To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

This summer has been unusually cool, characterized by what my late father-in-law would have called "good sleeping weather." I just wish I was sleeping better! I spent a goodly chunk of my pre-parenting career working as a therapist and coordinator for research protocols in the fields of neurobiology, sleep, and affective disorders. I therefore know what I should and shouldn't do to assure a good night's sleep. But the baro-receptors in my bad knee have been acting up after a recent fall (both knees are bad, by the way, so take your pick as to which one I'm complaining about here) and some things are beyond the control of sleep hygiene.

And so I toss and turn. While the cool nights sure beat the usual Pittsburgh humidity, my knees and sleep cycle could do with a bit more typical summer warmth.

Counting sleep never helped me combat insomnia. Too bad, because goodness knows that our recent trip to Northumberland provided plenty of material. There were more sheep than people thereabouts.

 

Alas, no sheep thrills for me.

I've written before about how traditional meditative practices are a no-go for me, either. I respect the process, but for me spiritual awakening, peace and conscious awareness are found on other paths. A deliberate attempt to focus on something is more likely to send me online at 2 AM to research abandoned oil derricks. That's not necessarily a bad thing...except it's 2 AM and I'd rather be asleep.

Brilliant Cutoff Viaduct, Pennsylvania Railroad, Washington Boulevard in Pittsburgh

So no sheep-counting. No meditating. What I find myself doing on those sleepless nights is contemplating ruins. It seems fitting to do so, given the shambles of my ruined Circadian cycle. But in truth, for as long as I can remember I have been haunted by a particular dreamscape. I find myself in the wee hours when I should be sleeping ruminating on images of man-made symmetry, contrast and, yes, even collapse. That too seems fitting, for even in my waking hours I am drawn to architectural skeletons, to caved-in roofs with weeds sprouting between the tiles, to boarded-up buildings, bridges and the bones of infrastructure against landscape.

Somewhere I read that time stands still in a building without people. That's a clever variation of the philosophical debate about falling trees being soundless if no one is around to hear them. But I like the idea of empty structures being waiting vortexes. What we see as a result of the vicissitudes of time and wear on a structure is in fact story-making made manifest. There is beauty in a ruin for the sheer visual stimulation of it, parts and whole. But that joy is compounded for me when I imagine what might have gone before: what the structure was like when time flowed with the lives that surged over its walkways, through its doors, behind its windows, between its walls, beneath its intact roof.

When I worked in sleep research, I inevitably was called upon to address patient or subject concerns about the meaning of their dreams. Now as a teen, my friends and I pored over a dream interpretation dictionary, but my patients got no such psuedo-Jungian parsing of their dreamscapes from me. I instead helped to define and interpret the emotional content of the dream without getting into why it specifically featured, say, a chipmunk eating a hot dog.

(Sometimes a chipmunk eating a hot dog is just a chipmunk eating a hot dog, after all. Far be it from me to laboriously deconstruct the magic of that image. Alas, no chipmunks eating hot dogs populate my personal dreamscape. Yet.).

The great Mosque of Muhammad Ali Pasha, Cairo Egypt

It's tempting to connect the disparate images of my dreamscape but I'm not sure what causes a particular scene to imprint on my brain. There are soothing, relaxing perspectives that I regularly gravitate toward, to be sure. But there's no identifiable connection between the images I see in my dreamscape slideshow, other than the (un)natural precision of engineering past and present. Bridges, overpasses, window frames and shadows, grillwork, ruined abbeys and castles, these are the types of images that flick through my mind in slide-show fashion as I wind myself down to sleep.

I imagine that the parade of images is the closest I can get to how my autistic nephew views the world, he who obsesses over photo albums and frames the world with his hands in a rectangular shape, freezing a moment to savor. These images of mine are not stagnant any more than my nephew's mental photographs are; they are imbued with impressions and accompanying sensory input.

These, then, are my illustrated bedtime stories.  The images are posted here in no particular order. I invite you to devise your own plots to go with them.

As for me, I still have miles to go before I sheep.
 

