In Baltimore, Maryland, the history of patronage, use, and collecting of painted furniture spans over two centuries. One of the most fascinating and complex suites (fig. 1) is associated with John B. Morris, a nineteenth-century Baltimore lawyer, businessman, and banker. Renowned for its imagery, which includes views of country estates in and around the city, this suite has received a great deal of attention in scholarly publications. Much about this furniture has been discovered, yet the motivation for its creation has remained a mystery. The Morris suite continues to offer a particularly rich opportunity to explore how objects were shaped not only by their makers, but also by those who commissioned them, and how their existence was determined by cultural factors that fostered and encouraged a need for their production.
The Morris suite is remarkable for several reasons, not the least being its size. Comprised of ten armchairs, two settees, and a pier table, the suite may have included at least two additional chairs. Although not supported by contemporary documentation, the suite was apparently made by the renowned Baltimore furniture makers John and Hugh Finlay and decorated with seventeen medallions depicting country houses and other buildings in and around the city by landscape painter Francis Guy (see app. 1–16 and pier table). The latter's oil on canvas paintings often feature local country seats depicted in a similar manner. Advertisements by the Finlays suggest that the suite dates circa 1803–1805. The brothers illustrated a side chair of the same form as the armchairs in the Morris suite in 1803 (fig. 2) and offered to produce furniture "with or without views adjacent to the city” through 1804.[1]
Although there is no evidence they owned the Morris suite, members of the Gilmor family of Baltimore owned two of the houses depicted on the furniture: Beech Hill, the country residence of Robert Gilmor, Sr., and The Vineyard, the country estate of his son William Gilmor (app. 5, 16). Surprisingly, none of the houses can be associated with Robert's eldest son, Robert Jr., one of the country's most prominent art collectors and, apparently, the most aesthetically inclined member of the family. However, documentary evidence regarding Robert Jr.'s possessions and their dispersal demonstrates that throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries wealthy and socially prominent Baltimoreans often bought furniture at auction from the sales of various family members as well as those of their social peers. Extant auction catalogues document only a fraction of the sales that occurred and an even smaller percentage of the furniture that changed hands in the city. In many instances, these consumption patterns make traditions of original family ownership problematic. As is the case with the Morris suite, many pieces of Baltimore furniture cannot be documented before the late nineteenth century.[2]
Several examples of painted furniture that reportedly belonged to Robert Gilmor, Jr., illustrate this problem. A card table (Maryland Historical Society) has been linked to him through oral tradition, and a lounge (Hampton National Historic Site) has been associated with him through its descent in the family of his brother William. Although it is possible that Gilmor was the original owner of both objects, there is no documentary evidence to support that conclusion. He clearly owned many pieces of furniture that have not been identified. In 1815, Harriott Horry of Charleston, South Carolina, noted that his drawing room contained furniture upholstered in crimson damask: "the outsides of the arms of the Sofas are a sort of griffin in Bronze with brass or gilt heads, a marble slab supported in the same manner in the middle pier has a looking glass fixed under it and the chairs have loose cushions with tassels.” The pier table illustrated in figure 3 may have also have belonged to Gilmor. Oral tradition maintained that the table came from the Hoffman family house at Cathedral and Franklin Streets, but it may have been acquired at the 1910 sale of J. Latimer Hoffman—a cousin and collateral descendant of Gilmor who lived further east on Franklin. Similarly, Gilmor may have owned the sofa (fig. 4) that subsequently entered the antique collection of Baltimore physician William H. Crim. This elaborate seating form had metal supports like those mentioned in Horry's diary.[3]
Although Crim's sale had an illustrated catalogue issued by A. O. Kirkland in 1903, published records for auctions held during the early to midnineteenth century are scarce. A notable exception is the estate sale of John Eager Howard, whose house Belvidere is depicted on the Morris suite (app. 1). Copies of the auction catalogue and a manuscript list of purchasers survive, indicating that Howard had three sets of painted furniture: a blue suite comprised of chairs, settees, and brackets; a set of white armchairs; and a yellow suite comprised of settees, armchairs, and window benches. Howard's sons, Benjamin and Charles, bought the white and blue sets, and Charles Carnan Ridgely of Hampton acquired the yellow (figs. 5, 6).[4]
Unlike Howard's sets, many important pieces of Baltimore painted furniture remain poorly documented. Furniture scholars have long maintained that the set of chairs represented by the example illustrated in figure 7 was associated with the Abell family or their relatives throughout the nineteenth century. However, the branch of the Abell family that owned them at the turn of the twentieth century bought furniture in the classical style at local auctions. Mrs. Edwin Franklin Abell, for example, purchased the sofa at the Crim sale (fig. 4). Therefore, the Abells could have acquired the side chairs now associated with them through avenues other than family descent. The same can be said of John B. Morris and the painted suite traditionally associated with him.[5]
Although the forms of the Morris suite are elegant and refined, it is their decoration that sets them apart from most other painted furniture (figs. 8, 9). The extraordinary nature of this work is amply demonstrated by comparing it to that found on a suite of painted furniture made for the Buchanan family of Baltimore and traditionally attributed to John and Hugh Finlay. The Buchanan suite included at least sixteen pieces: ten side chairs, two window seats, two card tables, a settee, and a pier table (figs. 10-15, 31, 32). Attrition may account for the fact that both suites have ten chairs, since sets typically came in multiples of six. The patron who commissioned the Morris suite chose the more costly armchair form—apparently for a room where cards were not intended to be played—and specified that the crest rails and skirts of all the furniture be decorated with paintings of buildings. Only the pier table and card tables from the Buchanan suite are decorated in that manner (figs. 12-15, 32, 33). The crest rails on all of the chairs and window seats are embellished with various armorial, musical, and floral trophies (figs. 10, 11).[6]
The extravagant display of effort in the decoration of the Morris suite is its most notable feature. Decorators in the Finlays’ shop may have relied on designs in drawing books to paint trophies like those on the Buchanan suite as well as imaginary landscapes; however, the depiction of actual buildings required the artist to visit the site. Assuming that Francis Guy was responsible for the views on the Morris suite, he undoubtedly made preliminary sketches in the field before executing the paintings in his studio or the Finlays’ shop. Although Guy painted oil on canvas landscapes depicting three of the houses on the suite and could have reused some of his own studies, the chronology of these images is not known. The suite could be earlier than the landscapes. In an era before photography and easily obtained transportation, the expense and effort that went into obtaining the seventeen views of buildings on the Morris suite would have been obvious to anyone using the furniture—and that was undoubtedly the whole point of the commission.[7]
