history is unknown, but it is somewhat local; the bottom is stamped “Haviland & Co., Limoges, for Charles R. Edmonston, Washington D.C.” Mr. Edmonston can be found in the 1900 D.C. directory, listed as a merchant of china, glassware and crockery at 1205 Pennsylvania Avenue. Limoges helped popularize this vessel form in the late 19^th century. Chocolate pots are tall, to accommodate a stirring stick, and are often part of their own porcelain set complete with matching cups and saucers. Using designated pots for each beverage keeps flavors and odors from mixing (and prevents the hostess from pouring the wrong drink).

There are no hard and fast rules; there are tall teapots, and short chocolate pots. But generally speaking, teapots are short and squat; coffeepots are tall with long spouts; chocolate pots are tall with shorter, pitcher-like spouts. (There are differences between the kinds of cups for each beverage, too.) For a nice tea/coffee comparison, here’s a complete tea set from the 1896 Marshall Field & Co. catalog; note that the teapot (left) is a smidgen shorter than the coffee pot, though otherwise they’re almost exactly the same (to make a matched set).

In other cases, particularly earlier in the 19^th century, coffee and chocolate pots are more similar to each other than to teapots; here’s an article from Colonial Williamsburg talking about some 18^th century examples. Alas, we don’t have anything that early in our collections here.

* When I first came to work here, the fact that all of Julia Anderson’s wedding gifts featured her maiden name threw me for a loop. Fortunately I was set straight by our volunteers, who kindly did not express too much dismay at my etiquette ignorance. As The Social Mirror, an 1888 advice book, informs us, “Presents sent to the bride, if marked, bear her maiden name or initials.”

 

Coffee pot, 1850s

Today’s post is inspired by nothing more than the fact that my morning coffee has not yet kicked in, and I had nothing particular planned for this week’s blog.  So here’s one of my favorite pieces, aesthetically speaking: a transferware coffee pot from the 1850s.

Why coffee and not tea?  Coffee pots are usually taller and narrower than their shorter, squatter tea companions (though not as tall and narrow as chocolate pots).  This lovely example has an octagonally shaped ironstone body; the transferred image is nicely applied, not sloppy; the pot is in good condition, other than a few stains and a missing finial on the lid.  Although it is unsigned and unmarked, the pattern has been identified as “Medina,” and it was almost certainly made in Staffordshire, England, possibly by Cotton & Barlow. 

The pot’s ownership history is similarly vague; it was donated in 1968 by Mrs. William Brooke (Vaudia Braddock) Edmonston, with no accompanying details.  Mrs. Edmonston was descended from the Braddocks, a long-time Rockville family; her husband, though I haven’t yet tracked down his history, is almost certainly one of the local Edmonstons.  In the 1930s and 1940s, W.B. and Vaudia lived in the Halpine area of Rockville.  We can guess that the coffee pot was used by the Braddocks or the Edmonstons in 19th century Montgomery County, and possibly by the donor and her husband in 20th century Rockville . . . or maybe Mrs. Edmonston, like me, loved transferware, and bought this at an antique store.

 

Platter, early-mid 19th century

This is a transferware platter, in an unknown pattern, that belonged to James MacKall Dawson (1775-1867) and his wife Annie Allnutt Dawson(1779-1854).  They lived in a home called “Mother’s Delight” in Dawsonville.  (James was the uncle of “our” John Dawson, who lived with his wife Amelia at the Beall-Dawson House, now our historic house museum.)  It was donated by Ellen Allnutt Elgin.

In 1781, English potter Josiah Spode introduced underglaze transfer printing to a public always hungry for new styles and fashions. Transfer printing, as opposed to hand painting each piece, was an economical way to create highly decorated ceramics. Designs were engraved onto copper plates, and a print was made onto treated tissue paper, which was then pressed onto the ceramic body. The piece was fired, sealing in the ink, and then glazed. By 1833, hundreds of different designs in this style were created by English potters, mainly in the Staffordshire area. Many designs featured Oriental scenes of pagodas and the like, but images reminiscent of Turkey, India, Italy and other ‘exotic’ locales were also popular (the Dawson platter shows a Mediterranean-looking house). This was part of the Romantic Movement (late 18^th through mid 19^th century), which emphasized emotion over thought and idealized the natural landscape. 

This platter is an example of how irritating it can be when there’s no maker’s mark.   Our volunteer curator for the glass and ceramics collection was unable to identify the pattern or maker (if anyone reading this blog has a thought, let me know).  One of these days I’ll check for inventories from “Mother’s Delight,” although the likelihood of the inventory taker conveniently noting “Transferware platter made by [X] in the pattern of [Y]” is pretty slim (darn those inventory takers!) – I’ll be lucky to find any kind of platter at all.  On the other hand, it’s a lovely piece (I’m personally quite fond of green transferware) and we have a great provenance for it, so who am I to complain about inexpensive potteries neglecting to mark their work?