Dolbadarn Castle, Snowdonia Wales

Synagogue, Capernaum Israel

Off the Via Dolorosa, Jerusalem Israel

Crusader-era ruins, Safed Israel

The Abbey of St Mary, York England

City walls, York England

Holyrood Abbey, Edinburgh Scotland

Melrose Abbey, Melrose Scotland

Cabildo Upper Gallery, New Orleans Louisiana

Shop window, Williamsburg Virginia

Great Tower, Bridgnorth England

Cloister, Mont St-Michel France

Carnegie Library of Oakland, Pittsburgh PA

Those Twelve Days of Christmas

It's the seventh day of Christmas. Do you know where your swans are swimming?

I look forward to reading the Christmas Price Index every year. That's the list detailing how much the traditional twelve days worth of holiday gifts would cost in today's economy. It was instituted in 1984 by Pittsburgh's own PNC Bank, gets updated annually, and receives attention whenever the media needs some holiday filler. 

Turmoil on the world stage has apparently eclipsed communal concerns about the cost of a partridge in a pear tree, because I've not seen much made of the rising costs of festive fowl and revelry. At this writing, if you're looking to gift your true love carol-style, the grand total will be over $150,0000 for all 364 gifts. Not sure of the tax ramifications of those purchases for the 1% who can afford them.
 

 
There's always been abuse heaped upon the Twelve Days of Christmas song, a leading contender for stupidest holiday carol ever. At our house the winners include anything by the Jingle Dogs, that Santa Baby song, and Frosty the Snowman. Particularly Frosty. My bias is always against any character who sounds like he needs to blow his nose. (Pooh Bear, I'm looking at you).

I'll grant that Twelve Days begs to be parodied. Mock-worthy as it is, there are countless versions with lyrics of varying degrees of cleverness.  

But I'm going on record to declare that it's a childhood favorite of mine.   Back in the days before the Internet made verifying lyrics effortless, I was proud of my ability to memorize and recite the Twelve Days lyrics through sheer dogged repetition. I can't say that my family was enamored of all that hard work, because it mostly occurred in the backseat of the car when we were driving somewhere. I was pleased with myself despite their lack of enthusiasm and I still like the carol. I also appreciate the historical continuity it represents.

Twelve days constitute the Christmas season in Western and Eastern Christian church traditions, and the aptly-named Twelfth Night falls on Epiphany. Take your pick as far as to what date that might be, though. The Western church begins the count on Christmas Day so that Epiphany falls on January 5th, while in the Eastern tradition the "first day of Christmas" is December 26th and Epiphany falls on January 6th. Whenever it is celebrated, Epiphany marks the visit of the Magi, who arrived to present gifts to the young Jesus. Bible stories never do specify how many wise visitors there were and some Eastern traditions even say that there were twelve. I like the idea of an even dozen bearing twelve gifts for a mystical total of 364 gifts, one for each day of the year except, uhm, I guess Christmas?

Journey of the Magi, Benozzo Gozzoli, 1459-62, with my Medici faves parading

Much religious significance has been attached to the carol, and there's a vague general notion that it originated in 16th century England. That was the time of the Protestant Reformation, a period of religious revolution that Henry VIII sort of unintentionally provoked by declaring himself head of the Church in England so he could grant himself the divorce that the Pope had denied for, well, complicated political reasons.

There's this idea that the Twelve Days of Christmas carol was mnemonically constructed to help educate the Roman Catholic faithful in the doctrines of their faith during the Reformation. Supposedly the carol allowed them to teach their children important things while remaining under the radar of would-be persecutors, because the song's repetitive nature assured that they'd not have to write anything incriminating. Adherents to this origin story believe that the carol's 'true love' is God, the 'partridge in a pear tree' is Christ on the cross, and the 'three French hens' represent the Trinity.

Or maybe the three theological virtues of Faith Hope and Charity.

Or the three gifts of the Magi.

No one really knows for sure. But the supposed allegorical references continue: two Biblical Testaments are represented, four Gospels, five books of the Torah, seven Sacraments, eight Beatitudes, nine hierarchies of angels, ten Commandments, eleven faithful apostles, and twelve articles of the Apostles' Creed. Or maybe that's the twelve tribes of Israel?