One of the earliest published descriptions of the Morris furniture is in Letitia Stockett's Baltimore: A Not Too Serious History (1928). While touring the Mount Vernon area, she stopped at 401 North Charles Street, the former residence of Francis Key Howard (1826–1872) and his wife Lydia E. Hollingsworth Morris (d. 1921). Lydia's parents John B. (1785–1874) and Anne Marie (Hollingsworth) Morris (d. 1847) have traditionally been the earliest owners associated with the painted suite. Stockett observed that the Howards’ house had been furnished with "beautiful and lovely things,” including a set of furniture (figs. 16, 17) made "by Lindley [sic] and decorated with miniatures of famous country estates in and near Baltimore.” After noting that several of the houses were no longer standing, Stockett expressed her concern about where these "chairs and tables so intimately associated with our history will find a home.” Her anxiety probably arose from the recent sale of the house, the dismantling of its contents, and the marriage of two daughters who would live elsewhere.[8]
By the 1930s, the Morris suite was achieving local and national distinction, not only as superb examples of Maryland decorative arts, but, as Stockett had suggested, as a record of early Baltimore houses that had largely disappeared. In 1930 one of the chairs appeared in an article on Maryland furniture in Antiques, and in 1936 the Peale Museum included photographs of the buildings depicted on the suite in an exhibition on early Baltimore country houses. Later in that same year, the Index of American Design recorded the chair with Willow Brook depicted on its crest rail (fig. 18). The rendering was subsequently included in an exhibition at the National Museum in Washington, D.C., devoted to the fruits of this WPA project. By 1937, when furniture historian Edgar G. Miller illustrated several pieces from the suite in his two-volume book, American Antique Furniture, the suite had become well established in the canon of American furniture. Over the next several years the Baltimore Museum of Art received most of the furniture in the Morris suite on loan (with the exception of two chairs), and in 1966 the institution acquired the entire suite.[9]
When the photographs of the suite were exhibited at the Peale Museum in 1936, the Baltimore Sun reported that the furniture had been "used at Claremont (or Clearmont), the country home of the late John B. Morris.” Since Morris’ daughter Lydia and her husband Frank Key Howard were deceased at that time, the Sun's information apparently came from their surviving children, Lydia Howard DeFord or Charles Morris Howard. However, after the suite came to the Baltimore Museum of Art, tradition asserted that the furniture had been "made for” John B. Morris in about 1805, and "had never been out of the family of its original owner.” This interpretation persisted until 1981, when decorative arts scholar Stiles Colwill posited that John B. Morris was not yet living in Baltimore and was too young to have commissioned the suite. Colwill suggested that Morris might have acquired the furniture second hand sometime after his marriage in 1817. Although Colwill's theory is probably correct, there is no documentation placing the suite in Morris’ possession.[10]
Stockett failed to publish any information about the history of the furniture, but she apparently knew of the list associated with it. Written on stationary from 401 North Charles Street, this list and a nearly identical one penned by the same hand (private collection) are the oldest manuscripts pertaining to the suite. Early accounts stated that an "old family memorandum” accompanied the furniture, but the lists are relatively modern. Both pieces of stationary have 1904 watermarks, which indicate that the lists were made between that date and before 1928, when Stockett misread "Lindley for Findlay.”[11]
The manuscript list illustrated in figures 19 and 20 is titled "Names of Country Seats/ on the Clermont Furniture” on the outside and "List of names on the/ furniture, at Clermont,/ made by Findlay” on the inside. These inscriptions establish that the furniture was at this country house northwest of Baltimore by the twentieth century and that it possibly remained there until it was moved to 401 North Charles Street, photographed in situ, and apparently removed by circa 1928. Although the precise date that John B. Morris acquired Clermont is not known, he either rented or owned it by 1835. In July of that year, his sister-in-law Lydia E. Hollingsworth wrote that the family would be spending the summer there to avoid the heat. Morris subsequently gave or sold Clermont to his daughter Lydia and her husband, who were recorded as the owners in 1873.[12]
By the turn of the twentieth century when the list was made, whatever Lydia Morris Howard knew about the history of the suite consisted of very old memories, because her father had been deceased for nearly thirty years and her mother for even longer. Considering that the furniture is at least a century older than the list, some caution should be taken regarding the manuscript's accuracy. In the absence of a contemporary bill of sale, it raises important questions about knowledge of the Finlays’ work at the beginning of the twentieth century. Why this list was made is not known, but two scenarios regarding its creation seem likely—the Howards either copied or adapted an earlier list, or they made a list for the first time. With the exception of the pier table, which is not numbered on the manuscript, the numerals on the list correspond with those painted on the rear seat rails of the chairs and settees (fig. 21). These numbers were probably added to the suite when the list was made since the numerals on the seating furniture and the document appear to be by the same hand. Although Lydia Morris Howard may have been involved in making the list, her daughter Lydia Howard DeFord probably wrote it. It cannot be a coincidence that Belvidere, the ancestral country seat of Lydia DeFord's greatgrandfather, John Eager Howard, is number one on the list. The primacy of this home would only have been this important to John Eager Howard or his descendants, particularly since no Morris family house is depicted on the furniture.[13]
Although the suite has been associated with John B. Morris since the 1930s, the furniture has an alternate provenance. The earliest reference to the suite—the catalogue of a 1914 Baltimore exhibition celebrating the centennial of the writing of the Star Spangled Banner—noted that the furniture belonged to Lydia Morris Howard, was loaned by her daughter Miss Nancy H. Howard, and came from Belvidere. In this exhibition the Morris pieces, which were apparently one of the most significant attractions, were complemented by furniture from the Ridgely family that was originally from Belvidere (fig. 5). Catalogued one after the other, the similar provenance was undoubtedly thought to be important. By this time the Ridgelys were also descendants of John Eager Howard, so it is highly likely that these cousins knew each other and their furniture. The Belvidere provenance for the Morris furniture was repeated fourteen years later when Lydia Howard DeFord loaned one of the settees and three chairs for an exhibition at Homewood House on the campus of Johns Hopkins University. The catalogue noted that the furniture was originally from Belvidere, "the home of John Eager Howard.” This Howard-Belvidere provenance, which would have been tremendously interesting and important to Baltimore audiences, was never published after 1928. Nancy H. Howard died unmarried in 1926, and perhaps with her the origin of the Belvidere provenance. However, her estate records indicate that before her death the suite was divided between Lydia Morris Howard's children, although the furniture would later be reunited as members of Nancy's generation died. Lydia's planned division of the furniture may explain the creation of multiple copies of the manuscript list describing the suite. Although Nancy's sister Lydia Howard DeFord may have told the organizers of the Homewood exhibition that her furniture came from Belvidere, the same pieces were published with the Morris family provenance by the late 1930s as were two chairs from the suite owned by her brother Charles Morris Howard. The Morris provenance was apparently first put forward when photographs of the images were exhibited at the Peale Museum in 1936.[14]
The Belvidere provenance for the Morris suite is unlikely. Frank Key Howard's father Charles did purchase a suite of blue painted furniture at his father's sale that was similar in composition to the Morris suite, but it is doubtful that the auctioneer would have mistaken blue for black. Moreover, John Eager Howard's blue suite did not have a pier table and included side chairs rather than armchairs. Perhaps the 1936 exhibition at the Peale Museum brought the Belvidere auction catalogue to the attention of Lydia Morris Howard's children, encouraging them to revise their thoughts on the origin of their suite. The Howards—or those who assembled the 1914 and 1928 catalogues—may simply have believed the furniture was from Belvidere because that house is depicted on the Morris suite and was at the time owned by descendants of John Eager Howard. Why, however, would Howard have commissioned a suite of furniture and placed his house on a chair, while using the larger reserve on the pier table for an image of a Rogers family house (see figs. 24, 25)?[15]
