The Glessner House Christmas Tree

John and Frances (Macbeth) Glessner, both born in the 1840s, would have seen the tradition of a Christmas tree evolve during their childhood. Virtually unknown outside of Germany until Queen Victoria and Prince Albert introduced the custom to Great Britain that decade, Christmas trees quickly started to appear in American homes. Frances Glessner’s journal provides interesting information about the Christmas trees that would have been displayed at 1800 S. Prairie Avenue, although the references are usually brief, as the tree was typically in place for less than 48 hours.

The Glessners moved into their new home on December 1, 1887. The first Christmas tree was decorated on Christmas Day, Frances Glessner noting simply “the children are today trimming a Xmas tree in the school room.” (Most of the journal entry describes the gifts given and received).

George Glessner, a talented amateur photographer, documented the tree in 1888. Frances Glessner wrote, “We all hung up our stockings and trimmed our pretty little tree just three feet high. It stands on the table in the school room.” As was typical for the period, trees were small and were placed on a table. The photograph shows the variety of decorations used including candles, a foil-paper covered cardboard bird at the top, tinsel, three types of garlands (tinsel, glass beads, and popcorn), blown-glass ornaments, and miniature drums.

The year 1898 was special as both of the Glessners’ children had married that year, so were celebrating their first Christmas in their own homes – apartments located in a large building on the 2000 block of South Indiana Avenue. George and Frances each received some of the ornaments that they had used to decorate the school room tree:

“John and I went over towards noon to call on the young people. We found them all very happy – the baby sleeping soundly. A tiny tree was decorated with balls and ornaments from the first tree George ever had and which have been used every Christmas since.”

Among the ornaments given to George and his wife Alice, was a special glass piece known as a kugel. Unlike the thin-walled glass ornaments that became popular later on, kugels were heavy glass ornaments usually lined with silver, which gave the glass a deep rich color. The ornament was purchased by the Glessners during their visit to the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia during the summer of 1876. It is painted with simple gold decoration, and features the dates of 1776 and 1876, denoting the centennial of the United States. The kugel was passed down through several generations of George’s family, before being returned to Glessner house in 2018. It is the only original family ornament in the collection today.

With the Glessner children married and away from home, Frances Glessner usually selected friends – often the age of her children – to decorate the Christmas tree. Favorites included the architect Hermann von Holst, whom the Glessners unofficially “adopted” as a young adult after his parents returned to Germany; he always spent the holiday with the Glessners. In 1900, Hermann “trimmed our Christmas tree and staid all night to see the fun in the morning.” After he married, his wife Lucy joined in the annual tradition. Other favorites to assist with the tree trimming included the principal harpist of the Chicago Symphony, Enrico Tramonti, and his wife Juliette. The Glessners’ grandchildren start participating in the decorating activities by 1905.

The Glessners had switched to a larger tree by 1902, when Frances Glessner wrote in her journal, “the children all came home Christmas morning at ten o’clock when we lighted the tree which stood in the hall. All of the family and household were in the hall.” The tree was still lit with candles at this point, so the lighting was a major part of the celebration with everyone gathered to observe the tree briefly illuminated with its lit candles (perhaps 15-20 minutes) before the candles were extinguished.

Electric lights were first incorporated on the Glessner Christmas tree in 1911, and the display was quite elaborate. Few people had electric lights at this time, the first strings being introduced by General Electric in 1903, although Frances Glessner noted seeing individual electric lights on the tree of a friend in 1900. Strings of lights were initially quite expensive, and, as few people had electric outlets, were designed to screw into a light bulb socket of a nearby wall sconce or chandelier.

The festivities around the Christmas tree for 1911 began with the arrival of the fresh tree from The Rocks, the Glessners’ summer estate in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. John Glessner noted that five trees were delivered for use in their home, and the homes of their son George, daughter Frances, sisters-in-law Helen and Anna (who shared an apartment), and neighbors James and Narcissa Thorne (later known for her meticulous Thorne Rooms, on permanent display at the Art Institute).

Three of the trees from The Rocks were delivered to these Prairie Avenue homes: (L-R) James and Narcissa Thorne (1708), George and Alice Glessner (1706), and Blewett and Frances Lee (1700).

John Glessner wrote that an electrician with International Harvester was recruited for the special electric light display: 

“Cheney the electrician spent all of Saturday and Sunday over our Christmas tree and it was wonderfully pretty. The tree came from The Rocks and was placed in an alcove made of curtains in the main hall, had many and various colored lights that “flashed” and twinkled; there were spotlights of various colors thrown on it and snow fell from the canopy over it.