Unfortunately for those who like their holiday carols fraught with religious symbolism, there's not a shred of documentation to back up this origin story. The theory seems to have had its virgin birth in the 1970s, gaining widespread acceptance through a 1992 Our Sunday Visitor Catholic newspaper article.

Aside from the lack of evidence to support this allegorical theory, simple logic speaks against it. The catechetical associations that the carol purportedly spells out were actually NOT unique to the Roman Church as compared to beliefs of Henry's newly-formed English-centric church at the point in time in question. EVERYONE back then KNEW this stuff. Passing along this info didn't merit the creation of a cumulative carol of dubious musicianship. Folkloric explanations are captivating, though, so these lyrical religious attributions still get passed on as if they were Gospel truths themselves.

The real history of the song is intriguing enough without added associations. The twelve days of the Christmastide season were filled with joyous feasts and frolics. It all climaxed on Twelfth Night, which for most of Christian holiday history was a more festive occasion than Christmas itself. Birthday celebrations are more recent cultural customs, even Divine birthdays, and Christmas itself wasn't made much of until Victorian times. Up until the 19th century, it really was Epiphany that represented the revelation of Jesus.

The exact origins of the Twelve Days of Christmas carol are lost to time and memory, but most likely it began as musical accompaniment to a medieval “memories and forfeits game” that was enjoyed during Christmastide. A leader recited verses that followers had to repeat exactly, or else forfeit a sweet or kiss or pay some other playful penalty. The carol was presented this way in its first known publication, a 1780 children's book called Mirth Without Mischief.

Musicologists have suggested that the carol has French origins, given some of the items mentioned in the song. For example, the kinds of partridges which roost in trees were introduced from France to England in the late 1770s, and the song definitely predates their introduction. There are even theories that the "in a pear tree" lyric is a mondegreen; the line should be "and a partridge, un perdis" (perdis being French for partridge).

Different customs have evolved over time and place for the Christmas season. Some people give gifts only on Christmas Day, some solely on Twelfth Night, and some lucky souls receive gifts on all of the twelve nights. Here in the United States, we've largely lost any traditions associated with the Twelve Days of Christmas, although if you live at my house you'll continue to get a gift in your stocking on each day, and Epiphany is our holiday de-decorating date. Of course if you live in an area that celebrates Carnival, like New Orleans, you're just getting started on Twelfth Night, so it's not so much an ending but a beginning to revelry.

This song is part of the fun. It's really no more than what it appears to be: a fun secular carol about music, dancing, and getting stuff - albeit weird stuff, like calling birds. Ohhhhhh yeah, those "calling" birds? That's messed up, too.  It was a point of pride for me as a wee pedantic Sue to get the lyrics right, so I am here to tell you that the lyric is not "calling birds" but "colly" birds. Once upon a time, "colly" was another word for black. That lyric would have been understood as referring to four blackbirds. We can blame English composer Frederic Austin for publishing the arrangement in 1909 that we sing today, codifying the substitution of "calling birds" for "colly birds."

I will console myself over this change by thinking of my doggo here as a colly collie.

The Twelve Days of Christmas song has captured the popular imagination, for good or ill, in all its variations and parodies. Several countries, including the United States have even issued postage stamps to represent the gifts sung about in the carol, which you can see on THIS SITE.

But it's really all much ado about birds, maids, lords, feasting and revelry. Just like any good party should be.

Whatever holiday you celebrate and whatever meaning you attach to your symbols, I wish you great joy of it, and a happy new year, too.

Forgotten History: The Latrobe Family

Pittsburgh has always been this nation's industrial center. Before we were the Steel City we were the Iron City, and arguably we could also have called ourselves the City of Glass or even the Steamboat City.

All of those titles illustrate Pittsburgh's role in shaping this country, often quite literally in terms of infrastructure production. Still, unless it's about the making of steel, we tend toward a communal inferiority complex when it comes to recognizing our central place in national history. 

Everyone, at any point in time who aspired to national prominence has had a connection to Pittsburgh.  Some stayed here, some strayed; some got rich and some didn't. The list of important Americans whose careers were shaped between these three rivers is mind-boggling.

Take, for example, Benjamin Henry Boneval Latrobe, one of the first formally-trained, professional architects in the United States.

(He was also, it must be said, a hottie).