The creation of the manuscript list identifying the buildings on the suite would seem to be a Colonial Revival exercise in recapturing history. A 1914 newspaper article by Amy D’Arcy Wetmore extolled the virtues of these country seats and lamented the fact that they were vanishing as the city expanded. Since the Howards’ methods of identifying the houses are not known, it is difficult to judge the accuracy of their lists. If they were working from an earlier manuscript, it may have contained only last names and not identified the respective houses. Three of the names on the list ("McCurdy,” "L. Pierce,” and "Walter Dorsey”) do not have property designated (figs. 19, 20), which suggests that the Howards were not able to figure these out. Even after the suite came to the Baltimore Museum of Art, difficulty arose in attempting to learn more about the various buildings, and some of the identifications remain uncertain.[16]
Many of these buildings were torn down without ever being photographed, and conclusive identification of several of the structures depicted on the suite may not be possible. For nearly a century, the images on the suite have been treated as irrefutable evidence of how the buildings actually appeared, thus the suite has perpetuated the identifications found on the manuscript list. Confident attributions are possible for approximately two thirds of the seventeen buildings, because photographs, paintings, or prints offer some visual evidence to corroborate the identifications on the Howards’ list. There are obvious mistakes, including numbers 3 "Rose Hill W. Gibson,” and 4 "McCurdy” (app. 3 and 4). The depictions of Rose Hill on Warner & Hanna's 1801 map of Baltimore (figs. 22, 23) and in the background of Francis Guy's views of Bolton indicate that William Gibson's house was a five-bay Georgian building with a central pediment, whereas the house painted on the chair numbered 3 is only three bays wide. This has led scholars to believe that numbers 3 and 4 are simply reversed, and that the house depicted on chair number 3 was Hugh McCurdy's residence Grace Hill. However, an 1803 insurance policy issued by the Baltimore Equitable Society suggests that his country seat was five bays wide and had a raised basement and a balcony or porch extending across its long side, making it highly unlikely that this building was the one depicted on the chair numbered 3.[17]
The uncertainty in these identifications is important. Unlike previous interpretations of the Morris suite, which considered the decoration as merely representative views of important country houses in the Baltimore area, this article posits that the houses and buildings depicted on the furniture are bound together in a nexus of social connections specific to only one individual or patron. While the owners of these buildings do not easily coalesce into a readily identifiable matrix, they were among the elite of Baltimore society. Some of the property owners were from old Maryland families, such as John Eager Howard of Belvidere, and Charles Carroll, Jr., of Homewood. Others were from families that became prominent after the Revolutionary War, and some, like the Gilmors, had arrived in Baltimore during the last quarter of the eighteenth century. Most of the owners were Episcopalians or Presbyterians, and one, Charles Carroll, Jr., was Catholic. Some of those whose houses are on the suite were Federalists, whereas others were Republicans. John Eager Howard and Samuel Smith (Montebello), for example, were staunch political rivals. These two men may have been the most politically powerful individuals represented on the suite, although the placement of their country houses, on a chair and settee, respectively, does not accord them much prominence or equality.[18]
If the representation of important houses was the sole reason for the depiction of these buildings on the suite, it is difficult to explain why certain ones were omitted. Charles Carnan Ridgely's country house Hampton is not represented, yet it was one of the most sophisticated and imposing domestic buildings in the state. Some of the houses depicted on the suite were brand new, whereas others were not, and there is considerable variation in their apparent cost, style, and architectural significance (see app.). William Gilmor's The Vineyard is a modest dwelling with an end gable roof, and William Gibson's Rose Hill and Jeremiah Yellott's Woodville are rather simple five-bay Georgian structures with central pediments. Warner & Hanna's map (fig. 22) shows many examples of similar houses, but it does not include all of the buildings depicted on the suite. Some of the houses represented on the furniture were built after the map's publication, and some may have been omitted for practical reasons. The location of Willow Brook is covered by the dedicatory legend, and Homewood and The Vineyard were much further north than the area represented. Considering the geographic range covered by the buildings depicted on the suite, it is clear that dozens if not hundreds of other houses could have been chosen but were not. All of these factors point to a very specific reason for choosing the depicted structures.[19]
Until all of the houses can be firmly identified, theories regarding the link that connects them remain in the realm of speculation. However, several possibilities warrant exploration, including the centrality of the pier table to the suite and the preeminence of the image on that piece (figs. 24, 25). The image of the house represented on the skirt is nearly twice as large as the houses on the crest rails of the chairs and settees and would have been the only image visible when the furniture was in use; all of the remaining images would have been covered by the sitters. If the pier table was the only one in the suite—which appears to have been the case with several surviving sets—the image chosen for it must have been even more important. The fact that the table does not have a numeral on its rear rail and is not numbered on the Howard list also suggests that it may not have had a mate.[20]
The Howard list identifies the house on the pier table as Greenwood, the country residence of Philip Rogers, a brother of the more famous Nicholas Rogers. The image is somewhat damaged, but a chair from another partial suite of furniture has the same view on its crest rail (figs. 40, 41). No documentation accompanied the chair, but the house depicted on it has been published as Greenwood based on the pier table image. The dwelling is highly unusual among those represented on the suite and among country houses in the Baltimore vicinity. It is a one-story building above a raised basement with a crowning balustrade and a central parapet with a carved swag. In form, this house appears to be nearly identical to Druid Hill, the country residence built by Philip Rogers’ brother Nicholas, who was an amateur architect (figs. 26, 27). Several authors have stated that Nicholas Rogers designed a very similar house for Philip—based solely on the image on the Morris suite—but such an occurrence seems unlikely.[21]
Little of Nicholas Rogers’ architecture survives, but his known work suggests that he experimented with different styles, forms, and motifs. There is no reason to believe that he would abandon this proclivity and design a house identical to Druid Hill for his brother. As a gentleman architect, Rogers realized that houses could be extensions of an owner's personal identity as well as emblems for subsequent generations. This was certainly true of his family. Druid Hill figures prominently in the background of Charles-Balthazar-Julien Févret de St. Mémin's profile portrait of Rogers’ only daughter Harriet (fig. 28).[22]
If Philip's house was identical to Druid Hill, how would contemporary observers know which Rogers house was being referenced in the suite of painted furniture? Topography and garden plantings may have provided clues, as is the case with similar five-bay Georgian structures like Rose Hill (fig. 23, app. 4) and Woodville (app. 10); however, the house on the pier table appears elevated, resembling the hillside setting of Druid Hill (see fig. 26).
