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Full download Clock and Compass: How John Byron Plato Gave Farmers a Real Address Mark S. Monmonier file pdf all chapter on 2024
Full download Clock and Compass: How John Byron Plato Gave Farmers a Real Address Mark S. Monmonier file pdf all chapter on 2024
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c l oc k and c om pass
Clock
&
Compass
h ow john byron
p lato gave
farmers a
r e a l address
Mark Monmonier
Preface ix
1. No Real Address 1
2. Denver 16
3. Semper 32
4. Exploiters and Advocates 48
5. Ithaca 62
6. Ohio 88
7. Washington, DC 98
8. Camp Plato Place 108
9. Remission 114
10. Postmortem 136
Acknowledgments 145
Notes 147
p r e fa ce
x | prefa ce
evidence includes the temporal and geographic patterns of mapping ac-
tivity as documented by Plato’s copyright registrations, and the form and
content of the maps themselves. As with my previous books, I rely heavily
on maps and diagrams to tell the story. Some are facsimiles, chosen to
illustrate what Plato was up to. Others are my own designs, intended to
summarize geographic relationships; discussion of their development
will, I hope, help the reader appreciate that maps are not only part of the
story but part of the storytelling.
As an academic sleuth, I sought to find and connect as many relevant
dots as needed to craft a coherent story about what Plato did, why he did
it, and with what impact. I cannot say, “as many relevant dots as possible”
because a researcher can always initiate one more search or look under one
more rock. As a map historian, I must rely on interpolation and extrapo-
lation, and use “apparently” to flag iffy explanations and interpretations.
Plato might have helped by donating his business records to a historical
society, or by marrying young and siring observant offspring, or at least
by being born into a tribe of long-lived kinfolk committed to preserving
his memory—but he didn’t. That said, he enjoyed writing and talking
to news reporters, and left a host of facts, which I could usually (but not
always) triangulate. Not everything is knowable, but by and large I think
I got it right.
mark monmonier
DeWitt, New York
pr e fa c e | xi
c l oc k and c om pass
1 no r eal add r ess
Relative isolation put rural residents near the forefront of the nation’s
rapid shift in personal transportation from steel rails to paved roads. In
1916 the United States railway network reached its peak of 254,037 route
miles.1 Although the railnet still registered a robust 249,052 miles by 1930,
these oft-cited estimates are deceptive: steam railroads had made long-
distance travel ever more practicable, at least between stations with passen-
ger service. Streetcar systems extended this accessibility within cities large
and small, and electric interurban lines put some of the adjacent country-
side, and many farmers, within reach.2 Nonetheless, these fixed-route
conveniences did not serve everyone and were not to last. The principal
disrupter was the motor car.
Before the 1920s became the age of automobile design, improved reli-
ability and lower prices had made the 1910s an age of personal motorized
transport. Industrious carriage makers and machinists became automobile
manufacturers, and car dealerships found willing buyers in both urban
and rural settings.3 Some farm-machinery dealers discovered car sales a
profitable sideline as well-off or debt-tolerant farmers recognized the au-
tomobile as an affordable supplement to their more utilitarian pick-up
truck. In cities and small towns, affluent homeowners delighted in a new
use for their carriage house or backyard stable. Great wealth was not a
prerequisite for city residents dissatisfied with the dubious convenience
of an electric streetcar network focused on downtown. Although only 2
percent of American households owned a car in 1910, automobility in-
creased markedly over the next two decades. The federal census did not
count households with cars, but a New York Times statistician estimated
per-household car-ownership rates of 28 and 59 percent for 1920 and 1930,
respectively.4 Outside medium and large cities, where the trolley remained
a convenient alternative, proportionately more households owned cars.
Fueling the transition to car ownership was the petroleum industry,
which followed the discovery of oil in Titusville, Pennsylvania, in 1859.
Production initially focused on kerosene, used principally for illumina-
tion as a substitute for whale oil. Although the earliest motor cars ran on
natural gas, which was difficult to produce and store, improved internal-
combustion engines created a profitable use for gasoline, an overly volatile
and largely useless byproduct of kerosene production.5 Discovery of oil
fields elsewhere in Appalachia and in Kansas and Oklahoma fostered the
creation of John D. Rockefeller’s Standard Oil monopoly, broken up by a
1911 Supreme Court decision. Successor companies like Esso and Socony
developed networks of local gasoline and motor-oil dealers, essential to
long-distance motoring.6
Although a dirt road still ran past the typical farm, an expanding network
of paved highways increased the rural traveler’s range and aspirations. In
the 1870s bicyclists eager for solid, stable pavement free of mud, stones,
and dust initiated the Good Roads Movement, embodied by the League of
American Wheelmen, founded in 1880.7 The League lobbied state govern-
ments for smooth roads, paved with macadam, another recent innovation,
and started its own magazine, Good Roads, in 1892.8 The movement gained
further support from the Grange Movement and the US Post Office, which
was experimenting with Rural Free Delivery service in the 1890s.