Benjamin Henry Boneval Latrobe, 1804, by Charles Willson Peale

Latrobe has been described as the "Father of American Architecture" and credited with professionalizing architecture in this country. The way he thought about building design had a profound effect on architects up until the Civil War era. He spent at least a year of his life in Pittsburgh, but that time period is usually glossed over in biographies of this man.

Charles Frederick von Breda portrait of Latrobe, c. 1790

 

Born to a Moravian minister in a small town near Leeds, England, Latrobe acquired extensive education and traveled throughout Europe. Following the death of his first wife, Lydia Sellon, he left his two surviving children and immigrated to the United States in 1796 to make his fortune. Charming and quickly connected to all the right people, and armed with stellar design and engineering skills, Latrobe was able to quickly launch a career in a country longing to establish its own grand architecture.

Latrobe knew everyone who was everyone. Here's a profile sketch he "stole" of President George Washington in 1796 while dining at Mount Vernon.

Latrobe's sketch of President Washington, 1796. Courtesy of the Frick Art Reference Library.
Original in Mt. Vernon Ladies Association collection. 

Latrobe is credited with introducing Gothic Revival style to American domestic architecture, and with creating private and public masterpieces. He also became friendly with Thomas Jefferson and is considered to be a major influence on Jefferson's design for the University of Virginia. The two men shared architectural interests and ideas, but tension existed over the predominance of Greek revival symbolism which Latrobe popularized in his designs. The White House Historical Association notes that Jefferson often contributed his own design ideas, which stressed their working relationship. Latrobe wrote on one such occasion “I am sorry that I am cramped in this design by his prejudices in favor of the old French books, out of which he fishes everything..." That's not at all surprising, given Jefferson's Francophilia.

Latrobe's White House plans, circa 1807. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.

Despite their differences of architectural opinion, in 1803 Jefferson appointed Latrobe to the position of "Surveyor of Public Buildings" and charged him with constructing the south wing of the Capitol Building in Washington DC. This was a much needed appointment for Latrobe, who was constantly plagued with money troubles. He also had a reputation of being a high-strung perfectionist who could be difficult to work with.

The life of an architect and engineer during this period in history was an itinerant one: you went where the work was. Latrobe worked steadily, receiving commissions for public and private buildings and infrastructure in Baltimore, Washington DC, and Philadelphia. But he needed a new gig in 1813 following the Congressional termination of his position as Surveyor of Public Buildings in DC. The War of 1812 had interrupted building projects in the cash-strapped nation, and Pittsburgh seemed to be the place to go for various reasons.

In coming to Pittsburgh, Latrobe was following a path laid out a few years earlier by his eldest daughter Lydia and his son-in-law Nicholas Roosevelt (of the Oyster Bay branch of that family). That couple had married some years earlier, a union that was against Latrobe's wishes given that Nicholas Roosevelt was his own contemporary in age and a close friend. Roosevelt had become enamored of Latrobe's daughter Lydia when she was only 12 years of age. Latrobe found the romance between his friend and the young daughter of his first marriage at best laughable and ultimately preposterous. He incredulously wrote to Roosevelt "Were you really serious?" when he broached the subject of marriage.

Serious they were. Despite various restrictions and multiple delays, the unlikely couple married in 1809 when Lydia was 17 and Roosevelt 41 years of age. Benjamin Latrobe was well-established enough in Washington society that Dolley Madison attended their wedding.

Lydia Latrobe Roosevelt, from Mr. Roosevelt's Steamboat by Mary Dohan

Latrobe had finally given his blessing to this match and passed along a formal letter of introduction to the newly-wed Nicholas Roosevelt, who came to Pittsburgh in 1809. Roosevelt had been hired to make a flatboat survey voyage down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers on behalf of Robert Fulton and Robert Livingston. The trip was meant to determine the feasibility of navigating those waters and hopefully position Pittsburgh as a center of large-scale steamboat construction. Roosevelt agreed to go for a $600 fee -- and so did Lydia Latrobe Roosevelt!

