Tag Archives: great houses

An Abandoned House

I find old abandoned houses captivating, and there is one in Salem that is particularly so.  The 1807 house off Federal Street has so much going for it:  its size, scale, and elegant transitional stature, its generous lot, its location, on a shady traffic-free court bordered by the Ropes Mansion Garden, and its overall sense of (faded) grandeur.  But it is abandoned—or is it?  This summer, the garden was cropped for the first time I can recall, and a building permit appeared in a dusty downstairs window.  Signs of hope for this old house.

I don’t know much about the history of this house, but almost from the moment I came to Salem I heard an interesting anecdote about it.  In the late 1970s, while the Merchant-Ivory film The Europeans was being filmed in the adjacent garden over which the house overlooks, its owner placed anachronistic twentieth-century electronic items in each window in a rather overt protest against the disturbances of filming the mid-nineteenth century period piece.  This story has become an urban legend and it is just that.  Last night, Turner Classic Movies aired The Europeans and I saw it for the first time, including the radio-free and television-free windows of our abandoned house, behind Lee Remick in the garden.


Late July, Downtown Salem

For the last weekend in July, a few photographs taken during a leisurely stroll downtown on an absolutely beautiful day; the heat had broken and everyone was out and about, thankful to be out of their air-conditioner-enforced seclusion.  I started on Front Street, where there are so many great shops, and then made my way towards the House of the Seven Gables off Derby Street and then back to the McIntire Historic District along Essex Street.  It was not supposed to be an architectural excursion, it was supposed to be a day for flower boxes and streets scenes, but (as usual, in Salem) I couldn’t help myself.

Front Street window boxes, and fabric topiaries in the window of MarketPlace Quilts.

Work on one of the gables at the House of the Seven Gables, a much-photographed entrance with its summer louvered door, two window boxes on Turner Street (I like the nautical ropes supporting the second one), and one of my favorite houses, a Greek Revival cottage across from the Gables which looks like it has its own adjacent summer house.

Speaking of summer houses, the ultimate:  the Samuel McIntire-designed Derby-Beebe summer house in the center of the Peabody Essex Museum campus.  Amazing McIntire detail lavished on single-room seasonal  structure!  I was trying to be creative with the last shot and capture three windows, but I got a car and the house across the street as well.  The other McIntire/Derby summer house, larger and even more ornate, was originally situated at Elias Hasket Derby’s farm on Lafayette Street and moved to Glen Magna Farm in nearby Danvers in 1901.

Random scenes on and around Essex Street:  a very patriotic window and a very classical border, a Salem pedicab(by) takes a break, lunch in the Japanese garden of the Peabody Essex Museum. 


Cars at the Codman Estate

I went out to Historic New England’s Codman Estate in Lincoln, Massachusetts this weekend to view what must have been hundreds of antique automobiles parked in its surrounding fields.  As all of you in this area know, Sunday was a hot and bright day, and all that chrome seemed to make it hotter and brighter!  I liked the juxtaposition of the twentieth-century cars with the eighteenth-century house; the Codman house, alternatively known as “The Grange”, was built around 1740 but considerably altered in the 1790s, so that it looks like a proper (though a bit boxy) Salem Federal house to an amateur architectural historian such as myself.

I am sorry to disappoint antique automobile aficionados, but I arrived a bit late and wanted to take as many photographs as possible so I didn’t gather that much information about the cars.  This is really a shame, as their owners (all men, as far as I could tell) were extremely eager to tell onlookers all about them—both the history of the car and their history with the car.  I wish I had had more time to hear every car tale.  For the most part, except for a few Jaguars and MGs, this was an American car meet-up:  all models of Fords, Studebakers, Hudsons, Packards, Cadillacs. Lots of trucks!  I did see a few original Beetles, but the only older BMW was decidedly late for the party and turned away.

Not a great picture, but very representative of the day:  great variety and gleaming chrome.

I kept checking back, but I never saw this guy, only his legs.

  For some reason, I was particularly taken with all the trucks on display. Vintage trucks are so much more attractive than the behemoths on the road today! This early REO truck got a lot of attention (I liked its wheels).


Lots of big, LONG mid-century American cars, both convertibles and hard-tops.  The Thunderbirds seemed particularly numerous and beautiful, both inside and out.