“It was lighted first at 9 pm for our company at Sunday (Christmas Eve) supper – 19 in all at the table, and again at 10 o’clock on Christmas morning for the benefit of the children and our guests and servants – 36 or 37 in all, so that the tree blazed for about two hours on Sunday night and about two hours on Monday morning and then was taken down. It had its day and was no more. And before evening we were back to the original condition with only the memory.”

Despite the elaborate preparations for the tree, it was not photographed, but we know what the bulbs on the tree would have looked like. The earliest bulbs were pear-shaped, like early Edison bulbs, but in 1910 General Electric switched to a round bulb with a small “exhaust tip” at the end. This shape was used until 1919, when the cone shape resembling a flame was adopted; this remained the standard version until the 1970s and is now popular again as a “vintage style” bulb. The photos below show a light kit produced by General Electric in 1910. (To learn more about the history of electric Christmas tree lights, visit Old Christmas Tree Lights, from which the images below were retrieved.)

In 1978, Frances Glessner Lee’s two surviving children, John Glessner Lee and Martha Lee Batchelder, donated The Rocks Estate to the Society for the Protection of New Hampshire Forests, with the stipulation that a crop always be grown in the fields. Christmas trees were the chosen crop, and for more than three decades, a tree was shipped from The Rocks each year to decorate the main hall at Glessner House. That tradition ended in 2019, when the building housing the shipping operation burned to the ground; since that time a tree has been sourced locally.

In order to tell the full story of Christmas at the house, two trees are decorated each year. A small three-foot tree sits on the table in the schoolroom – this is where the original kugel is hung. A larger tree is displayed in the main hall. There are no electric lights on either tree, interpreting the period prior to the grand electric light display of 1911.

Controversy Upon the Stage: The Ballet Russes Comes to Chicago, 1916

The idea for this month’s article began with a postcard. Among recently acquired Glessner family items was a framed real photo postcard from 1916 featuring a portrait of the Swiss conductor Ernest Ansermet, with a short message in French on the reverse addressed to Frances Glessner Lee. A quick review of Frances Glessner’s journal confirmed how Frances Glessner Lee and Ansermet met. A deeper dive into Ansermet’s reason for coming to Chicago that year uncovered a long-forgotten story of one of the most controversial performances to ever take place upon the Chicago stage.

The Ballet Russes

Sergei Diaghilev (Leon Bakst, 1906)

The Ballet Russes was the brainchild of the great Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev. Formed in Paris in 1909, the ballet company created a huge sensation with its boundary-pushing performances that combined modern music, innovative choreography, and stunning visual arts. Among those engaged by Diaghilev were Igor Stravinsky, Claude Debussy, Sergei Prokofiev, Maurice Ravel, Vasily Kandinsky, Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Leon Bakst, and Coco Chanel. The company, which gained broad exposure during tours through Europe and North and South America from 1909 through 1929, has long been regarded as the most influential ballet company of the 20^th century.

In 1916, New York’s Metropolitan Opera Company arranged for the Ballet Russes to undertake a multi-city U.S. tour. That tour included a two-week residency at the Auditorium Theater in Chicago, to be managed by Frederick J. Wessels and Henry E. Voegeli, the business manager and assistant manager, respectively, of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. The company, which comprised about 200 “artistes direct from Russia” arrived in Chicago on February 13 aboard a special train on the Michigan Central. Opening night, scheduled for the next day, was reserved as a special benefit performance for the Eli Bates Settlement House. The controversy, however, started before the curtain went up on that Valentine’s Day performance.

The Afternoon of a Faun

An article, which ran in the Chicago Tribune the day of the opening, recounted the controversy over the troupe’s New York and Boston performances, noting that Chicagoan’s would have a chance to see the performances as originally intended and make up their own minds:

“In New York the police authorities were shocked by ‘L’Apres-Midi d’un Faune’ (The Afternoon of a Faun) and ordered changes in one scene. As it was originally played the faun seizes a part of the girl’s lingerie and then goes to sleep, using the garment as the covering for a rock on which he reposes. The New York authorities considered this bad form and the faun thereafter had to sleep on a bare rock. Boston went New York one better and officially frowned on the harem scene in ‘Scheherazade.’ Mayor Curley said bare feet were right, but bare legs could not be tolerated. Accordingly, the legs were covered.

“Chicago is going to be given the original uncensored, unexpurgated versions of Serge de Diaghileff’s Ballet Russe – that is, provided Maj. Funkhouser doesn’t order excisions. Mr. Diaghileff upon his arrival yesterday with his company of dancers from the imperial Russian theater let it be known that Chicago will be permitted to judge for itself whether or not the scenes are ‘improper.’ ‘Art has nothing to do with morality,’ it was explained on behalf of the producer. ‘The esthetic test is the only one that can be applied, but what do the police know about art?’”

