Bourgeois Nightmares

Bourgeois
NightmaresSuburbia, –

Robert M. Fogelson

Yale University Press • New Haven and London

Frontispiece: Subdivision plan, Palos Verdes Estates, California,
ca. 
Part  illustration: Billboard in the Country Club District,
Kansas City (ca. ), J. C. Nichols Company Scrapbooks
(KC) :, Western Historical Manuscript Collection,
University of Missouri-Kansas City Archives
Part  illustration: From Gasoline Stations or Brendonwood
(promotional brochure, ca. ), Loeb Library, Harvard
University

Copyright ©  by Robert M. Fogelson. All rights reserved.

This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part,
including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying
permitted by Sections  and  of the U.S. Copyright
Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without
written permission from the publishers.

Printed in the United States of America by Sheridan Books Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Fogelson, Robert M.
Bourgeois nightmares : suburbia, – / Robert M.
Fogelson.
p. cm.
 --- (alk. paper)
. Suburbs—United States—History. . Real covenants—
United States. . Suburban life—United States—History.
I. Title.
. 
.'—dc 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the

British Library.

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for

permanence and durability of the Committee on Production
Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library
Resources.

         
To Maria Alvarez, Joshua Fogelson, and Camille Ballard

and to David Handlin, who asked the question that

prompted me to write a book I had never thought of writing

‘‘Suppose I [meaning a man of means and refinement]

come here [ from the city to one of its suburbs], what

grounds of confidence can I have that I shall not by-and-by

find a dram-shop on my right, or a beer-garden on my left,

or a factory chimney or warehouse cutting off this view of

the water? Is this charming road sure not to be turned also

into a common town street, strewn with garbage, and in

place of these lovely woods, can I be certain that here also

there will not soon be a field of stumps with shanties and

goats and heaps of cinders?’’

Frederick Law Olmsted et al.

‘‘Report to the Staten Island Improvement
Commission of a Preliminary Scheme of
Improvements,’’ 
Contents

Introduction 

one
Suburbia, –: The Quest for Permanence 

two
Bourgeois Nightmares: Fears of Almost Everyone
and Everything 

Epilogue 

Notes 

Acknowledgments 

Index 
 Introduction

Early in the s, a couple of years before I finished high

school, my parents made a down payment on a house to be built
in Bayberry, a residential development in New Rochelle, one of
New York City’s rapidly growing suburbs. Like many of their
neighbors, most of whom were second-generation immigrants,
professionals, and small-business men who had prospered after
World War II, they were unhappy with the apartment house in the
West Bronx into which they had moved during the Great Depres-
sion. Although they did not tell me (or my two younger brothers)
why, I later learned that they found their two-bedroom apartment
too small to raise three boys—though it was much bigger than
the Manhattan tenements in which their parents had raised even
larger families. They were also fed up with paying rent and tired
of fighting with the landlord. They wanted to be homeowners, not
tenants, to live in a single-family house on a good-sized lot, with a
well-tended lawn and plenty of shade trees, surrounded by other
single-family houses. Now that many of their neighbors were on
the move, they saw no reason to stay put. A few of the neighbors
moved east, to Queens and Long Island. But just as they had once
headed north from Manhattan to the Bronx, so most now moved
north from the Bronx to Westchester County, to New Rochelle,
Mount Vernon, and, if they could afford it, Scarsdale. My parents
followed suit, confident that in a year or so we too would be living
happily in suburbia.
Their confidence, it turned out, was misplaced. They soon dis-


 

covered that houses were going up everywhere in Bayberry—

everywhere, that is, but on their lot. When my father complained
about the lack of progress, the developer gave him one excuse
after another, none of which made much sense. More than a little
suspicious, he asked a friend who was in the construction busi-
ness to look into the situation. He found our property was at
the spot in the first tier of lots through which the developer was
moving his materials and workers to the second tier. Our house
would eventually be built, but not until all the others were done.
When the developer admitted as much, my father took back his
down payment. A few years later my parents did move—but to
another apartment in the Bronx, not to a house in suburbia; and
in time they returned to Manhattan, first as tenants and then as
owners of a cooperative apartment. Although I did not know it
at the time, Bayberry would be as close to living in suburbia as I
ever came. After spending four years in dormitories at Columbia
College and five in Cambridge apartments and Harvard’s Win-
throp House, I returned to New York, where I taught at Columbia
for four years and rented an apartment in a townhouse on the
Upper East Side. When I went to MIT in , I moved into an
apartment house on the fringe of one of Cambridge’s suburban
neighborhoods. I still live there. I have also spent the past thirty
summers on a farm in a part of Martha’s Vineyard that has thus
far pretty much withstood the pressures of suburbanization.
Although I have never lived in suburbia, I have spent a good
deal of time there. I have visited my brothers, both of whom live
in the suburbs—one in Scarsdale, the other in Hermosa Beach, a
suburb of Los Angeles. Most of my relatives also live in the sub-
urbs, as do many of my friends and colleagues. I have gone to sub-
  