Other evidence may have led architectural historian Michael Trostel to speculate that the house on the pier table represents Druid Hill rather than Greenwood. The image long assumed to be Greenwood looks nothing like the structure identified as Philip Rogers’ residence on Warner & Hanna's map (fig. 29). It appears that the latter house was destroyed and replaced with a new one by 1801. An insurance policy issued by the Baltimore Equitable Society in that year noted that Greenwood was made of brick, measured sixty-two by forty-four feet and had "one story above the water table”—a description that does not correspond with the traditional Georgian house shown on the map. An 1815 policy valued the house at $3,000 and mentioned that it had a "kitchen etc. underneath, plain finished.” In comparison, an insurance policy for Druid Hill described it as a brick building measuring sixty-five by forty-seven feet "with Basement story, in which is a large Kitchen with other necessary rooms. It is one & half stories and rough cast, having a flat roof & center part covered with cement. Well finished with good materials.” In 1824, Druid Hill was valued at $8,000.[23]
Although similar in size, Greenwood and Druid Hill were different. The former was a one-story brick dwelling, whereas the latter was a story and a half and had brick walls finished with stucco—"cement” and "rough cast.” Furthermore, Greenwood was "plain finished,” while Druid Hill was "[w]ell finished with good materials.” All of this mattered to an insurance company that would have to pay for the building to be rebuilt if destroyed. If Greenwood had replicated Druid Hill it would have been appraised at a similar value. Given these descriptions, the image depicted on the pier table is most likely Druid Hill.
By the beginning of the twentieth century, the Howards may not have realized that the Druid Hill known to them was Nicholas Rogers’ house. If they compiled their list of houses depicted on the suite from an earlier list or from memory, this building may have been known simply as the "Rogers house.” The city of Baltimore purchased Nicholas’ house from his son Lloyd in 1860 and subsequently altered it by removing the parapet and original porch (fig. 27) and adding a cupola and a large, encircling Italianate-style porch. With these changes, the house became the centerpiece of the park that the city created out of the property. A newspaper article written at about the same time that the Howards created their list indicates that many Baltimoreans did not understand the unusual design of the original house. Ferdinand C. Latrobe reported that "the Mansion as it stands today is the original home of the Rogers family, but what was the first floor has been made a sort of basement and the second floor has become the first floor.” He did not realize that the house was designed as a piano nobile resting over a raised basement story. This misconception would have influenced contemporary views regarding the original elevation. Aside from this residence and the supposed McCurdy house, the identities of other structures depicted on the suite are not being called into question, in most cases for lack of comparative documentation.[24]
Another image central to understanding the suite depicts Mount Clare, the house built by Charles Carroll, barrister (app. 11). Aside from Mount Clare, only one other house represented on the suite survives (see app. 13). By the time the furniture was made, the barrister had long been dead and his wife Margaret (Tilghman), who had spent the previous two decades making significant alterations to the residence and gardens, occupied the house. Remarkably, the Howards’ list notes that Mount Clare was the property of "Mrs. Carroll” (fig. 20). No other property was identified as being owned by a woman. Considering the personal stamp that Margaret placed on this house and the fact that she was the resident and taxpayer during the period when the furniture was commissioned, the image on the suite probably pertained to her rather than her deceased husband. Similarly, Woodville (app. 10) became associated with Mary Hollingsworth Yellott after her husband Jeremiah died in 1805. On October 1, 1810, the American & Commercial Daily Advertiser reported that Mary's father had died at "Woodville, the seat of Mrs. Yellott.” Thus, where no man was involved, a country house could be understood as representing the woman of the household.[25]
Two other images that shed light on the suite are public buildings. The central medallion on one of the settees (figs. 30, 31) depicts a structure known as the Banks of the City, and the crest rail of a chair has a representation of St. Paul's Charity School (figs. 8, 9). Completed about 1801, the Banks of the City building housed the Bank of Baltimore, the Bank of Maryland, and the Office of Discount and Deposit, which was part of the Bank of the United States. In 1797 members of the Bank of Maryland approached their counterparts in other financial institutions to establish "regulations for the convenience and protection of the several banks of the city.” The participating organizations created a committee comprised of three members of each institution's board to consult with the other banks on matters of mutual interest. In 1800 the Office of Discount and Deposit encouraged the other two banks to establish offices in the country to avoid the "malignant fever” that currently appicted the city. The directors of the participating banks understood the importance of a safe location. Many were prominent merchants who were undoubtedly concerned that their businesses would suffer if communication, trade, and banking were imperiled by the fear of illness or death. At a following meeting the parties authorized the purchase of land upon which to erect a "suitable building” for the "accommodation of the three banks in the vicinity of the city.” They subsequently acquired property at North Avenue and Bolton Street, which was then in the country. As these meetings were held near the close of 1800, the building was probably erected shortly thereafter.[26]
The houses of three individuals involved in the formative stages of the Banks of the City are represented on the suite: George Grundy, Robert Gilmor, Sr., and David Harris, the cashier of the Office of Discount and Deposit (see app. 2, 5, 8). Although the residences of some directors of the participating banks are also depicted, those of many are not. None of the directors of the Bank of Maryland in 1803 and 1804—likely years for the furniture's production—are represented. This suggests that the commission for the suite did not originate from the Banks of the City, but from other circles and interests.[27]
The Howards’ list identifies the other public building on the suite as the "Charity School–St. Paul's, on Madison Street.” This school was built in 1801 under the direction of the Benevolent Society of the City and County of Baltimore, a charitable organization founded in 1799. Although an offshoot of St. Paul's Protestant Episcopal Church, this school for orphan and indigent girls was supported by individuals from various religious denominations. Since the school was one of several charitable organizations active in the city during the period when the suite was made, its depiction must have been purposeful.[28]
The Benevolent Society was the vision of Eleanor Buchanan Rogers, the wife of Nicholas of Druid Hill. Considering the position of their house in the hierarchy of images on the suite, it is not surprising that the Charity School is among them. In 1799 she persuaded other women in the city to help sell subscriptions to raise money for the school, which they accomplished without the assistance of men. Once they met their goals and insured the success of the project, the women assembled a board of male trustees, as required by law, to run the financial and legal aspects of the school, and obtained a charter from the State of Maryland. Throughout its early history the school was run by a group of female managers and governed by men, including Nicholas Rogers who was one of the first trustees. Despite the legal necessity of having male trustees, the women of the society took every effort and precaution to keep the management and leadership of the organization within their control. According to their constitution, male subscribers had to contribute fifty dollars to vote for the trustees, whereas female subscribers only had to contribute five dollars to have this privilege. These trustees were empowered to select the managers from the Episcopalian women who were annual subscribers or from the "wives, sisters, or daughters” of male annual subscribers, who apparently need not have been Episcopalian. Thus a significantly higher number of women were able to participate in shaping the governance of the school, as was true in other charity schools in Baltimore.[29]