(Note: Major Metellus Lucullus Cicero Funkhouser was an interesting character. In 1912, he was appointed head of the newly formed Chicago censorship board, which primarily targeted the burgeoning film industry in the city. A veteran of the Spanish-American War and a Second Deputy Superintendent in the Chicago Police Department, he was known for his corruption, taking bribes from the studios, and breaking his own censorship rules. For example, he would take the “naughty” portions of movies he had censored and then host private screenings of those scenes for friends in his home. His actions seriously hurt the local film industry, and he was fired in 1918.)

Bakst design for The Afternoon of a Faun

The eagerly anticipated The Afternoon of a Faun was scheduled for February 16, when “the sophistication of this primitive frontier will be tested by an unexpurgated performance.” A review noted that “the details of an appetent satyr’s voluptuous stupor were again observed with appropriate lenity and there was some applause following the revolting end.” As was the case in previous cities, the company was asked to make changes to the choreography. A review following the February 24 performed noted:

“The news of the Ballet Russe is that yesterday ‘The Faun’ was presented without its final phallic sting and that it seemed to give more pleasure thus than when it had the audacious emphasis of continental bravado. That is to say that the faun indicated himself as a primordial voluptuary instead of visualizing the thing that everybody knew about. It was much more exquisite yesterday, dim, dreamy, primitive, and suggestive in its fascinating profiles and attitudes, with vague, mythical inferences and postures. It was very beguiling.”

Controversy, which can often increase attendance, had just the opposite effect in this case, and audiences remained small throughout the engagement. Critic Percy Hammond questioned why the situation seemed to be worse in Chicago than in other cities:

“Other American communities have not been indifferent to the beauty of these performances and to the munificence of those who make them possible; so why, it is asked, does this center regard their ministrations with a stubborn apathy like that of Caliban to the practices of Ariel?”

(Note: Caliban and Ariel were two servants in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, Ariel being submissive, while Caliban is portrayed as rebellious and showing a lack of gratitude.)

Is it controversial or does it just require a new way of thinking?

Although The Faun received the most pointed attacks, several of the ballets were seen as controversial, or at the very least, difficult for the audience to understand. But some critics realized the significance of what was taking place and opened their minds to what had been laid before them. One example was the first performance of Stravinsky’s ‘Petrouchka’ which elicited the following:

“Strange though it may seem, the Russian ballet at the Auditorium really includes music. Some of last night’s audience may have doubted the assertion, after hearing Stravinsky’s score for ‘Petrouchka,’ but they had in mind archaic sounds like Beethoven symphonies or Wagner music dramas, or Debussyisms of the moment. If the organized cacophony arising from the orchestra pit didn’t reassure them, the sight of an orchestra should have. It was there and it was busy, under the masterly conducting of M. Ansermet.

“Based upon the gospel that dissonance is just as much a part of music as consonance, the score translates the story’s grotesqueries into a tale funnier than Bernard Shaw and Mark Twain together. But this score is not extravagance. It is eminently sober as to logic, and the creation of a skilled and imaginative mind. Some day, when the ‘dead line’ is less like a ravening wolf, we may be moved to consider these sequences of strange intervals and chord combinations, the tone-colors dizzying to the ear, and the esthetic prophecy of their scientific scheme.”

Scheherezade

Another writer, encouraged the audience to free themselves of previously held inhibitions and try to enjoy the ballet for what it was:

“It is a good deal to ask an American audience, at least an audience handicapped by Anglo-American culture, not to be bewildered by the Russian ballet. Our culture, which is rather thin and excessively self-conscious, prevents us usually from any frank and expansive surrender to sheer sensuous beauty. We are bullied alike by our conscience and by our fear of what has been labeled good in art. We deprecate the free gesture. Our motto is Safety First, and Mrs. Grundy never leaves our elbow.

“This is a poor background for enjoying the Russian ballet, which is a gorgeous flower of the east, growing from a life of the imagination never touched by puritanism, freer in impulse, richer in instinct than our own. Yet, after all, we are human, and the appeal of wondrous color and strangely compelling rhythm is so strong in this case that we must yield to it, even be carried away by it.”

(Note: “Mrs. Grundy” is a colloquial term referring to a person with very conventional standards of propriety).

Caroline Kirkland, a friend of Frances Glessner who wrote a society column for the Chicago Tribune under the pseudonym “Madame X,” went the farthest by praising those who embraced everything the Ballet Russes had to offer:

“The question of the moment among the elect is ‘How did you like the Russian ballet?’ If you respond with hyperbolic praise then you are set apart from the common herd; you belong to the Brahmins; you show yourself a true cosmopolite, one who can at will adopt the mood of the Russ, the French, and all others who represent the latest word in supreme culture.