My very favorite (despite Mr. Nader), the Corvair, and a perfect Packard.


Lady Pepperell and Her House

On our way up to York Harbor last week we stopped at one of my very favorite houses, the Lady Pepperell House in Kittery Point.  I can’t remember when I first saw this house, but by my teens I was biking over from York to gaze at it and sneak around the grounds.  It just seemed so effortlessly elegant and graceful, when compared to both the colonial architecture of York Village and the Victorian cottages of York Harbor.  We didn’t have to sneak around this time, as the owner graciously let us walk around the grounds and take some photographs.

Dolphins over the front door!

The house was built in 1760 by the newly-widowed Lady Mary Hirst Pepperell, and its architectural history has already been carefully recounted by The Down East Dilettante.  Actually I find myself a bit more interested in the lady than the house at this point in my life, for some reason.  Lady Mary appears to have been a woman who was surrounded by very powerful and ambitious men all her life, until the latter part, when she clearly lived life on her own terms.  She also had solid Salem connections:  her paternal grandfather William Hirst was a prosperous Salem planter and her maternal grandfather, the diarist and Judge Samuel Sewall, was on the bench during the Witch Trials.  Her father, Grove Hirst, apparently made a fortune as a Boston merchant, making her a very good catch for her husband, the up-and-coming William Pepperell, also a successful merchant (out of Kittery, then part of Massachusetts) who would go on to reap military and noble honors after he organized and led the New England expedition that captured the French garrison at Louisbourg on Cape Breton Island in 1745 and became the first colonial Baronet shortly thereafter.  And so Mary became a Lady, although many references establish that her privileged Boston background and education had already made her one.

Two of Mary’s and William’s four children died in infancy, prompting her to write the poignant poem A Lamentation &c. On the Death of a Child.  Their son Andrew died in early adulthood, leaving only one surviving child, Elizabeth Pepperell Sparhawk.  Shortly after Sir William’s appointment as acting Governor of Massachusetts and Lieutenant General in 1759, he too died, leaving Mary a very wealthy widow.  She left the older Pepperell family homestead in Kittery to her grandson (who was made heir to the residue of the Pepperell fortune with the condition that abandon the surname of his birth, Sparhawk, for Pepperell) and promptly built her Georgian mansion.  When the War of Independence began 15 years later, the conspicuous Tory William Sparhawk Pepperell fled America for Britain (where he was rewarded with a new Baronet title) but his grandmother “weathered the storms of Revolution” at her home.  Mary Hirst Pepperell died in 1789, with the New England Gazetteer noting a few years later that her natural and acquired powers were said to be very respectable, and she was much admired for her wit and sweetness of manners.

A few images of Lady Pepperell and her house from Everett Schermerhorn Stackpole’s Old Kittery and her Families (1903), and two early nineteenth-century views of the house from the Detroit Publishing Company (Library of Congress) and Illustrated Memories of Portsmouth, York, York Harbor, York Beach, Kittery, Isles of Shoals, New Castle, and Rye (after 1900):


Diminutive Dwellings

Salem is primarily known for its grand Federal mansions, but there are lots of amazing smaller houses in the city as well.  I’m fortunate to live in quite a big house, but it has a small apartment attached to it, and at various times in my life when things were chaotic or complex or troubling I just wanted to shut the big house up and seek sanctuary in the tiny flat, where everything is small-scaled, compartmentalized, and manageable. There’s a whimsical, dollhouse-like, Alice-in-wonderland quality to the apartment, but of course I’ve never lived there, and as we have a very nice tenant I can’t just take up residence on a whim.

There are several small houses in Salem  that evoke similar feelings of simplicity through scale, and they have lots of charming (primarily Dutch) details to boot.  The first house below, built around the time of the American Revolution, is located just off Federal Street in the McIntire Historic District, and the other two nineteenth-century houses are located off Derby Street.

These are pretty tiny houses, with a very small footprint and perhaps one or two rooms on each floor (I cheated a bit with the last one, which has an addition).  In some future post I’ll showcase small old houses (which Salem has in abundance, particularly Georgian “urban cottages”), but these are really small old houses.  Lots of older cities in America and Europe have tiny, narrow rowhouses, often called “spite” houses, built to fill gaps in the existing streetscape, like these two Virginia houses:  the Spite House of Alexandria and the adorable little (again, Dutch) cottage built adjacent to the Old Stone House at the Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Richmond.