In 1811 the society published an Address to the Members of the Protestant Episcopal Church with a list of donations to date and two lists of annual subscribers, including lapsed and current subscriptions. The individuals specified as current subscribers were undoubtedly those most concerned with the promotion of the school. They included Harriet Carroll, Margaret Carroll, William Gibson, Mrs. Robert Gilmor, William Gilmor, George Grundy, Margaret Howard, and Nicholas Rogers, all of whom owned houses depicted on the suite (see app. 1, 2, 4, 5, 11, 13, 16, and pier table). In addition, Mrs. David Harris is listed as a twenty-dollar donor, and Jeremiah Yellott, who died six years earlier, is listed as a fifty-dollar donor (see app. 8, 10). According to this publication, Yellott left the Charity School $500 in his will. Margaret Carroll and Nicholas Rogers also left bequests to the Benevolent Society, as may have other supporters of the school. Thus eleven of the structures depicted on the suite are all linked with the Charity School, not just tangentially, but by individuals heavily invested in this benevolent cause. Importantly for the reidentification of the image on the pier table as Druid Hill, neither Philip Rogers nor his wife Mary Woodward Rogers had anything to do with the school, and thus it seems unlikely that their house would be centrally referenced here.[30]
Although many of the benefactors whose names appear in the Address were women, the actual number of female donors may have been higher. Men's names may have been attached to some donations for reasons of propriety or simply because they controlled the money. Considering the strong female presence in the formation and management of the Charity School, it is possible that the images on the suite are tied to the women who lived in the houses, perhaps more than to the men. This may explain why Robert Gilmor, Jr.'s house does not appear on any of the furniture, since his first wife died in 1803, and he did not remarry until 1807. If the suite was associated with Eleanor Rogers and the Charity School, it would also explain why Hampton is not depicted. Charles Carnan Ridgely was a trustee of the Orphaline Charity School, founded in 1801. Like the St. Paul's Charity School, this organization had female managers, but they tended to be the wives of tradesmen. Although relatives of Ridgely were contributors to the Benevolent Society, there is no evidence that he was involved. His and Philip Rogers’ absence from this circle may have arisen from their religious affiliation; both were among a small group of wealthy Marylanders who were instrumental in the establishment of Methodism in Baltimore. The absence of the Orphaline School and other charitable organizations among the buildings depicted on the suite indicates that the image of the St. Paul's Charity School was especially meaningful to the patron who commissioned the furniture. Although the Morris suite is strongly connected to the Benevolent Society and several of its benefactors, it is doubtful that the furniture was commissioned for use in the Charity School. Its cost would probably have been prohibitive, and its fragility and elegance would have been inappropriate for that environment.[31]
Furniture historian Wendy Cooper has recently suggested that painted furniture may have been intended for use in country houses, more specifically in rooms adjacent to gardens. By the late nineteenth century, many pieces of Baltimore painted furniture were in country house settings, but their presence there does not preclude their earlier use elsewhere. This furniture may have been considered old fashioned and not appropriate for newer drawing rooms in town. Photographs of the interior of the Howard house at 401 North Charles Street demonstrate how discordant the Morris suite looked in rooms furnished largely with late nineteenth-century furniture and decorations (figs. 16, 17).[32]
Although Cooper's hypothesis may apply to some painted furniture, it is unlikely that the Morris suite was commissioned for a country house. Ever critical of Baltimore society, Betsy Patterson Bonaparte reported from Paris in 1816: "The waste of life which takes places with us shut up in our melancholy country houses where we vegetate for months alone is happily not endured here.” Although wealthy Marylanders often entertained guests at their country houses, the power, prestige, and social connections reflected in the furniture's imagery would have been more potent in an urban setting. Moreover, why would one need images of one's country house when in the country? In an urban context these images would have reminded the viewer that most of the individuals represented by the views had the financial resources to maintain a house in town and in the country.[33]
The symbiotic relationship between town and country is aptly displayed on Warner & Hanna's map (fig. 22), where the dense city blocks are shown with a legend listing key public buildings in town, including the courthouse, banks, and churches. Surrounding the town are numerous country seats, which were, in general, neither working farms nor year-round residences. Most of these estates had limited acreage and were pleasure retreats, largely for summer use. In 1808 the city contemplated annexing additional parts of the countryside because the lands owned by these "rich proprietors” derived "all their high value from the proximity to the commercial parts, to the markets, to the navigation &c.,” which justified taxation to assist in the city's maintenance. Considering that the Morris suite was probably made in the first decade of the nineteenth century, the images on the furniture may have held special meaning as sanctuaries for the elite during the various yellow fever epidemics that plagued the city in the late 1790s. At the dawn of the nineteenth century these estates represented wealth, comfort, and social power unattainable for much of Baltimore's population.[34]
Considering the diverse images depicted on the suite, it is unlikely that it was made for a private patron. In this regard, the furniture made for the Buchanan family offers a valuable comparison. Although this suite is comprised of sixteen pieces, including several table and seating forms, only the pier table and the two card tables have buildings depicted on them (figs. 12–15, 32, 33). Family tradition maintained that the suite was used in one of two townhouses owned by the three daughters of merchant William Buchanan. The paired buildings depicted on the pier table represent these houses which were located on Gay Street (figs. 14, 15). This placement of the most important image on the pier table suggests a similar use in the Morris suite. The building on the card table shown in figure 12 probably represents the Buchanan family's country house (fig. 13), whereas the corresponding image on its mate depicts the pair of townhouses built by William Buchanan's son James and John Hollins on Monument Square in 1799 (figs. 32, 33). All other pieces in the Buchanan suite are decorated with agricultural, musical, or armorial trophies (see figs. 10, 11). A similar decorative scheme occurs on a set of chairs that descended in the Ridgely family. Although only three examples are currently known, one has a view of Hampton while the others have landscape views. Thus for furniture intended for a private residence, only buildings relating to that family appear to have been appropriate. This suggests that Nicholas and Eleanor Rogers did not commission the Morris suite for Druid Hill.[35]
During this period there is only one location where the wealth, social connections, and charitable benevolence manifest in the imagery on the Morris suite would have been appropriate—the Baltimore Dancing Assembly Rooms. As the eighteenth century closed, the city had several hotels and inns used for assemblies, which were fashionable in both Britain and the United States. These assemblies were intended to encourage a public and genteel mixing of the sexes through conversation, dancing, card playing, and light refreshments (fig. 34). As the wealth of Baltimoreans increased, the Dancing Assembly endeavored to create a more exclusive and beautiful environment for their activities. In 1796 a group of subscribers raised $36,000 to erect a building for the organization, which had been in existence since the 1780s. Construction appears to have begun in 1797, and the new building, located at the northeast corner of Holliday and Fayette Streets (the current site of War Memorial Plaza), opened for assemblies in January 1799. Significantly, Nicholas Rogers designed the structure (fig. 35).[36]