“It is an enviable status. The modern admirers and supporters of the Russian ballet show themselves the true descendants of that small, select group who in the seventies boldly went to see the world’s greatest actress of her day, Sarah Bernhardt, and still more boldly acclaimed her genius to a community that preached against her from every pulpit and fireside as the prototype of the scarlet woman.

“It is to be deplored that of the splendid heritage left us by our Puritan forefathers – a heritage that included frugality industry, self-denial, piety, stern sense of duty, and moral courage – little remains to us today except self-righteousness, false modesty, and a strange reluctance to recognize and enjoy the beautiful.”

Leon Bakst

The sets and costumes were as important to the productions as the music and choreography. Several were designed by Leon Bakst, a Russian painter and designer who first came into contact with Diaghilev when the latter organized a show of Russian painters in 1898. Four years later, Bakst’s star had risen, and he was commissioned to undertake a work for Tsar Nicholas II. He went to work for the Ballet Russes in 1908, the collaboration lasting until 1922 when he came to Baltimore to work under his American patron, Alice Warder Garrett (the daughter of John Glessner’s business partner, Benjamin H. Warder).

Bakst's design for The Afternoon of a Faun

Bakst’s work received praise during his years with the ballet, a Chicago journalist writing:

“In Chicago for the last ten days there has been disclosed in the scenes and costumes of the Russian ballet the work of the Russian painter, Leon Bakst. There has never been anything like his achievements in the splendor and harmonies of color available to the Chicago public, and it is a great pity conditions have been such that few have taken advantage of the opportunity to see them. Bakst is a great genius in color, and he offers us his wonderful eyes to see visions gorgeous beyond our imagining. Bakst comes from a world where color is brilliant, and contrast sharp. In America our color in nature, and, therefore, in art, is more reticent, and for that reasons Bakst discovers for us a new world, inundating our senses, matching the myriad tones and thunderous power of the modern orchestra with tones as overwhelming in power and combination.

“The Russian master already has enriched the color sense of Europe, and even America sees a little with his eyes, as the increased strength and daring of color in costume shows. And this, as we began by saying, is the supreme service of the creative artist, that he creates not only, or even chiefly, the objective beauty of his master works, but a new beauty of the world.”

Bakst costume for The Firebird

Bakst’s work was considered so significant that Marshall Field & Company held a special show of costumes from selected productions, as noted in the advertisement below.

The Glessners and Ernest Ansermet

Frances Glessner Lee appears to have been enchanted by the Ballet Russes, attending several performances. On Saturday, February 19, she invited conductor Ernest Ansermet to supper at her home, along with Henry Voegeli and his wife, CSO harpist Enrico Tramonti and his wife, and a Dr. Richardson. The Glessner journal notes that “the Tramontis and Frances Lee have been much pleased with Mr. Ansermet.”

The press shared their admiration for Ansermet’s conducting. In spite of what was being said about the choreography or the music itself, reviews consistently praised Ansermet’s mastery of the works.

His postcard to Frances Glessner Lee, written on May 5, 1916, from New York, was in thanks for the supper at her home, his brief message being “with respectful and grateful memories of E. Ansermet.”

(Note: Kudos to the U.S. Post Office of 1916. Ansermet addressed the postcard: Mrs. Frances Lee, Prairie Avenue, Chicago, Michigan. A postal worker corrected the state to Illinois and added “1700” in front of Prairie Avenue.)

Ernest Ansermet was born in Switzerland in 1883, so was just 32 years old at the time he first came to Chicago. After several years teaching mathematics at the University of Lausanne, he turned to conducting, accepting the position to lead the Ballet Russes orchestra in 1915. During the period, he had the opportunity to meet Debussy, Ravel, and Stravinsky, and he became a champion of modern music. He founded his own orchestra, the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande in 1918 which toured the U.S. and Europe, making many recordings for Decca Records. Ansermet returned to Chicago in 1936 to open the inaugural season of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at the Ravinia Festival and was still actively conducting at the time of his death in 1969. The Orchestre is regarded as the premier orchestra in Switzerland.

John Glessner notes in the journal that Ansermet called on his wife during the CSO matinee concert on Friday February 19. They subsequently attended the Ballet Russes matinee performance on its last day, February 26:

“Frances and I went to Russian ballet on Saturday afternoon at Auditorium. The house was filled – many were children. This was only the second good house of the two weeks engagement – the other being the opening night which was taken by the Eli Bates Settlement House. Wessels and Voegeli, the managers, may lose a considerable sum on the engagement.”

