This past week, I spent more time with the nine years’ worth of programs I transcribed during our first week, fitting the information into a spreadsheet in the hopes of making it all more easily sortable and searchable. As I reread all of the programs, I kept our conversations from our coffeeshop meeting in mind. One part of the Club that I paid special attention to this time around was the rise and development of their meetings and committee dedicated to philanthropy. By 1900, the most recent year of programs I transcribed, the Club had a ‘Committee on Modern Philanthropy,’ led by Mrs. John M. Carter, which would lead meetings consisting of a few talks and presentations. Sometimes, these meetings would have talks dedicated to what seem to be causes these women deemed worthy of donation in the spirit of philanthropy, such as a meeting in January of 1896 that contained presentations such as “Children of the State” and “For Suffering Humanity.” However, more frequent amongst the programs than these sorts of pointed topics are far more generalized talks and mentions of philanthropy, such as “Philanthropy–Its History and Methods,” “Some Phases of Philanthropy,” “The Higher Education of Women applied to Philanthropy,” and “What is Philanthropy?” to name a few from across the span of 1890-1900. Occasionally the Club would host debates, which I mentioned in my post from last week, that sometimes had to do with one of the aforementioned ‘worthy causes,’ however, as I believe we discussed at our meeting, these debates do not seem to result in any direct action, they just look like an intellectual exercise performed on the backs of people in need. This emphasis on philanthropy as a concept instead of an action with direction and effect on the world, to me, goes hand in hand with conversations and questions raised at our meeting–what were these elite women actually doing with their platform? It seems to me, having primarily interacted with programs that provide little detail or summary of the talks and presentations, that these women are more concerned with crafting the image of the spirit of giving rather than the spirit itself. Again, the higher frequency of discussion of philanthropy in general instead of how to best allocate any real funds to those in need just seems like an intellectual exercise, or even a brag, done at the expense of others these women would deem unworthy of Club membership. I’m curious as to how much of their funds from dues, etc., were used for actual philanthropy, since they have a whole committee dedicated to it but no programs mentioning neither donation nor public activism and/or volunteer work (or anything of the sort).
Snippets from Nine Years of Club Programs
Over the past week, I’ve transcribed programs from the Woman’s Literary Club of Baltimore spanning from October of 1890 to June of 1899. While it’s often been difficult to glean more than surface-level information from these documents, like names and general topics, a few things that I’ve noticed have piqued my interest. For instance, I’ve made note of each time a woman with a doctorate spoke to the club, or was listed on a program–so far, nine times in nine years. There have also been a handful of non-doctor professors or instructors who have been noted as such. Many women appear to be sharing their own written works, like short stories or poems, with the club, or reading aloud the projects of their peers. There are also meetings dedicated entirely to music performed by club members. I think this sharing of personal accomplishments amongst the presentations and discussions with loftier, academic titles is lovely–though I don’t have any more information from the program itself beyond the fact that a woman is sharing her work, it’s clear that these women gather to both spread knowledge and support each other in creative endeavors.
It’s also been interesting just to see how little the formatting of the programs themselves has changed over almost a decade. There are small discrepancies in phrasing from each to the next, but overall the largest change I’ve noticed has been the design of the decorative trim. Every program is printed in purple, and I’ve seen a handwritten note on stationary stamped with the club’s crest, also in purple, and I wonder why that specific aesthetic choice was made from the very beginning. Later on in the years I’ve transcribed, though, there have been some programs that do stand out from the rest. A handful of programs document a club debate, and list the topic, key question, and who will argue for each side, and also note that after such debates, the entire rest of the club was invited to share their own thoughts. Another part of this that I found notable was the rigor with which these debates were laid out; in some programs, it’s specified that a member of the general body of the club will have a maximum of two minutes to speak.
The instance when I received the most personal information about members of the club occurred while reading the the ‘program’ for October 30, 1894. There is no program for this date, just a handwritten note that was likely posted on a door to the meeting-place announcing that there would be no meeting that day since a woman who had been a member since the club’s conception, Mrs. Easter, had died, and encouraging club members to attend her funeral instead. A few weeks later, the club had an entire meeting dedicated to memorializing Mrs. Easter, with a eulogy of sorts and readings from her poems and critiques. It was so nice to see within these seemingly straightforward programs the kind of care that goes on behind the scenes of this organization, and I’m looking forward to similar types of revelations.
The Club’s Arithmetic: An Overwhelming Flow of Additions and Resignations
On Thursday I started transcribing the minutes of the Board of Management of the Woman’s Literary Club of Baltimore from 1907-1908. Here’s what has caught my attention so far, besides the delightful phrases “dainty refreshments” and “queen of an afternoon”:
It’s hard to keep up sometimes with the amount of women who apply for membership in the Club, are suggested by current members to join, or resign. It feels like for every member who wants to join, another member is resigning—whether it’s because she’s sick, her husband is sick, or simply “too busy” to devote the time and energy required to be an active member. Both the additions to the Club and the resignations are fascinating. Whenever a current member suggests a woman she thinks should join, she is expected to vouch for the candidate’s credibility in several different avenues. Has she sat in on a Club meeting? What did she think of it? Does she write or make music or make any contribution to the arts? While these are all valid questions, it makes me wonder about the seriousness of the society. These women are certainly not playing around. They’ve taken something that seems like it can be casual and have made it very formal and exclusive. I wonder why.