Although descriptions of the Dancing Assembly Rooms are scarce, an 1800 city directory noted that the edifice had "perhaps the most elegant exterior of any building in the city.” The section of the structure that could be entered from the side door on Holliday Street housed the Library Company of Baltimore (fig. 36). On the right hand side of the ground floor was the card room and "the requisite number of dressing rooms, housekeepers’ room, &c.” The second floor had a large ballroom on the left, an adjoining supper room to the right, and smaller reception rooms and the staircase behind the supper room. This trio of rooms—ball, supper, and card—seems to have been standard for the planned functions of assemblies. The furniture forms in the Morris suite would have been most appropriate for the supper, ball, or reception rooms, since there are no card tables. Later in the history of the Dancing Assembly, an Englishman claimed that "the suite of dancing and refreshment rooms, in which the regular winter balls are held, are not surpassed in beauty by any in Europe. There are many much larger; but for richness, taste, and effective decoration, nothing can be more chastely beautiful than these.”[37]
This elegant building was the first monumental one in the city that was not governmental or ecclesiastical in nature. According to architectural historian Robert Alexander, "it commemorated the powerful position of the group that underwrote and used it, an oligarchy that conducted public and private business by association.” Importantly, this private building was built half a decade in advance of the new Baltimore City courthouse, which in size and overall architectural composition mimics the earlier structure. After the Dancing Assembly Rooms were completed, they outranked any of the previous assembly rooms that had been carved out of the various hotels in town. The erection of a purpose-built structure was not the norm in the United States at this time, demonstrating its importance in the social life of the city.[38]
The Dancing Assembly Rooms were where wealthy Baltimoreans went to see and be seen—they were the stage of their social pageantry. Membership was strictly by invitation, only men could be subscribers, and males living in the environs of Baltimore could not attend functions unless they were members. While the very nature of such assemblies was to be exclusive, the membership would have included a number of overlapping circles of relations, acquaintances, and business associates. Naturally, the invitation-only policy and the exclusive nature of the organization created friction between some members. In 1798 Robert Smith (brother of Samuel Smith) questioned Robert Oliver's ability to choose individuals of high character, an insult which almost escalated to a duel. Their conflict suggests how important it was to be represented in this select group. For apparently multiple reasons, the Baltimore Dancing Assembly was also plagued by financial difficulties. In 1817 the Dancing Assembly Rooms were sold, but the assembly put together a new set of subscribers, some of whom were members of the original group, to buy back the building. This new management continued until June 1835 when the Dancing Assembly Rooms were sold at auction and purchased by Benjamin Cohen, who refitted them and reopened them again for the same purpose. Apparently to make the rooms more profitable, Cohen added a third story to the structure shortly after his purchase. A few records survive for this period, suggesting a degree of continuity in the subscribers. Cohen's venture also failed, and in 1844 the city bought the building and converted it to the Central High School (fig. 37). The building continued to be used as a school until it burned in 1873.[39]
No complete list of the members of the Dancing Assembly survives, but many of the owners of the houses represented on the Morris suite were subscribers (see app. 1, 2, 5, 6, 8, 10, 13, 14, 16, and pier table). Although admired for their "richness, taste, and effective decoration,” specific details regarding the furnishings of these rooms are not mentioned in any documents currently known. The furniture was, however, important to both the managers and members. As the rooms were nearing completion, the subscribers were required to pay an additional seventy-five dollars to "complete the building and purchase the necessary furniture, &c.” Considering the exigencies of any construction campaign, one wonders whether this additional levy was sufficient to finish the building and purchase furniture, or if the latter was put off to a later date. If used at the Dancing Assembly Rooms, the Morris suite could have been commissioned to augment furniture already there, perhaps more utilitarian pieces that had been acquired when the building first opened. The number of seating pieces in the suite seems small, but images of the Pump Room at Bath from the mid-eighteenth century to the mid-nineteenth century indicate that it was sparsely furnished. Such rooms were for parading of society, and attendees were apparently expected to spend most of their time standing or dancing. As the assemblies were only held once or twice a month during the winter season, infrequent use may account for the furniture's survival. The 1836 Dancing Assembly rules and regulations stated the directors of the assembly had the "privilege of using the Rooms (including also the furniture) without charge.” By this period, whatever furniture had been used in the rooms at the time the Morris suite was made may no longer have been there, but nineteenth-century accounts suggest that the furnishings were an essential complement to the interior architecture.[40]
Although traditionally thought of exclusively as furniture makers, the Finlays marketed themselves as orchestrators of Baltimore's social pageantry, and on several occasions they clearly performed that function. In 1803 and 1804 they advertised that they were capable of making Masonic and military banners, and painting coaches (fig. 2)—all items used by the city's elite to signal their position in society and inform others that they possessed good taste. The Finlays were also involved in important and symbolic events, including both interior and exterior celebrations. For the 1814 dinner celebrating Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry's victory at Lake Erie, one of the Finlays decorated the banquet room of the Fountain Inn with American flags and an American eagle suspended from the ceiling and recreated the quarter-deck of a ship to serve as a stage for seating Perry, President James Madison, and other distinguished guests. Other emblematic decorations filled the room and adorned the tables, while the stage was backed by a transparency representing Perry's capture of the British fleet. In the following year the Finlays were involved with the ceremonies dedicating the Washington Monument and Battle Monument. When the cornerstone of the Washington Monument was laid in 1815, Rembrandt Peale recalled that "Mr. [Hugh] Finlay, an upholsterer of taste got up a decorative display depicting the column and a portrait by Peale of George Washington, and surrounded the whole with festoons of drapery and flags of the union.” Later in that same year, John Finlay and Rembrandt Peale collaborated to create the "funeral car” that led the procession to the future site of architect Maximilian Godefroy's Battle Monument. The "plan” that surmounted the car may have been a model of the monument.[41]
Considering the importance of the Dancing Assembly Rooms in Baltimore social life, there is every reason to believe that the Finlays would have been involved in decorating and furnishing them with objects that demonstrated the wealth, taste, and benevolence of certain subscribers. Their firm also decorated and refurbished coaches for various subscribers. In 1806 and 1807 Robert Oliver paid the Finlays for providing thirty-eight chairs and two settees for his new house and "repairing” (probably repainting) his carriage. The former's patronage suggests the Finlays were the premier firm for such services. From the opening of the Dancing Assembly Rooms until well into the 1830s, the assembly association published guidelines to direct how coaches would arrive and depart from the building. John H. B. Latrobe recalled that it "was necessary to have the reputation for wealth in those days to justify keeping a carriage.”[42]