No further comment is made as to what they thought of the performances, although they would have been fully aware of the controversy surrounding them. They saw four ballets performed that afternoon:

Cleopatra: Music by Anton Arensky and others, choreographed by Michael Fokine, sets and costumes by Leon Bakst

Petrouchka: Music by Igor Stravinsky, choreographed by Michael Fokine, sets and costumes by Alexandre Benois

Spectre de la Rose (The Spirit of the Rose): Music by Carol Maria von Weber as orchestrated by Hector Berlioz, choreographed by Michael Fokine, sets and costumes by Leon Bakst

Soleil de Nuit (Midnight Sun): Music by Rimsky-Korsakov, choreographed by Leonide Massine (his first ballet), sets and costumes by Mikhail Larionov

The Ballet Russes leaves Chicago

The final performance took place the evening of February 26. It had been rumored that The Faun would be presented in its original pre-censored iteration, “but nothing of the sort happened. The faun was as chaste as a cold mutton chop.” Attendance had improved slightly during the second week, but not nearly enough to avoid large financial losses. Many praised “the New York banker, who backed the enterprise financially, knowing that he would probably lose in the venture, but anxious to give Americans a chance to see these Russian chef d’oeuvres.”

Bakst's design for Cleopatra

The Ballet Russes left Chicago and continued its U.S. tour. The conversation no doubt continued long after they had left, and, as had been the case three years earlier when the Armory Show at the Art Institute raised the question of “what is art?” their appearance in Chicago forever made people consider what ballet should be in the 20^th century.

Chicago Fire Stories Part III: Catherine O'Leary

The 150^th anniversary of the Great Chicago Fire this month focused attention on many aspects of the “great conflagration” that consumed a significant portion of Chicago between October 8 and 10, 1871. The story of Mrs. Catherine O’Leary and her cow kicking over a lantern (as depicted by Norman Rockwell above) first surfaced before the flames were extinguished, and although she was cleared of any involvement in the fire just two months later, the legend has endured to this day. During her lifetime, the burden of blame had a profound effect on Mrs. O’Leary, forcing her to largely withdraw from public life, and dying with a heavy heart in 1895. In this third and final installment of Chicago Fire Stories, we share the facts of her life before, during, and after the Fire.

Early Years

Catherine Donnigan (other sources spell it Dunagan or Dunnigan) was born in County Kerry in southwest Ireland in 1827. Nothing is known of her childhood, but Kerry was known for its dairy cows, so she would have no doubt been introduced to that business at a young age. She married Patrick O’Leary, nine years her senior and also from Kerry, and endured the Great Hunger (known as the Irish Potato Famine outside of Ireland) which hit the south and west portions of Ireland especially hard from 1845 into the early 1850s.

The O’Learys were part of a huge influx of residents emigrating from Ireland, escaping the Great Hunger for the promise of a better life in the United States. By the mid-1850s, they had settled in Chicago where their eldest child, a daughter Mary, was born in 1857. Two sons, Cornelius (known as “Puggy”) and James Patrick, followed in 1860 and 1863 respectively. Both sons were baptized at Church of the Holy Family, founded in 1857 on 12^th Street (now Roosevelt Road) at May Street. The boys later attended school there, the parents paying 50 cents a month each for their tuition.

In 1864, the O’Learys purchased the property at 137 DeKoven Street for $500, an indication they had found some modest success while living in Chicago. Two more children followed – a daughter Catherine in 1866 and a son Patrick in March 1871. The property comprised two separate houses which abutted each other, the O’Learys occupying the smaller rear structure, while renting out the larger front house with two rooms to a family named McLaughlin. The back of the property was occupied by a small barn measuring 16 by 20 feet, where Catherine O’Leary maintained her dairy business, consisting of six cows, along with a horse and wagon for making deliveries.

The Fire

Just before the fire, the O’Learys had two tons of hay and two tons of coal delivered to the barn to prepare them for winter. On October 8, 1871, the day of the fire, Mrs. O’Leary tended to her cows late in the afternoon and then fed her horse about 7:00pm before retiring for the evening. The entire family was in bed by about 8:00pm, well before the fire commenced shortly after 9:00pm. They were alerted by a neighbor banging on their door that the barn was ablaze; by the time they arose and went outside, it was too late to save the animals and the contents of the barn. A neighbor saved a calf, and one cow that had been tied up outside got away, never to be seen again. Patrick successfully saved the house by dousing it with water, but as Catherine later noted, she lost her entire dairy business when the barn went up in flames.

The first mention of the fire starting when a cow kicked over a lantern while a woman was milking appeared in the Chicago Evening Journal on October 9, before the fire had burnt itself out. Other newspapers soon picked up the story and immediately identified Catherine O’Leary, the owner of the barn, as the culprit.

In late November, the Board of Police and Fire Commissioners launched an official inquiry to determine two things – the exact cause of the fire and the appropriateness of the response of the Chicago Fire Department. Fifty witnesses were interviewed over the next two weeks, including both Catherine and Patrick O’Leary and several of their neighbors. The story was consistent – the fire did begin in the O’Leary barn, but all members of the family were in bed asleep at the time the fire commenced. Various theories were introduced but no one could conclusively state the cause of the fire.