In the 1910s turn-by-turn instructions in guidebooks, sometimes rein-
forced with simple maps and photographs, helped motorists navigate the
irregular and poorly marked routes connecting cities and larger towns.9 In
the mid-1920s the American Association of State Highway Officials provided
a more stable framework for small- and intermediate-scale road maps by
establishing a nationwide numbering scheme with standardized signage.10
The free road map emerged in the late 1920s, when low-cost printing and
economies of mass production at Rand McNally, General Drafting, and
H.M. Gousha intersected the competitive needs of petroleum companies,
such as Esso and Texaco, with supply chains supporting thousands of
franchised or company-owned gas stations.11 Up-to-date disposable maps
encouraged motorists to find a route and just follow the signs. However
helpful these navigation aids, uncertainty arose when the destination was
off the numbered network.
2 | ch apt er one
In the era before farms acquired house numbers, rural travelers ven-
turing outside their immediate neighborhood or beyond the network of
numbered highways often relied on hand-drawn maps or verbal direc-
tions. Locally prominent visible landmarks were useful reference points,
as when a traveler was told, “Go about three miles until you see a large red
barn, and then bear left.” Countable guidance like “fourth house on the
right” underscored the need to show individual structures to reinforce a
reliable representation of noteworthy bends and straight stretches. Today’s
electronic navigation systems recognize the value of locally distinctive
landmarks, as when a motorist’s GPS says, “Turn left at the gas station,”
or “turn right at the second set of traffic lights.”
Farmers sufficiently prosperous to own one might consult the family’s
county land-ownership atlas. In the latter half of the nineteenth century a
team of surveyors would descend on a county, check names of household-
ers, and measure distances along roads with a wheelbarrow odometer,
also called a surveyor’s perambulator (fig. 1).12 They consulted plat maps
and other data readily available at the county courthouse, and compiled
maps for oversize atlas pages (roughly 17 × 14 inches). Because the surveyor-
canvassers also took orders for the finished atlas—buyers eager to see
their house and name on the map had to prepay—publishers of these
so-called subscription atlases had no need to front the costs of engraving
and printing.13 As a further appeal to vanity, for an additional fee the atlas
could include an engraved sketch of the buyer’s home embellished with
mature shade trees and meticulously trimmed ornamental plantings. The
lucrative county atlas business, along with spinoffs such as county wall
maps and state atlases, accounted for four of the eighteen chapters in
muckraker Bates Harrington’s 1890 book How ’Tis Done: A Thorough Venti-
lation of the Numerous Schemes Conducted by Wandering Canvassers, Together
with the Various Advertising Dodges for the Swindling of the Public.14
Despite the hype and high-pressure salesmanship, these county-format
atlases have been praised as generally reliable representations of the
late-nineteenth-century American landscape, particularly useful for
counties where original ownership records were lost in a fire or flood.15
Coverage was notably thorough in rural parts of the Central and Mid-
Atlantic states, where local landowners able to afford them were relatively
numerous. Clara Le Gear, who compiled a cartobibliography for the Library
of Congress, identified county atlases published in the 1860s and 1870s
No Real Address | 3
f i g u r e 1 . Wheelbarrow odometer, a push-cart device for measuring distance
along roads. From Bates Harrington, How ’Tis Done: A Thorough Ventilation of the
Numerous Schemes Conducted by Wandering Canvassers; Together with the Various Ad-
vertising Dodges for the Swindling of the Public (Syracuse, NY: W. I. Pattison, 1890), 17.
covering fifty of the fifty-five New York counties north of New York City.16
By 1900 an atlas had been published for most counties in the agricultural
states of the Midwest. These atlases enrich the reference collections of
county historical societies and genealogical departments of public libraries
fortunate to own one.