urban restaurants, movie theaters, and shopping centers. I have

read about the suburbs in novels and short stories and seen them
portrayed in movies and on television. As a historian of urban
America, I have also taught about suburbia, its past and present,
its politics, society, and culture. And though I cannot claim to
have succeeded, I have tried to keep up with the vast outpouring
of books, articles, and theses about the history of suburbia: about
the history of suburbs in general, of which the best known are
Kenneth T. Jackson’s Crabgrass Frontier, John R. Stilgoe’s Border-
lands, and Robert Fishman’s Bourgeois Utopias, the inspiration for
the title of this book; about the history of types of suburbs, in-
cluding the streetcar suburbs of Boston, the lakeshore suburbs of
Chicago, and the working-class suburbs of Los Angeles; about the
history of individual suburbs, of Baltimore’s Roland Park, Hous-
ton’s River Oaks, and Kansas City’s Country Club District; and
about the history of suburbia and mass transit, suburbia and city
planning, suburbia and domestic architecture.
The literature is so vast that it is easy to forget that almost all
of it has appeared in the past forty-five years. Indeed, it is so vast
that historians have already begun writing articles about the his-
toriography of suburbia, the history of its history. This literature
is also very rich, so rich that historians now know more about
suburbia than about any other part of the American metropolis.
We know about the origins of the suburbs in the early and mid
nineteenth century and about their growth in the late nineteenth
and early twentieth.We know about the subdividers, the business-
men who transformed rural acreage into suburban lots, and their
customers, the families that bought the lots and built houses on
them. We know how fears of disease, crime, immorality, poverty,
 

immigration, and public disorder drove many Americans from

the center of the city to the periphery. And we know how rail-
roads and streetcars and later els, subways, and highways facili-
tated their exodus. We have learned why subdividers gave way
after World War II to developers like William J. Levitt, who not
only laid out the lots but also put up the houses. We have also
learned how the developers, with the help of financial institu-
tions, real estate associations, local zoning boards, and federal
housing agencies, built the modern metropolis in which most
people now live, work, shop, and amuse themselves on the pe-
riphery.
As good as this literature is, it has missed something central
not only to the history of suburbia but also to the history of Ameri-
can society. It has overlooked what are known as restrictive cove-
nants, or deed restrictions. Legal devices that were widely used
in real estate transactions, contracts that bound the seller and
buyer (and, until the restrictions expired, subsequent sellers and
buyers), these covenants did more than bar the owners from sell-
ing and leasing their property to non-Caucasians. They also im-
posed a host of highly onerous restrictions on how the owners
could use their property. I first came across these restrictions
roughly forty years ago while doing research for a book about Los
Angeles. I found that during the late nineteenth and early twen-
tieth centuries it was common for subdividers to impose restric-
tive covenants on suburban tracts, especially upper-middle-class
tracts, and even to use the restrictions as a marketing tool. If real
estate was, next to poker, the ‘‘great American game,’’ as Thor-
stein Veblen once wrote, why, I wondered, were Americans will-
ing to play by such stringent rules? This question, I later realized,
led to other questions, the answers to which tell us much about
  

the history of suburbia and the society of which it was an integral

part.

Of the many Los Angeles suburbs, none raised these questions

more sharply than Palos Verdes Estates. A subdivision whose re-
strictions ran thirty pages, it covered thirty-two hundred acres of
the Palos Verdes Peninsula, a spectacular site standing high above
the Pacific Ocean at the southwestern edge of the metropolis. The
modern history of the peninsula began in , when a syndi-
cate of eastern financiers and railroad executives bought most of
what had once been El Rancho de Los Palos Verdes from George
Bixby for . million. The ranch had been carved out of El Rancho
San Pedro—one of the immense ranches into which the Span-
iards had divided much of southern California—in ; in 
it was partitioned into seventeen parcels, the largest of which,
the Palos Verdes Peninsula, was awarded to Jotham Bixby, from
whom his son George inherited it in . Leading the syndicate
was Frank A. Vanderlip, whose career reads like a Horatio Alger
story. The son of a midwestern farmer whose death forced the
sale of the family homestead,Vanderlip worked as a lathe operator
and, after a year of college and a job as a financial analyst, turned
to journalism. He spent a few years as a reporter and editor and
then as private secretary to Lyman Gage, a Chicago banker who
had been appointed secretary of the Treasury. Following a stint
as assistant secretary, Vanderlip joined the National City Bank of
New York, one of the country’s largest, as vice president; eight
years later he was named president. For what was small change to
Vanderlip and his associates, all of whom were millionaires, the
syndicate acquired a huge parcel about twenty miles from down-
town Los Angeles. Covering sixteen thousand acres, or twenty-
 