On December 12, 1871, just two months after the fire, the Board of Police and Fire Commissioners issued their findings. The report noted, in part:

“There is no proof that anybody had been in the barn after nightfall that evening. Whether it originated from a spark blown from a chimney on that windy night, or was set on fire by human agency, we are unable to determine. Mr. Leary, the owner, and all his family, prove to have been in bed and asleep at the time.”

(Note regarding “Leary”: Irish names at the time were often shown without the leading O or Mc).

After the Fire

With the official report clearing Mrs. O’Leary of any involvement in the start of the fire, it is rather surprising that the story didn’t simply die away and disappear with the fire rubble being cleared from the streets. But it didn’t, and that caused immediate problems for the O’Leary family. Numerous photos taken shortly after the fire confirm that people flocked to DeKoven Street to see the site of the barn and the surviving O’Leary house. The image shown below, is particularly interesting as it shows the only west-facing window in the O’Leary portion of the house boarded up, perhaps to maintain some level of privacy and keep the curious from peeking in.

The McLauglins, who rented the front house, moved out within two days of the fire. The O’Learys moved in early 1874, relocating to Dashiel Street (now Union Avenue) near 41^st Street, close to the Chicago Stockyards. They sold the DeKoven Street property in 1879 for $1,150. The new owners tore down the original house and replaced it with a more substantial masonry building, that soon sported a plaque noting the site as the place of origin of the fire.

Newspapers published articles every year on the anniversary of the fire, and Mrs. O’Leary was almost always mentioned as though the official inquiry clearing her had never taken place. In articles where the cow story was discounted, it was still discussed, keeping the O’Leary name alive, and making it impossible for Mrs. O’Leary to return to any form of the normal life she had known prior to the fire. She largely became a recluse and understandably denied requests for interviews; she was even offered opportunities to appear as what amounted to a carnival side show. Books and songs kept the story alive as well, including the book shown below, published for the tenth anniversary of the fire in 1881.

Her life took yet another tragic turn in August 1885. Puggy, her eldest son, had a violent altercation with a former love interest, Mary Snyder (or Campbell), who some said had given birth to a child that died soon after, naming Puggy as the father. During the incident, he pulled a gun and shot Mary dead. She was accompanied by Puggy’s older sister, Mary Scully, who was also shot and died the next day at the age of just 28. Puggy fled town but was soon captured in Kansas City. After a speedy trial, he was sentenced to 40 years, and was sent to Joliet Prison. In December 1889, he was transferred to an insane asylum.

The O’Learys’ second son James was far more successful in life. After a few years working in the Stockyards, where he earned the nickname “Big Jim,” he opened a saloon at 4183 S. Halsted Street, that featured Turkish baths, a restaurant, a billiard room, and a bowling alley. He opened a gambling operation in the rear of the building, and in time established himself as a gambling boss in Chicago.

He became a multi-millionaire and built a mansion (shown below) for his family, which still stands at 726 W. Garfield Boulevard. (He closed the operation in 1921 and died in 1925, but in an ironic twist of fate, the saloon building was destroyed in the 1934 Union Stockyards Fire – the largest fire in Chicago since the Great Fire of 1871.)

Patrick and Catherine O’Leary later purchased a house at 5133 S. Halsted Street. In September 1894, Patrick O’Leary was returning home, exiting the Halsted streetcar near his residence when he started to feel unwell. He made it to the front stoop of his house where he collapsed. His children carried him inside, but he was dead before they could get him to the couch. A large Irish wake with many “Kerry men” present took place, and he was interred in the family plot in Mount Olivet Cemetery.

Catherine O’Leary, who had been “feeble” for a few years, died in July 1895, still unable to separate herself from the story of her cow. Her obituary in the Chicago Tribune bore the headline:

“MRS. O’LEARY IS DEAD -
SHE WAS NOTED PRINCIPALLY BECAUSE OF HER COW.
That Milk-Producing Animal Caused the Fire That Devastated the City in 1871”

Later Years

Catherine O’Leary was laid to rest, but not the story of her cow. Just three years after she died, a Vaudeville star wrote a set of words to the popular song of the time, A Hot Time in the Old Town, perpetuating the O’Leary myth:

“One dark night, when we were all in bed,
Mrs. O’Leary left a lantern in the shed.
And when the cow kicked it over,
She winked her eye and said,
There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight!”

In 1911, on the fortieth anniversary of the fire, Michael Ahern, the last surviving reporter who had covered the Chicago Fire, recanted his story. He claimed that he was one of several reporters who simply made up the story, when the actual cause of the fire could not be quickly determined. Despite his confession, it did little to stop the story that was now a part of Chicago legend.