Evidence suggests that painted furniture was considered more appropriate for spaces that accommodated public receptions than mahogany furniture during the early nineteenth century. In 1809 the White House purchased painted furniture designed by Benjamin Henry Latrobe and decorated by the Finlays for the Blue Room (Oval Room). This suite was replaced by gilded furniture after the White House burned. The Finlays’ involvement may have arisen from a recommendation by Baltimore congressman Samuel Smith, whose house is depicted on the Morris suite. In a March 10, 1809, letter to Dolly Madison, Smith referred to "Finlay” as "our Man of Taste.” This endorsement suggests that Smith had firsthand knowledge of the Finlays’ ability to decorate and furnish important public interiors such as the Dancing Assembly Rooms—Baltimore's premier reception space in this period. Moreover, Smith's language implies a communal acceptance of the Finlays’ local role far beyond that which would have been achieved by the furnishing of any one particular house.[43]
One clue suggesting the use of painted furniture in the service of social pagentry is a chair from a set reputedly made for a banquet in honor of Marquis de Lafayette's visit to Baltimore in 1824 (figs. 38, 39). Although oral tradition maintained that the chair was made for a dinner Lafayette attended with a committee of citizens of the corporation of Baltimore, it is more likely that the set was made for the ball and "renowned ‘Silver Supper’” held for him in the Dancing Assembly Rooms. According to historian Thomas Scharf, the "splendor of this fete was long remembered by the fashionable society of the city.” Lafayette was paraded through the rooms in a carefully orchestrated sequence of events, including a receiving line, the ball itself, and two seatings of dinner at which he and the managers of the evening sat at a head table. This event also suggests that the Dancing Assembly Rooms were where prominent Baltimoreans celebrated their history and their collective achievements. The year of the "Silver Supper” Thomas Waters Griffith gave seven lectures there on the history of Maryland.[44]
Although the life of Baltimore's bon ton rotated around the activities in these rooms, some cultural leaders questioned the gaiety and extravagance that such entertainments entailed. Sir Richard Hill's An Address to Persons of Fashion, Relating to Balls, reprinted in Baltimore in 1807, suggested that individuals involved in such "vain amusements” might better spend their time in religious pursuits. He argued that the "fashionable diversion of Balls” was "entirely inconsistent with the spirit of Christianity” and "it is not possible to be present at them without incurring great guilt.” Hill further questioned the merits of squandering "away in diversions, what would contribute to the support of so many of our poor distressed fellow creatures.” The fact that prominent Baltimoreans including Prudence Gough Carnan purchased copies of Hill's work immediately upon its release indicates that such concerns existed at the very moment of the Morris suite's production. Thus, individuals like Eleanor Rogers who were heavily involved in religious and charitable activities had every reason to want to display their benevolence in the Dancing Assembly Rooms—the place in which these "vain amusements” occurred—to counter any criticism that could be leveled at them.[45]
Considering the Finlays’ knowledge of Masonic imagery and their advertised ability to depict various kinds of trophies on their furniture, it is likely that the decoration of the Morris suite functioned symbolically or emblematically. The two public buildings depicted were undoubtedly chosen for specific and timely reasons. The depiction of the Banks of the City offered a convenient and succinct way to represent the mechanisms of commerce by which the subscribers who built the Dancing Assembly Rooms had amassed their wealth. The ability of this image to symbolically represent all banking in the city ended with the establishment of the Union Bank of Maryland in 1805 and its occupancy of an imposing new building in 1807. The Charity School of the Benevolent Society represented wealth put to good use—a pressing societal concern. For members of the Dancing Assembly, the image of this building would have represented the intimate connection between commerce and charity. Furthermore, these two buildings represent masculine and feminine spheres of influence, an important distinction given the purpose of the Dancing Assembly Rooms.[46]
The goal of bringing men and women together for the public good may be further explored in the decoration of the suite, notably in the bow, arrows, and quiver that decorate the centers of the splats and front seat rails (see figs. 8, 30). These devices almost certainly constitute the trophy of love that the Finlays specifically offered as a decorative motif. Flanked on the seat rail by oak leaves and surrounded on the splat by grapevines, the trophies may allude, respectively, to masculine and feminine love coming together in conjugal happiness. Since at least the seventeenth century, the fruitful vine and the oak tree had been used symbolically to suggest the relationship of the sexes. Such conjugal happiness in the home was integral to civic virtue—morals that were largely guided in the United States, as Alexis de Tocqueville suggested, by women. This connection between male and female love may also allude to one of the main functions of assemblies—introducing young men and women to appropriate matches. If Baltimoreans followed British precedent, a successful meeting might be followed by an invitation to spend time at one party's country house.[47]
The images of country houses depicted on the suite represented, in and of themselves, the kind of refinement and gentility that was the raison d’être of the assemblies. This may explain why a view of the Dancing Assembly Rooms was chosen as an inset on Warner & Hanna's map (figs. 22, 35). After visiting Belvidere in 1796, Englishman Thomas Twining reported that such country villas were "evidence of the refinement towards which society in America was advancing.” Like many of his peers, Twining equated improvements in the country with prosperity. For the owners of the houses depicted on the suite as well as in Francis Guy's larger landscapes, these properties symbolized leisure, improvement, and refinement as well as communal achievement. The imagery on the suite would have been especially powerful if the furniture was made for the Dancing Assembly Rooms where the elite celebrated themselves through genteel amusements.[48]
If the suite was made for these rooms, the commission could have been instigated by the wives, sisters, or daughters of the male members. In this period religion, charity, and the domestic arena were among the few avenues of social expression open to women. Jane Austin's novels offer a glimpse into the contemporary feminine sphere and occasionally mention assemblies. In Persuasion (1818), Elizabeth Elliot told her father in the "first ardour of female alarm [she], set seriously to think what could be done [about their financial problems]” and "finally proposed these two branches of economy, to cut off some unnecessary charities, and to refrain from new furnishing the drawing-room.” The decoration on the Morris suite can be interpreted as intersecting all of these areas of social expression.[49]
It is possible that funds for commissioning the suite were brought together by subscription—a contribution ensuring the depiction of a house selected by each benefactor. The women in Eleanor Rogers’ charity circle clearly had experience and success in similar fund raising endeavors. A larger than average donation may have ensured a place on one of the settees, as these two pieces would have been more expensive than the chairs. Perhaps Eleanor Rogers paid for not only the pier table (figs. 24, 25), but also the chair depicting the Charity School (figs. 8, 9). Druid Hill was built on land inherited by Eleanor, suggesting that both of these properties may have been heavily identified with her. Furthermore, there is the depiction of Margaret Carroll's house Mount Clare and the residences of two pairs of sisters: Willow Brook (Ann Smith Donnell), The Vineyard (Mary Ann Smith Gilmor), Belvidere (Margaret Chew Howard), and Homewood (Harriet Chew Carroll). With the exception of Ann Smith Donnell, all of these women were important members of the Charity School. These connections support the hypothesis that the concept and funding of the suite emanated from a group of women.