five square miles, it was more than half the size of San Francisco,
the largest city on the Pacific Coast, and slightly larger than Man-
hattan, where Vanderlip and many of the other investors worked.1
Hard as it is to believe, Vanderlip bought the Palos Verdes Pen-
insula, in his words, ‘‘sight unseen’’—although he did send two
of ‘‘his trusted younger men’’ to look at it beforehand, his son
later recalled. He may have thought that the deal was too good to
pass on, that at less than a hundred dollars an acre the property
‘‘certainly could be sold for more.’’ But not long after, he was over-
come by ‘‘an unusual lassitude and an occasional dizziness’’ that
kept him in bed for a month. When he recovered, he followed his
doctor’s advice to take a break from the bank and went to Cali-
fornia to visit Palos Verdes. What he saw bowled him over. Palos
Verdes, he wrote, was like a ‘‘beautiful empire,’’ with ‘‘miles of
seacoast,’’ ‘‘gleaming crescent beaches,’’ ‘‘picturesque rolling hills
and occasionally more picturesque canyons.’’ It reminded him
of ‘‘the Sorrentine Peninsula and the Amalfi Drive.’’ But Palos
Verdes had no whitewashed houses and medieval churches, only
herds of sheep and cattle, fields of grain, and rows of peas, beans,
and tomatoes, cultivated by Japanese-American truck farmers.
All this was ‘‘here in America,’’ Vanderlip wrote, ‘‘an unspoiled
sheet of paper to be written on with loving care.’’ To help figure
out what to write on it, to make sure that it would not be spoiled
‘‘by greedy real estate operations and crowded architectural hor-
rors,’’ as much of the Los Angeles coast had been, he called on
Olmsted Brothers, a firm of planners, designers, and landscape
architects in Brookline, Massachusetts.2
Olmsted Brothers was the foremost firm of its kind in the coun-
try. Its principals were John Charles Olmsted and Frederick Law
Olmsted, Jr., the stepson and son, respectively, of the late Fred-
  

erick Law Olmsted, the dean of American landscape architects.

As well as being the designer, with Calvert Vaux, of Central Park,
Olmsted, Sr., was the founder of the New York firm that moved to
Brookline in  and changed its name to Olmsted Brothers in
. Although best known for its design of parks, parkways, pri-
vate estates, and public institutions, the firm was well regarded
for its work on several of the country’s most admired suburban
subdivisions. It was this work that brought the firm to Vanderlip’s
attention. A year or so before he bought Palos Verdes, Vanderlip
had hired the Olmsteds to lay out the grounds for an eighteen-
acre subdivision adjacent to Beechwood, his large country estate
in Scarborough-on-the-Hudson, a small village in northern West-
chester County. Although the Olmsteds had never worked on a
subdivision as large as Palos Verdes—indeed, there had never
been a subdivision as large to work on—Vanderlip turned to them
again. Before long they came up with a plan for what the Boston
Evening Transcript called ‘‘the country’s most fashionable and ex-
clusive residence colony,’’ designed for a select group of the coun-
try’s richest people. A California version of Tuxedo Park—a resi-
dential retreat for wealthy New Yorkers that had been developed
by Pierre Lorillard IV, heir to a great tobacco fortune, in the mid-
s—the plan featured large estates for the fortunate few (as
well as a country club, golf clubs, yacht club, tennis courts, swim-
ming pools, and polo grounds) and three ‘‘model villages,’’ wrote
the Transcript, to house the mechanics, gardeners, and laborers
who worked for them.3
Work got under way in . Under Olmsted Brothers’ super-
vision, Koebig & Koebig, a Los Angeles engineering firm, made
an extensive survey of the property. Plans were also drawn for
more than one hundred miles of roads and a fourteen-mile high-
 