Traveling some 2500 miles during Lydia's second and third trimesters of pregnancy, the couple sailed the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers and back in six months. Lydia is said to have designed and furnished comfortable living quarters aboard the flatboat. Their adventures were the stuff of legend and included encounters with potentially hostile Natives and definitely hostile alligators.  Lydia gave birth to their first child, a daughter named Roseta, in January 1810 after the couple returned to New York from their trip.

Nearly two years later, the Latrobe-Roosevelt family set off again, this time on a side-wheeler steamboat. Nicholas, an 8-months pregnant Lydia, toddler Roseta and their Newfoundland dog Tiger left Pittsburgh on the first steamboat voyage ever. Their ship, New Orleans, had been constructed at a yard at the bottom of Boyd's Hill along the banks of the Monongahela River (below where Duquesne University would later be built). This journey took 12 weeks. The Great Comet of 1811 kept them company along the way -- as did little Henry Latrobe Roosevelt, born shortly after they set out October 30, 1811. It's fair to say that the era of steamboat travel was also born on this voyage that originated from Pittsburgh. From 1811 to 1888, boatyards along the Monongahela River produced more than 3,000 steamboats.

Despite the success of the New Orleans, the relationship between the Latrobe-Roosevelts and Robert Fulton was a fractious one. Benjamin Latrobe stood up for his son-in-law in the ensuing business battles. While perhaps wary of Fulton, he remained excited about the future of steam travel and on 13 October 1813, the financially pressured Latrobe moved to Pittsburgh.

Latrobe had hopes of prospering in a steamship partnership with Robert Fulton. The relationship made sense, for Latrobe was an early proponent of steam power, having constructed various steam-powered waterworks in US cities to pipe water into homes. However, a lack of capital, managerial conflicts, competition from established steamboat builders, and a sluggish national economy doomed this Pittsburgh steamboat partnership.

As an agent for Fulton's Mississippi Navigation company, Latrobe engaged in very public disputes over steamboat technology patent rights, writing letters like this one that were published in Pittsburgh's newspapers:

Pittsburgh Weekly Gazette, 22 July 1814

But for all that, Latrobe didn't much appreciate Pittsburgh. He wrote to a friend that "Mud and smoke are the great evils of this town. Whoever can make up his mind to breathe dirt, and eat dirt, and be up to his knees in dirt, may live happily and comfortably here." 

Happy and comfortable Latrobe was not, but at least he kept busy. During the year he reluctantly lived in Pittsburgh he designed and built a theater for the Circus of Pepin and Breschard, and at least three private homes presumably incorporating his favored Greek Revival style (none are known to survive). He also expanded an existing church, built steam engines, and even designed a barge. Latrobe was also commissioned to design the United States Arsenal (later known as the Allegheny Arsenal) building in the Lawrenceville section of Pittsburgh. What was eventually constructed differed significantly from his original plans, which are housed at the Library of Congress. Today nothing remains of any of Latrobe's Pittsburgh structures.

"Sketch of the facade of the proposed Arsenal at Pittsburg. 1814. BHLatrobe." Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division

Latrobe and family moved back to DC to oversee reconstruction of the Capitol following the fires set by British troops in 1814.  Meanwhile, his son by his first marriage, Henry Sellon Boneval Latrobe, had become a civil engineer known for his railway bridges. In 1811, the senior Latrobe had accepted a franchise to design waterworks systems for the city of New Orleans. His son Henry had then secured the commission for the project, and moved there to began construction. Unfortunately a little war with the British intervened, so Henry fought during the War of 1812. He also found time to design a lighthouse and work on New Orleans' Charity Hospital and the French Opera House. Henry contracted yellow fever in 1817 and died in New Orleans at age 25.

A little more than a year after his son's death, and fresh from bankruptcy proceedings, Benjamin Latrobe left DC for a fresh start and to complete the job his eldest son had started. Benjamin traveled to New Orleans to complete his son's work on the water supply system, and his family joined him the following year. In New Orleans, Latrobe designed the Louisiana State Bank and the central tower with clock and bell of the Saint Louis Cathedral. This tower collapsed in 1850 during reconstruction, but the bell was reused in the new building and remains there today.

But like his son, and so many other visitors to the city, Benjamin Latrobe contracted yellow fever. He died in New Orleans on 2 September 1820. Both father and son were buried in a communal lye pit, a typical method of interment during Yellow Jack outbreaks. The Latrobes are remembered with a memorial marker in Saint Louis Cemetery #1 that was erected by their descendants. 