The O’Learys’ last surviving child, Catherine O’Leary Ledwell, continued to defend her mother until her own death on Christmas Day 1936. On the sixty-second anniversary of the fire, just a few years before she passed away, Ledwell was interviewed by a reporter from the New York Times. She discounted the story once again, noting her mother didn’t milk cows after 5:00pm, and recalling the horror of the scene, “I can see the burning yet, and the rushing about, and the weeping, and the rest.” The article went on to explain, “The fire has been taboo in the Ledwell home. A son explained that he was recently ordered out of the house for singing, ‘There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight’.”

An additional 60 years would have to pass before the matter was put to rest once and for all. In October 1997, Alderman Ed Burke introduced a resolution before the City Council officially exonerating Mrs. O’Leary of any involvement in the fire. The resolution concludes:

“WHEREAS, Although contemporary research appears to vindicate Mrs. O’Leary, she has unfairly remained vilified and maligned by history; now, therefore

“BE IT RESOLVED, That we, the Mayor and members of the Chicago City Council assembled this twenty-eighth day of October 1997, do hereby forever exonerate Mrs. O’Leary and her cow from all blame in regard to the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.”

NOTE: Special thanks to Helen (O’Leary) Bozic – a great-granddaughter of Mrs. O’Leary, and historians Richard F. Bales, Ellie Carlson, and Ellen Skerrett for their assistance with this article. For the most detailed account of Mrs. O’Leary, including a transcript of her interview from the November 1871 inquiry, see The Great Chicago Fire and the Myth of Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow by Richard F. Bales (McFarland & Company, Inc., Jefferson, NC, 2002).

Chicago Fire Stories Part II: The Glessners

John and Frances Glessner arrived in Chicago in December 1870, just ten months before much of the city was destroyed in the "great conflagration." In this article, we will briefly review their life in Chicago prior to that event, and then share a first-hand account of the fire and its aftermath as recorded by John Glessner.

John Glessner and Frances Macbeth were married on December 7, 1870, in the parlor of the Macbeth house in Springfield, Ohio. On December 15, after a week visiting family, they arrived in Chicago, which they would call home for the remainder of their lives. For their first week in Chicago, the Glessners stayed at the Sherman House, advertised at the time as the “finest hotel in the northwest.” The hotel stood at the northwest corner of Randolph and Clark, directly across from Courthouse Square. (Today, it forms part of the site of the James R. Thompson Center).

The Sherman House as it appeared before and after the fire

They came to Chicago so that John Glessner could take charge of the local office of Warder, Mitchell & Co. of which he had recently been made junior partner. The office and warehouse were located at the northwest corner of Madison and Canal streets. (The firm later became Warder, Bushnell & Glessner, and ultimately merged with four others in 1902 to become International Harvester).

Blue arrow - 69 Park Avenue; Red arrow - office at Madison and Canal

On December 28, exactly three weeks after their wedding, the Glessners moved into their first home, located on the west side, which they rented for $45 per month. Of the house, John Glessner wrote, “We rented the house at 69 Park Avenue, corner of Page Street, two blocks west of Union Park – a nice, comfortable two-story frame house that had been built by Judge McAllister and never lived in by anyone except his family. Here we were quite happy, Frances was an excellent housekeeper, our furnishings were all new and selected by her, and the house under her ministration was very charming.” (The house is long gone. Park Avenue later became Maypole Avenue and is one block south of Lake Street. Page Street, which was two blocks west of Ashland Avenue, became Hermitage Avenue).

The Glessners’ first child, a son whom they named George Macbeth Glessner, was born at home on October 2, 1871, just six days before the start of the Great Chicago Fire. His mother was confined to bed for nearly two weeks following childbirth.

Frances Glessner with George at 3-1/2 months, January 1872

On Saturday, October 7, the night before the Great Fire, another serious fire destroyed nearly four blocks bounded by Adams Street on the north, the Chicago River on the east, Van Buren Street on the south, and Clinton Street on the west. The northern edge of this fire was just two blocks from Glessner’s office and warehouse, a deeply concerning fact for John Glessner until it was finally brought under control in the early hours of October 8. In an ironic twist of fate, that fire ensured the survival of Glessner’s office during the Chicago Fire, as the leveled blocks served as a firebreak and prevented the fire from spreading north on the west side of the Chicago River.