But there’s just something about a tiny freestanding house, like the Salem houses above and Mark Twain’s boyhood home in Hannibal, Missouri below, that is particularly appealing.  These houses are so self-contained and self-sufficient, but on such a small scale.  Of course the small house movement, and its even more environmentally correct tiny house movement, have been gathering steam for some time now.  An exemplar of the latter is below, from the Tumblewood Tiny House Company.

Mark Twain House in Hannibal, Missouri, 1933. HABS, Library of Congress


The Social History of Wallpaper

Nearly every man I know hates wallpaper while most of my female friends love it; I wonder if this gender division existed in the past?  I hear from the paper-hating men that wallpaper is too “busy”, “distracting”, and “floral” (even if flowers are far from the central motif).  They seem predisposed to dislike a wall-full of images and more inclined to focus on just one (or maybe two).  We have some really ghastly wallpaper in our front  hall which I’m sure my husband hates but I find strangely comforting in a grandmotherly sort of way.  Neither of us are inclined to do anything about it as it covers two stories’ worth of wall, but he must have to shield his eyes everyday.

Wallpaper can reveal more than gender preferences; it can also reveal the cultural values of society at large (if you are prepared to engage in gross generalizations, which I obviously am).  Relying heavily on my favorite historical design books (primarily Judith  & Martin Miller’s Period Details and Period Design & Furnishing), and a few other sources, I’m going to attempt a social history of wallpaper, beginning with Tudor Age.

The fragment of  sixteenth-century block-printed wallpaper above was preserved as the lining of a deed box and is part of the collection of the British National Archives.  It is typical dark and dense decoration; the Tudors loved embellishment of all kinds, but particularly natural motifs.  Here you see royal insignia, the emblem of St. George (the patron saint of England) and the ever-present Tudor rose.  The grotesques look a little medieval to me; I’m not sure what they’re doing there.  On to the seventeenth century.

This is a fragment of later seventeenth- century scenic wallpaper in the collection of the Victoria & Albert Museum.  In the middle part of the seventeenth century, the Puritan-dominated Parliament prohibited the production of things as frivolous as wallpaper (and theater!),  but after the monarchy was restored in 1660, people demanded entertainment and embellishment.  Restoration wallpaper seems to have developed as a middle-class form of decoration, as it was a relatively cheap way to mimic more expense tapestries, embroidery, and plasterwork, which were featured in more aristocratic homes.

Things get lighter in the eighteenth century, due to the influences of the “Chinese style” (the example above is from the vast collection of the Victoria & Albert Museum) and the new textile, cotton.  Production became more  complicated, due to the increasing popularity of flocked papers with raised textures, and scenic (even panoramic) papers.  Great Britain was of course an empire, and one of the best examples of later eighteenth-century wallpaper (still on the walls, and recently restored)  is right here in this former colony, in the 1768 Jeremiah Lee Mansion in Marblehead, Massachusetts.  The Lee Mansion has both rare hand-painted murals and block-printed papers still in place, and the former have been reproduced in decoupage form by Neptune Studios, also based in Marblehead.  Of course, I snapped them right up and here they are on one of my mantles:

Thanks to Salem’s own photographer-entrepreneur Frank Cousins (who I referred to in an earlier post), we have a photograph of another local example of early mural wallpaper, in the dining room of the Samuel McIntire’s Cook-Oliver House (1802-3).  The French-made wallpaper depicts the world’s four climate regions, and is still hanging.

The Cook-Oliver House, Federal Street, Salem. Photograph by Arthur Haskell, Historic American Building Survey, 1938. Library of Congress

Frank Cousins' photographs from his "Pageant of America" series, New York Public Library Digital Gallery

So shortly after the American Revolution, Captain Samuel Cook (or his wife) probably preferred to install French wallpaper in his home rather than English, as a native industry had yet to develop.  But French designs and designers dominated the industry everywhere in the early nineteenth century.  French emigres to the United States, most prominently the Philadelphia wallpaper printer Henri Virchaux, produced scenic and neoclassical papers for the homes of America’s new elites.  Below are two examples of papers produced for Messrs. Virchaux & Co. in 1815, from the collections of the Library of Congress.  Adelphi Paper Hangings produces licensed reproduction papers of Virchaux designs (as well as those of other nineteenth-century manufacturers) and has lots of period patterns on their website.