Latrobe Memorial, St Louis Cemetery #1, New Orleans LA

Latrobe and his second wife Mary Elizabeth Hazlehurst had one surviving daughter, Julia E. Latrobe, who never married. Although she lived to the age of 86, Julia seems not have left anything as a legacy beyond a circa-1812 manuscript in which she recorded dance steps and reminiscences of her childhood, and various party invitations and greeting cards. These items are in the collection of the Maryland Historical Society.

There were two surviving Latrobe sons. 

John Hazelhurst Boneval Latrobe was a Maryland attorney who was retained as counsel for the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad. He had aspired to a career in architecture, but abandoned this idea due to family financial circumstances following his father's death. He was, however, a talented landscape artist and art patron, and illustrated and wrote a drawing manual under the pseudonym E. Von Blom. He was also known to be a prominent supporter of the African colonization of Liberia, a well-intentioned but misguided antebellum movement. John H. B. Latrobe kept a journal called "Southern Travels" written during a two-month period in late 1834. In it, he chronicled his travels with his wife Charlotte from New York to Natchez (where wife had family), and the return trip by stagecoach to their Baltimore home.

John H. B. Latrobe, c.1860-90, photo from Brady negative. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.

Youngest son Benjamin Henry Latrobe, Jr initially studied law under big brother John, working on cases involving his late father's property disputes. He then assisted his brother in drafting provisions for the original Maryland charter of the B&O RR, which involved surveying and field work. This awakened latent mathematical abilities that he decided to pursue. Junior, as he was sometimes known, eventually became chief engineer of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, laying out the line between Washington DC and Baltimore and designing the Thomas Viaduct outside the latter city. He had a distinguished career as a civil engineer, and was the guiding force in extending the B&O into Pittsburgh by absorbing a Connellsville railroad company.

Benjamin Henry Latrobe II

 

While the Pittsburgh buildings constructed by Benjamin H. B. Latrobe are gone, Western Pennsylvania residents have an abiding connection to the Latrobe family: the town of Latrobe.

Latrobe, Pennsylvania birds-eye view map circa 1900.
Library of Congress Geography and Map Division.

Ironically, the town has but a tangential connection to the family. According to the Latrobe Historical Society, Oliver Barnes purchased a 140 acre farm in Derry Township in 1851 for the Pennsylvania Railroad, which wanted to connect the eastern part of the state with Pittsburgh and planned to build railroad yards. Pplans changed and the yards were built instead in Derry, so Mr. Barnes acquired the land for himself. He laid out streets and lots and named his new town Latrobe in honor of his friend and railroad associate, Benjamin Henry Latrobe, Jr.  None of the Latrobe men are known to have set foot in the town bearing their surname.

New Orleans, Latrobe's eternal home, remembers him in other ways. Near the French Market arch at Ursulines Street is a small park dedicated to Benjamin Latrobe. The site of this park is actually the former waterworks that father and son designed and created. The park incorporates architectural remnants from the works into its sculptures and fountains.

 

And although the Louisiana State Bank Building at Royal and Conti in the French Quarter no longer functions as such, the building was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1983. It has been home to many commercial enterprises over the years. As of 2014 a wedding and events business operated there on Royal, called Latrobe's.

  

 

 

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Further reading:
Baker, Jean H. Building America: The Life of Benjamin Henry Latrobe. Oxford University Press. January 2020.
Eaton, Leonard. Houses and Money: The Domestic Clients of Benjamin Henry Latrobe. William L Bauhan. January 1988.
Hamlin, Talbot. Benjamin Henry Latrobe. Oxford University Press; 1st edition. 1955.
Latrobe, Benjamin Henry. The Journals of Benjamin Henry Latrobe 1799-1820. Yale University Press. 1980.
Latrobe, John H. B. Southern Travels: Journal of John H. B. Latrobe. Historic New Orleans Collection; First Edition. 1986.
The Versatile Benjamin Latrobe
Sutcliffe, Andrea J. Steam: The Untold Story of America's First Great Invention. Palgrave Macmillan. 2004.