Which leads me to the resignations… why are so many women resigning so frequently? Why was the Club and its duties so exhausting that it caused so many women, month after month, to resign? It makes sense to me that Board members would resign occasionally because seemingly a lot more work was done on the Board, but even so, that happened so often that there was what feels like a constant game of musical chairs on the board of directors. It leaves me wondering what these positions meant to the women who held them and what exactly pushed them away—whether it was a heavy workload or something beyond that.
It’s also worth mentioning that they’re constantly debating whether a past member should become an “honorary member” or not. Well, debating not so much as making unanimous decisions that the lady in question should be an honorary member without a doubt (they often will pose questions only to come to a unanimous positive decision regardless—above anything, these women are agreeable). Regardless, what is an honorary member? Does she attend meetings when she wants to? Does she contribute to the Club? Or is this simply a title, nothing else? I hope to find out more about what being an honorary member entails; maybe the Constitution says something about it.
In the mean time, I can’t wait to see who resigns next. This is better than reality TV.
American identity
I’ve long been interested in what exactly makes America unique—especially as it manifests in the arts. This claim is incredibly controversial, but I’ve always thought that the distinct nature of the American mind didn’t really begin to emerge until well into the 19th Century. I think of people like Emerson—whose writing, however derivative it may be of its European forbears, is nevertheless steeped in the American soil on which it was written. I think of writers like Melville and even (although I hate to admit it) Poe, who did much to legitimize the forms of the novel and short story, respectively. But perhaps the uniquely American psyche didn’t really begin to settle, or solidify, until the early 20th.
My portion of the minutes of the Woman’s Literary Club of Baltimore picks up in 1910. The nature of the discussion here isn’t always the most intellectual. Club member Emily Paret Atwater reads one of her own literary efforts, entitled “The International Spooks Company, Limited.” It’s about as bad as it sounds. Its protagonist, Tom, real estate agent, wants to “furnish his profession with an element of mystery” in order to impress his love interest, Rosa. The solution? He and a business partner form the International Spooks Company, whose end is to capture ghosts in Europe and bring them back to America—all of this for “the benefit of those people who had no spooks roosting in their family trees.”
But I think Atwater’s story raises an interesting point: young America has no ghosts. Its history is too recent. Its identity is still inchoate.
The women of the Club seem interested in this very problem, and in 1910 much of their activities pertain to the recognition of America’s artistic giants. On November 2nd, All Saint’s Day, they decorate the graves of Maryland authors and artists with flowers. I’d love to see the list of graves, but the only one they explicitly mention is that of Poe, in Westminster Churchyard. In one of the more amusing episodes present in the minutes, they describe having to coerce a young boy to climb the fence for them. They’re elated to discover that the boy and his friends (whose ages are not specified) are familiar with Poe and his work.
At the 693rd meeting of the Club, presided over by the Committee on Foreign Languages, member Lillie Schnauffer reads a translation of German writer Karl Knortz’ History of American Literature. Her translation provides a glance into the European viewpoint. Knortz dwells at first on the Revolutionary and Colonial periods, during which, the Recording Secretary writes, “the use of the axe and the hoe . . . left little leisure for good work of the pen.” He goes onto recognize the writings of William Cullen Bryant, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Edgar Allan Poe (whose reputation has always been held in higher esteem abroad—especially in France—than in America, anyway). He mentions the Baltimorean George Henry Calvert, a “man of letters” in the truest sense of the phrase. But what’s most interesting to me is his appreciation of Sidney Lanier. Lanier, who eventually settled as a professor of literature at Johns Hopkins University (there’s a monument to him just south of the corner of Charles and University Parkway). Significantly, Lanier is perhaps most remembered for his use of exaggerated American vernacular in his poetry.
But the women of the Club are not only interested in uniquely American literature; they’re also interested in painting. Club President Wrenshall Markland gives a presentation on the overwhelmingly positive reception of American artists at the 1910 Salon in Paris. She even brings to the meeting a series of beautiful illustrations printed by the American press she had collected throughout the years, highlighting the advances made in printing at the time period, and by extension pushing the boundaries of what has traditionally qualified as art. But it doesn’t stop there; she praises the work of artists of all sorts: miniaturists, sculptors, landscapists, portrait artists, handicrafts. She concludes, regarding America’s progress in Art, that the nation’s artists “had developed a sense of feeling, an appreciation, a power to express himself, and a bravery to condemn as well as to praise.”
What’s most interesting to me, though, is that she chooses to conclude on the promise of the camera. The camera isn’t an American invention. But you can make a pretty strong argument that film was invented in New Jersey, at Edison’s Black Maria studio—film being one of the mediums by which America came to define its cultural identity, and to market and ship it the world over. It seems to me that Wrenshall’s mention of the camera points to the changing nature of art itself—those alternative means by which America will define itself. I don’t mean to imply that the more traditional arts didn’t play an equally important role. Not at all. But maybe America found itself in the alternative.