Subscription atlases were designed to flatter as well as inform. Printed
at scales of approximately 1:31,680 (two inches to the mile), their maps
were sufficiently detailed to show individual homes and residents’ names,
as well as the orientation of a farmstead’s rectangular footprint.17 As il-
lustrated in figure 2, from an atlas published in 1874, the engraver of-
ten had a preference for jerky straight-line segments, no doubt easier
to inscribe than the more realistic smooth curves that later mapmakers
could delineate efficiently with pen and ink. Although this atlas made it
easy to pinpoint some destinations, it was of limited use for in-vehicle
navigation by a 1920s’ motorist because many of the residences shown
had disappeared. And why risk damaging a would-be family heirloom
on a local road trip? Putting farmers on the map did little to help them
with wayfinding.
4 | chap t er one
figure 2. An 1874 county atlas provides a detailed rendering of a neighborhood
in the northwestern corner of the Town of Clay, in Onondaga County, New York.
Excerpt from the northwestern corner of the map for the Town of Clay, in Sweet’s
New Atlas of Onondaga Co., New York: From Recent and Actual Surveys and Records under
the Superintendence of Homer D. L. Sweet (New York: Walker Bros. & Co., 1874), 16–17.
Courtesy Map and Atlas Collection, Bird Library, Syracuse University.
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Chacune avait sa spécialité.
C’était avec Berthe Voraud qu’il faisait en Imagination un grand
voyage dans les Alpes. Il la sauvait d’un précipice. C’était elle aussi
qui l’appelait un soir à son lit de mort. Elle y guérissait ou elle y
mourait, suivant les jours. Quand elle y mourait, ce n’était pas sans
avoir avoué à Daniel un amour ardent. Il s’en allait ensuite tout seul
dans la vie, avec un visage triste à jamais, dédaignant les femmes,
toutes les femmes, avides de lui, que son air grave et sa fidélité à la
morte attiraient sur son chemin.
La grande jeune fille brune était plus spécialement destinée à
des aventures d’Italie, où Daniel, l’épée à la main, châtiait plusieurs
cavaliers.
C’était pour lui l’occasion de songer à apprendre l’escrime.
Quant à la laide petite Saül, elle trouvait son emploi dans des
épisodes beaucoup moins chastes.
Le mariage sanctifiait toujours ces rapprochements. Car l’idée
d’arracher une jeune fille à sa famille terrifiait le fils Henry et les pires
libertinages se passaient après la noce.
Ce soir-là, c’était Mlle Voraud qui tenait la corde et qui était vouée
au rôle principal et unique, en raison de son actualité.
Daniel sentit en la voyant un grand besoin de la dominer. Elle lui
était tellement supérieure ! Elle faisait les honneurs de la maison et
parlait aux dames avec tant de naturel ! Elle disait à une dame :
« Oh ! madame Hubert ! vous avez été trop charmante pour moi !
Vous êtes trop charmante ! On ne peut arriver à vous aimer assez. »
Cette simple phrase paraissait à Daniel dénoter une intelligence
et une aisance infinies. C’était une de ces phrases comme il n’en
trouverait jamais. Peut-être après tout aurait-il pu la trouver, mais il
ne fût jamais parvenu à la faire sortir de ses lèvres. Comme elle était
bien sortie et sans effort, de la petite bouche de Berthe Voraud !
Daniel, lui, ne parlait d’une façon assurée qu’à quelques
compagnons d’âge et à sa mère. Quand il s’adressait à d’autres
personnes, le son de sa voix l’étonnait.
L’après-midi, il avait eu une conversation imaginaire avec Berthe
Voraud. Alors, les phrases venaient toutes seules.
C’était lui qui devait aborder Berthe Voraud en lui disant :
— J’ai pensé à vous constamment depuis que je vous ai vue.
Ces simples mots (prononcés, il est vrai, sur un ton presque
tragique), devaient troubler profondément la jeune fille, qui répondait
très faiblement :
— Pourquoi ?
— Parce que je vous aime, répondait Daniel.
A ce moment, elle se couvrait de confusion et s’en allait pour
cacher son trouble.
Et Daniel n’en était pas fâché, car, poussée à ce diapason, la
conversation lui paraissait difficile à soutenir.
Dans ses imaginations, Daniel allait toujours vite en besogne.
L’effort lui était insupportable.
Il voulait n’avoir qu’à ouvrir les bras, et que les dames lui
tombassent du ciel, toutes préparées.
Des conquérants patients lui paraissaient manquer de gloire.
Comme il pensait à autre chose, il aperçut devant lui Mlle Voraud.
— Monsieur Henry ? Comment va Madame votre mère ?