Even though French designs were preferred by upper-class consumers on both sides of the Atlantic, the British wallpaper industry was still extremely profitable, due to both new industrial techniques and marketing strategies.  The wallpaper industry was showcased in the Great Exhibition of 1851, featuring over 100,000 objects on display and attracting 6 million visitors, both by the officially licensed wallpaper featuring the Exhibition’s symbol, the Crystal Palace, and this prominently placed advertisement by one of Britain’s largest manufacturers, Townsend, Parker & Townsend:

National Archives, United Kingdom

New York Public Library Digital Gallery

After 1850, machine printing replaced the hand block-printing process and wallpaper became a more egalitarian form of embellishment.  Lots of large floral patterns, produced for mass consumption; perhaps this is when wallpaper became a dirty word for men!  I’ve taken my share of Victorian wallpaper off walls, but when looking for mid-nineteenth-century wallpaper to put back on the walls of my house I turned to Waterhouse Wallhangings.  Dorothy Waterhouse became an advocate for early American papers after she discovered subtly colored prints underneath  “ugly” 1890s papers in the process of restoring her 1799 house on Cape Cod in the 1930s.  She wrote and spoke about her love for hand-printed papers, people sent her samples from up and down the east coast, and she started a reproduction historic wallpaper company which is still in business.  Historic New England possesses and licenses wallpapers from the Waterhouse archival collection, and you can see the collection in its entirety (along with thousands of other samples) at their website; below is the Waterhouse wallpaper that I have in my library and dining room.  It’s actually two variations and colorways of the same 1850s background pattern, and of course my husband dislikes it.

Because the Victorian era is so long, it encompasses many different, often contradictory, design styles:  naturalistic and mechanistic, traditional and modern, simple and complex. Two men with divergent styles but  an equally influential impact on wallpaper design were Christopher Dresser and William Morris, both working in the later nineteenth century.  Dresser is among the first “industrial designers”, who sought to take advantage of the mechanized production process by incorporating repetition and standardization into his designs, while Morris was a steadfast naturalist whose (more expensive) papers were still block-printed by hand.

Christopher Dresser Wallpaper (1876), New York Public Library Digital Gallery

William Morris woodblock print wallpaper, Victoria & Albert Museum Collections

The dialogue between machine-made and man-made, combined with increasing globalization, created a golden era for design in general (and wallpaper in particular). So we see the aesthetic movement, the arts and crafts movement, the art nouveau movement, and the art deco movement, before the transition to full-scale modernism, in the early decades of the twentieth century.  I’m not sure how any of these styles affected the average consumer; when you look at the material evidence for the twentieth century what you see are such a variety of papers produced, with traditional (though more cheerful!) florals, and a new emphasis on the pictorial, and the novelty:  popular culture on the walls.  If you search through the online collections catalogue of the largest repository of historic wallpaper in the United States, the Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum (over 10,000 samples!) you will see an amazing variety of twentieth-century papers:  Gibson girls, all sorts of literary characters, cowboys, love letters, college memorabilia, all forms of transportation, anything to do with children, Andy Warhol cows. 

Some of the most popular twentieth-century patterns have been reproduced by Bradbury & Bradbury Art Wallpapers, including an art deco “aeroplane” paper, pictured here in blue, and the mid-century “gee gee” paper in sage. Finally, back to the future:  two modern takes on a classic French toile:  Harlem Toile  (in two colorways) and  London ToileToday there’s a toile for everyone and everywhere.


Save Sherlock’s House

Actually it’s the creator of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose country house is endangered. Undershaw House, built by Doyle in the Surrey countryside south of London in 1897 for his  invalid wife and family, is threatened by partition and “redevelopment” and an energetic preservation effort has emerged to secure its protection: the Save Undershaw Preservation Trust.  Photographs of the house in 1900 and today are from the Trust’s website and the BBC, along with one showing the Doyle family in residence at the height of a Surrey summer from the New York Public Library. 