Map showing area burned in the October 7 fire; the red star marks the site of John Glessner's office (North is at right)

Pink area shows area burned in the Great Chicago Fire; the area burned on October 7 is bordered in blue; the location of John Glessner's office is shown with the red arrow

The Great Chicago Fire began on Sunday, October 8 at about 8:30pm in the O’Leary barn on De Koven Street. It quickly spread north toward the business district, fanned by strong winds which became superheated and blew debris long distances. Lumber yards, warehouses, coal yards, and wooden bridges were quickly consumed until the fire had come close to Glessner’s office. He wrote:

“The watchman from my office and warehouse, faithful Dick Cunningham, came that Sunday evening to say I ought to go down to look after things, as the fire was but half a block away. Of course, I went, and staid there or nearby until morning. I crossed the river and stood at the corner of Madison and Market Streets – that very wide street (now Wacker Drive) – and saw the blaze blown across the river, strike the west wall of a large brick building on opposite corner, suck down that wall and back along the roadway to my feet, so that I had to get away.

“It is impossible to express the grandeur of the scene, and the horror. Had there been plenty, no amount of water could have extinguished that blaze. Fanned by a strong southwest wind, it swept over the whole business section, crossed the main branch of the river, and burned the North Side, factories, residences, water works, and everything. Fortunately, the fire did not come nearer than the half block to my building, and my home was a mile and a half away. When I got home in the morning, I found Frances had been sleeping quietly and had not missed me.”

Looking northeast across the Randolph Street bridge; this was two blocks north of John Glessner's office

Looking north on 5th Avenue (now Wells Street) at Madison Street; this was three blocks east of John Glessner's office

Even before the fire burnt itself out on October 10, plans were already underway to provide relief for the nearly 90,000 people left homeless (28% of the population). John Glessner continues:

“I was too new in Chicago to have much part in the relief measures but did what I could. Christie Holloway came, conveying a carload of provisions from Springfield (Ohio), and he stopped at my house; and other friends and acquaintances came, bringing supplies of various kinds, and stopped with me, for there were no hotels standing.

“My friends in Ohio and elsewhere sent contributions to me to turn over to proper authorities and showed great confidence in me. One man whom I never had seen sent me $500.00 to distribute where I thought best, without any restrictions. I went to five different preachers and offered each one hundred dollars to help members of their congregations who might be in need and too proud to ask aid. And only one of these responded generously. The others each wanted two hundred or three hundred dollars, and so on, but Rev. Dr. Parkhurst, Methodist, said, ‘Mr. Glessner, there are members of my church who are in need, but they don’t need help as badly as some others, and I would recommend you to see . . .” – so and so of other churches.”

Rev. Matthew Parkhurst; Grace Methodist Church, Chicago Avenue and LaSalle Street, as it appeared before the fire

The ministers to whom the donations were made were Rev. Arthur Mitchell (First Presbyterian), Rev. Abbott E. Kittredge (Third Presbyterian – where Frances Glessner was a member), Rev. Matthew Parkhurst (Grace Methodist), and Revs. Hartman and Anderson (churches unknown). Regarding the clergy, John Glessner also noted that “Our Presbyterians preached that the Chicago fire was punishment by the Lord for our wickedness, but when the Boston fire came soon after, it was ‘Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.’”

An immediate concern for everyone was the lack of water, due to the destruction of the water works. Residents could have water hauled from the lake at a cost of $2 to $5 per barrel, but the Glessners were luckier than most:

“Of course, everybody was without water and when the maid came to me to say she could get none from the tap and it was washday morning, she not knowing the extent of the fire, I went to the kitchen, and upon examination found a large cistern full of beautiful clear water that we used for everything except drinking.”

Glessner’s business would be quiet until spring. He was in the process of having a new warehouse built at the southeast corner of Lake and Clinton streets, so moved his stock of machinery into the stable behind his house and gave his warehouse at Madison and Canal to his friends Albert and Otho Sprague, partners in the firm of Sprague, Warner & Company. From that site, the firm was able to restart their wholesale grocery business, which at the time was the largest of its kind in Chicago.

Surprisingly, Frances Glessner remained totally unaware of the fire and the comings and goings of visitors in her home, due to her confinement following the birth of George. John Glessner noted that “We kept from Frances all knowledge of these visitors and of the fearful tragedy of the fire for ten days or two weeks. The first time I could take her out, we drove down through the burned district. It was a dismal sight.”

The burnt district looking southeast across Randolph toward the courthouse ruins. The Sherman House, where the Glessners spent their first week in Chicago, would have stood at extreme left across from Courthouse Square.

In the end, the Glessners fared the tragedy far better than many others in the city. Home and business were spared, and they were able to focus on their new role of parents, while aiding the sufferers as they could. John Glessner closed his account of the fire with these words:

“The fire came close to but had not damaged any of my property. Our business was entirely out of the city, so that no sufferer owed us anything, and aside from our bank balance being tied up for thirty days we lost not a dollar, and I felt almost mortified because of our good fortune in the general distress.”