Pourquoi n’est-elle pas venue ?
Il répondit poliment, mais avec une grande sécheresse, et ne dit
rien de ce qu’il avait préparé.
D’ailleurs, Berthe Voraud avait déjà passé à un autre invité,
pendant que Daniel Henry, très rouge, regardait devant lui d’un air
profond, c’est-à-dire en fermant à demi les yeux, comme s’il était
myope.
— Monsieur Henry, vous ne m’avez pas invitée ?
C’était encore Berthe Voraud, qui se présentait inopinément,
sans se faire annoncer. Aussi, tant pis pour elle, il ne trouvait pas de
phrase aimable pour la recevoir.
— Vous allez me faire danser cette valse ?
— C’est que… je ne valse pas.
— Eh bien ! nous nous promènerons. Offrez-moi votre bras.
Daniel offrit donc son bras à Mlle Voraud et ce simple geste mit
en fuite tous les sujets de conversation. Il en attrapa un ou deux au
passage, comme on attrape des volailles à tâtons, dans un poulailler
obscur. Puis il les essaya mentalement et les laissa aller ; ils étaient
vraiment trop misérables.
Alors il fronça le sourcil et prit un air méditatif. Ce qui lui attira
cette question providentielle :
— Vous paraissez triste ? Avez-vous des ennuis ?
— Toujours un peu.
— Vous avez pourtant passé brillamment vos examens de droit.
— C’est si facile, répondit-il honnêtement.
— C’est facile pour vous, dit Berthe, parce que vous êtes
intelligent et savant.
Cet éloge lui fit perdre l’équilibre. Il rougit et son regard vacilla.
— Et vous étiez au Salon ? dit Berthe.
— J’y suis allé deux fois.
— Vous aimez la peinture ?
— Oui, répondit-il à pile ou face. Beaucoup.
— J’ai failli y avoir mon portrait. C’est d’un jeune homme de
grand talent, un prix de Rome, M. Leguénu. Nous l’avons connu à
Étretat. C’est un élève de Henner. Malheureusement, le portrait n’a
pas été prêt assez tôt.
— Il est ressemblant ?
— Les avis sont partagés. Maman dit que c’est bien moi. Papa
prétend qu’il ressemble à ma cousine Blanche. Moi, je trouve que
mes yeux, à leur couleur naturelle, ne sont pas aussi bleus.
— Ils sont pourtant bien bleus.
— Non, ils sont gris. Moi, d’ailleurs, j’aime mieux les yeux bruns.
Surtout pour un homme. Je trouve qu’un homme doit être intelligent
et avoir les yeux bruns.
— Les miens sont jaunes.
— Non, ils sont bruns. Je vais vous faire des compliments : vous
avez de beaux yeux.
— Ce sont les yeux de ma mère, dit gravement Daniel.
— Est-ce que vous irez cette année à Étretat ?
— Oui, dit Daniel, surtout si vous y allez.
La conversation l’avait lancé en pleine mer. Il nageait.
— Asseyons-nous un peu, dit Berthe au moment où ils entraient
dans un petit salon. Tâchez de venir à Étretat. On s’amusera un peu.
On se réunira l’après-midi. Nous jouerons la comédie.
— Et puis je vous verrai.
— Vous tenez tant que ça à me voir ?
Il inclina la tête.
— Eh bien, pourquoi ne venez-vous pas plus souvent ? Tous les
mercredis, à quatre heures, j’ai des amies et des amis. On fait un
peu de musique. Venez, n’est-ce pas ? C’est entendu. Vous serez
gentil, et vous me ferez plaisir.
Berthe se leva. La valse venait de finir. D’autres danseurs
l’attendaient.
Daniel était, d’ailleurs, ravi que l’entretien eût pris fin. C’était
assez pour ce jour-là. Il avait besoin de faire l’inventaire des
premières conquêtes.
Il sortit du bal peu après. Il rentra à pied. Il donnait de joyeux
coups de canne contre les devantures. Il n’hésitait pas à s’attribuer
le mérite de la marche rapide des événements et méconnaissait
froidement le rôle du hasard.
Il marchait dans la solitude des rues, sans crainte des attaques
nocturnes. Et il fallut la persistance d’une ombre sur le trottoir
opposé pour le décider à prendre un fiacre.
En arrivant, il donna cent sous au cocher. C’était un petit pot-de-
vin pour la Providence, le denier à Dieu de l’aventure.
IV
DIMANCHE