Considering that women were the guardians of cultural morality during this period—a guardianship achieved by involvement in such a charity—it is only logical that an organization as influential as the Benevolent Society would be represented on a suite commissioned by female members of the Dancing Assembly. By contrast, the inclusion of this image might never have occurred to their male counterparts. Sir Richard Hill's moralistic criticisms were aimed almost entirely at women. He implored "mothers and aunts” to keep their "daughters and nieces” from the vanities and concerns over ball gowns that attending assemblies entailed. Hill had, in fact, written his tract after hearing a "young lady affirm, that she saw no harm in going to a Ball.” If female members of the Dancing Assembly commissioned the suite, they may have specified the image of the Charity School to remind observers that commerce and the luxuries of elegant assemblies did not preclude them from benevolent causes.[50]
A close connection with the female managers of the Charity School and this suite of furniture is no coincidence. Francis Guy, who is believed to have painted the various views of the buildings, was both an artist and a religious man. In 1803 the Federal Gazette & Baltimore Daily Advertiser reported that he would deliver a lecture to "prove the Divinity of the Scripture by the goodness of its fruits” and explain why Deism was bad for the individual and society in general. The artist offered to donate the whole admission price of twelve and one-half cents "to such orphan's school or schools in this city, as the company then present may think most worthy their benevolence.” Although there were several orphan asylums in Baltimore at this time, Guy was playing a tune that Eleanor Rogers and her benevolent compatriots wanted to hear. They could learn more about the social benefits of religion—as they were ably demonstrating at their school—and if they arrived en masse they had the possibility of raising a contribution for their charity. Through such connections, Eleanor and her circle would have known Guy when it came time to commission their suite of furniture, and they understood him to be in agreement with their mission.[51]
The Charity School circle, however, cannot at present explain all of the buildings depicted on the suite. Samuel and Margaret (Spear) Smith, the owners of Montebello (app. 15) do not appear to have been involved with the Charity School, nor were several other families whose houses are represented. It is possible that the images of certain houses emanated from sources other than the residents, perhaps children or relatives who considered this particular dwelling their family seat or friends who wished to acknowledge others. The identification of the Smiths’ house is quite secure, as photographs and other images record the unique appearance of Montebello. This is not the case with some other houses, such as that said to have been Hugh McCurdy's. Although there is no documentary evidence pertaining to this dwelling other than the Howards’ list, it is tempting to speculate that it may have been the residence of William MacCreery, who was a significant donor to the Charity School and an early member of the Dancing Assembly. It is possible that the Howards misread the name on an earlier list and substituted "McCurdy” for MacCreery. The absence of a first name suggests they did not know much about the owner.[52]
Some of the references outside the Charity School circle may be linked to Eleanor and Nicholas Rogers’ communal acquaintances. While serving on the Baltimore City Council until his retirement in 1801, Nicholas would have become familiar with political leaders such as Walter Dorsey. In 1799 Dorsey became chief justice of the criminal court of Baltimore City and County, a position important in a suite of furniture that deals with town and country. Equally important, the Dorseys in Walter's line were members of St. Paul's Protestant Episcopal Church, and therefore either Eleanor or Nicholas Rogers could have interacted with him or his wife Hopewell (Hebb) socially.[53]
Other than the Charity School circle, only one other organization had a similar membership—the Library Company of Baltimore. Surviving records indicate that nearly every individual represented on the Morris suite was a member of the Library Company. Since this organization was a private subscription library sharing some of the same board members as the Dancing Assembly, it is safe to assume that most of the individuals who were members downstairs were also members upstairs.[54]
When the Library Company moved into the building housing the Dancing Assembly Rooms in May of 1798 (fig. 36), the managers ordered seven Windsor chairs from Jacob Daley and a desk, tables, and bookcases from an unnamed joiner. This selection suggests that the Library Company's furniture was largely utilitarian. Their minutes for the first decade of the nineteenth century do not mention the purchase of any furniture similar to the Morris suite or donations of furnishings by interested members. If the minutes thoroughly and accurately document the Library Company's activities, this would preclude that the suite was made for them. However, their membership indicates that the building the Library Company shared with the Dancing Assembly was the place in town where the people represented by the images on the Morris suite came together.[55]
Although it is likely that the Morris suite was made for the Dancing Assembly Rooms, it may not have been the only furniture used there. Three side chairs, a card table, and a pier table (figs. 40-47) with buildings depicted in a manner similar to those on the Morris furniture may have been made for the card room. In Baltimore Painted Furniture, William Voss Elder noted that the tables descended in the Maynadier and Key families, and that both pieces had been used at Belvoir in Anne Arundel County, Maryland. Two of the side chairs reputedly descended in the family of Christopher VanDeventer and his wife Sally Birckhead, but it is unlikely that he was the original owner. Christopher was born in 1788 and would have been in his teens when the chairs and accompanying tables were made. As is the case with many surviving examples of Baltimore painted furniture, these pieces probably became associated with their respective families later in the nineteenth century. The identical decorative schemes of these tables and chairs suggest that they were made as a suite, one that clearly included additional side chairs and probably a second card table.[56]
Like many of its counterparts, the Baltimore Dancing Assembly Rooms had a space dedicated to card playing. This pastime was so commonplace among "people of fashion” that Sir Richard Hill questioned whether "every lady who frequents Card-tables” was "clothing herself with the whole armour of God, and working out her own salvation with fear and trembling?” Because of concerns regarding propriety, card playing and charity went hand in hand in some social arenas. When Miss Mary Boardman Crowninshield visited Secretary of State James Monroe in Washington in 1816, she reported "We played loo and I won—I am afraid to say how much, but [I] shall give it to the orphan asylum.” Thus the strictures that found attending balls and card playing frivolous may have obliquely shaped the way the Dancing Assembly Rooms were furnished.[57]
Too little of this second suite is known to determine much about it. Of the five houses depicted on the furniture, two have not yet been securely identified. The tablet of one of the side chairs depicts Druid Hill (formerly Greenwood) (figs. 40, 41), the card table bears an image of Mount Clare (figs. 44, 45) and the pier table is decorated with a house that may be Green Mount (figs. 46, 47)—the country house of Robert Oliver, an early member of the Dancing Assembly. If these objects were made for the Dancing Assembly Rooms, the suite may have originated in a social circle slightly different from that responsible for the Morris suite: Robert and Elizabeth (Craig) Oliver, Margaret Carroll, the Rogers, and the Howards (the Howards’ house Belvidere appears on a recently discovered third chair). Notably, Mount Clare, Druid Hill, and Belvidere are the only houses that appear twice on any painted furniture known today. Three of the women of these households were major players in the St. Paul's Charity School.[58]
Outside of the objects discussed here, few pieces of Baltimore painted furniture have houses or buildings depicted on them. Recently three dark blue armchairs with structural and decorative details similar to those in the Morris suite have surfaced. Unfortunately, none of the buildings depicted on their crests has been identified, although one is clearly a large brick structure in town (figs. 48, 49) whereas the others are houses in landscape settings. Although the Finlays offered furniture "with or without views adjacent to the city,” it appears from surviving examples that few clients specified depictions of buildings. This may have arisen from the Finlays’ business arrangement with Francis Guy, which may have been brief or otherwise limited. The extravagant use of building views may also have been considered more appropriate to public spaces than domestic ones. If so, that too would have curtailed production. Assuming that the Morris suite was made for the Dancing Assembly Rooms, John B. Morris could have purchased the furniture at any number of occasions when the rooms were sold or after they finally closed in the 1840s. Advertisements for the sale of the rooms in 1817 and 1835 do not mention furniture, although the contents were surely sold, possibly more than once. The most likely date for Morris to have acquired the suite is 1835. In August of that year, all of the contents of Morris’ townhouse on South Street were destroyed by mobs enraged by a banking scandal. Although Benjamin Cohen purchased the rooms in May, some of the furniture may have been sold at a later date. Acquiring the suite would have been a symbolic gesture for Morris, linking himself with the early titans of business who had pushed Baltimore into its golden age of commerce, including the Gilmors and others who had survived earlier banking ventures unscathed. The fact that Samuel Smith's home Montebello was depicted on the suite would have furthered Morris’ connections to this earlier period, as Smith was instrumental in calming the disorders of the riots and was elected mayor later in the year. If Morris purchased the furniture after his townhouse was destroyed, he could have used it either at his new residence on Mulberry Street or in the country. In the absence of a contemporary bill of sale, many questions still remain unanswered about this suite, leaving only intriguing theories about the commission and use of this unique set of furniture.[59]
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author thanks James Archer Abbott, Curator of Decorative Art, Baltimore Museum of Art, for his enthusiastic support of the research for this article and dedicates this work to the memory of his mother, Brenda.