Historic Preservation must be a local effort, but often a national, or even global, focus can really help.  Salem has certainly confronted its preservation challenges in the past, from the threatened “Witch House” (which I still prefer to call the Jonathan Corwin House) in the 1940s to urban renewal 20 years later.  Local preservationists were on the front line in both cases, but a timely article by famed architectural writer Ada Louise Huxtable in the New York Times (“Urban Renewal Plan Threatens Historic Sites in Salem, Mass.”, October 13, 1965) certainly helped to prevent the total levelling of downtown.  More recently, Walmart abandoned its plans to build a store on the Wilderness Battlefield in Virginia under pressure from a coalition of local and national preservation organizations, including the Civil War Trust.  I imagine there are voices in Britain saying we have so many old, Edwardian, authors’, country, etc….houses, we can’t save them all  but it looks like a pretty special house to me.

Arthur Conan Doyle sold Undershaw after the successive deaths of his wife and son, but in the two decades that the family was in residence he published several Sherlock stories and novels, including the Hound of the Baskervilles, serialized in the Strand Magazine from 1901-4.  A Strand cover is pictured below, along with one of Sidney Paget’s illustrations from Baskervilles, a sketch of Arthur Conan Doyle at the height of his fame, and–just to establish our Salem interest and connection–the box for Parker Brothers’ Sherlock Holmes Game from 1904.


A White Robe of Roofs

Every time I was in range of a radio yesterday there was a story about collapsing roofs.  Of course, most were flat roofs (I keep wanting to write rooves, but apparently that is not done anymore), covering modern commercial structures.  Our colonial predecessors had other ideas, and their steep, sloping roofs seem to be bearing up pretty well under all the snow—now and for the past 350 years or so.  Here are some pictures I took over the past few snowy days of some of Salem’s first period houses:  the Narbonne House, the so-called “Witch House” (more accurately designated the Jonathan Corwin House), the Peabody Essex Museum’s John Ward House, and the House of the Seven Gables (also known as the Turner-Ingersoll House).

For the sake of comparison (of both season and era), the same houses are featured below in a series of photographs from the Historic American Building Survey, a New Deal project in which photographers, architects, and draftsmen were put  to work documenting historic structures  for the National Park Service.  While the Narbonne house and the Gables look quite similar, the Jonathan Corwin house would be unrecognizable without its Old Witch house sign, as this was more than a decade before Historic Salem, Inc. removed the attached storefront in the process of a comprehensive restoration. In a turn-of-the-century photography by the Detroit Publishing Company, the John Ward house is pictured in its original location (St. Peter’s Street) just before its move to its present site.


Storybook Style in Salem

Salem has much more than Federal houses to offer architecture aficionados.  The house below is located on a side street off Lafayette Street, which I walk down every other day to get to class.  I always “check in”  because it makes me happy just to look at it, so I’m not surprised to hear from my architect friends (including my husband) that this is an example of Storybook style, one of several variants of the Tudor Revival style that was so popular across the United States in the 1920s and early 1930s.

I probably should have waited until after the snow melts to showcase this house, but who knows when that will happen?  Unfortunately, its most striking feature, a sloping faux thatched roof with rolled edges, is almost completely obscured by the snow.  Its singular windows (actually an eyebrow dormer and an octagonal window), however, are almost highlighted by the winter setting.

This area of Salem was devastated by the great Salem Fire of 1914 (much more on that later), so there are lots of houses that were built in the interwar architectural styles, including Craftsman, English Cottage, and Colonial Revival examples, but none quite as fanciful as this storybook house.  This is a rare style for Salem and New England; according to the sources I consulted (the great book below, published in 2001, and the storybookers website) storybook houses are much more common on the west coast (particularly California, of course).

Below is the house that everyone cites as the ultimate (or most whimsical) Storybook house, which is ironically called the “Witch’s House”!  More formally known as the Spadena house, it was built in 1921 and moved to its present location in Beverly Hills a decade later.

Photograph courtesy Christopher Wolff Photography

The “storybook architect” was a Californian named William Raymond Yelland, and I can’t ascertain whether he might have had anything to do with the creation of our Salem house.  Perhaps indirectly; the 1920s and 1930s seem to have been a golden age of sorts for homebuilding magazines and mail-order house plans, and the examples below look vaguely similar to the house off Lafayette Street, though clearly not as special.