way along the bluffs. And architects Howard Shaw of Chicago

and Myron Hunt of Los Angeles did the preliminary drawings
for a magnificent clubhouse. But work came to a halt when war
broke out in Europe. It started again in , only to be put on
hold a year later when the United States entered the war and the
project’s leaders joined the war effort. Taking leave from the bank,
Vanderlip went to Washington, D.C., where, as one of the many
‘‘Dollar-a-Year’’ men, he chaired the Treasury Department’s War
Savings Committee. Frederick Law Olmsted served as a mem-
ber of the Commission on Emergency Construction of the War
Industries Board and as the manager of the Town Planning Divi-
sion of the United States Housing Corporation, which had been
set up to build low-cost housing for defense workers. His brother
John, who had been in charge of the firm’s work in Palos Verdes,
was not involved in the war effort because he was seriously ill—
and, it turned out, had only a few years to live.4 By the time the
war was over, it was clear that the original plan was deeply flawed.
For all the many virtues of Palos Verdes—its spectacular scenery,
breathtaking views, and balmy climate—it was too far from the
East Coast. Few New Yorkers or Bostonians who could afford a
second (or third) home were going to take a three-day train ride
to Palos Verdes when in a matter of hours (or at most a day) they
could travel to Bar Harbor, Cape Cod, Newport, the Hamptons,
and other fashionable resorts.
Vanderlip returned to the bank after the war, but he resigned
in . Although he now had time to devote to Palos Verdes, he
lost interest in developing it himself. And in August , at the
beginning of the greatest real estate boom in southern California
history, he gave E. G. Lewis an option to buy the property for 
million, just over  an acre. Lewis was one of the many color-
  

ful characters who dazzled Americans during the Gilded Age.

The son, grandson, and great-grandson of Episcopalian clergy-
men, he was an amalgam of visionary and con man. Above all,
he was a salesman, who started out peddling mosquito repel-
lents and patent medicines and went on to make and lose for-
tunes as a publisher and a real estate developer. He spent much
of his life one step ahead of his creditors, who forced him into
bankruptcy twice, and two steps ahead of postal officials, who
finally caught up with him in the late s, when he was con-
victed of mail fraud and sentenced to five years in federal prison.
Why Vanderlip, a hard-headed banker and businessman, gave an
option to Lewis—a man, wrote one journalist a few years later,
who had ‘‘a twenty-year record of broken promises and unfulfilled
pledges’’—is hard to say. Perhaps he was impressed by Lewis’s
accomplishments as the developer of University City, St. Louis,
and Atascadero, California. Or perhaps he was taken in by what
the same journalist described as Lewis’s ‘‘unshakable optimism,’’
‘‘his contagious self-confidence,’’ and ‘‘[his] natural aptitude for
the kind of sleight-of-hand performance which before the eyes of
a spellbound crowd produces a towering pyramid resting on its
apex.’’ 5
Lewis had a vision for Palos Verdes. It would be ‘‘the Reviera
[sic] of the Pacific coast’’—‘‘a great Acropolis, the most beauti-
ful residential city in the world, overshadowing the greatest me-
tropolis in all the world,’’ he told a crowd of investors and poten-
tial investors, to whom he promised dividends of  to ,
percent within three or four years. To help create this ‘‘New City,’’
he assembled a team of engineers, lawyers, planners, and land-
scape architects, probably the most influential of whom were
Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., and Charles H. Cheney, a prominent
 

California planner who was a strong advocate of restrictive cove-

nants. Lewis had experts galore.What he did not have was money.
He did not have the  million to pay for the land, much less an
estimated  million to make the streets, parks, sewers, utilities,
and other improvements. Hence he formed a trust, which issued
notes, some of which, known as convertible notes, could later be
exchanged for property in Palos Verdes. In effect, Lewis was sell-
ing land in order to raise the money to buy and improve it. Ex-
ploiting his knack as a salesman (and the boom in the real estate
market), he raised a great deal of money, perhaps as much as 
million, but not enough under the terms of the trust. In February
 the trustee, Title Insurance and Trust Company, pulled out
of the project and offered the investors their money back. Vander-
lip and his associates, to whom the property reverted, then set up
another trust, which managed to salvage  million from what was
left of the capital. With the money, the new trust bought thirty-
two hundred acres from the syndicate, one-fifth of its holdings,
and named it Palos Verdes Estates.6
Before he was forced to step down, Lewis made considerable
progress. Following the Olmsted Brothers plan, his staff built
roads and sewers, installed water mains and other utilities, laid
out parks and a golf course, and planted trees and shrubs. They
also subdivided the land and priced the lots. Under the leader-
ship of Jay Lawyer, who replaced Lewis as general manager of the
project, the new owners picked up where Lewis left off. They also
launched a major advertising campaign and, though Palos Verdes
Estates was far from finished, opened it to the public in June .
Even by southern California standards, the opening was stupen-
dous. Indeed, said one newspaper, it was ‘‘without parallel in the
history of real estate projects on the Pacific Coast.’’ More than
  

thirty thousand people came. Some drove; others took the Pacific
Electric railway to Redondo Beach and from there a motor coach
to Palos Verdes. Most wanted to find out what the fuss was all
about and enjoy a free outing on a pleasant summer day. After
Boy Scouts raised the flag and veterans of the Grand Army of the
Republic fired a salute, the festivities got under way. Highlighted
by concerts, aerial stunts, aquaplaning demonstrations, novelty
races, a baseball game, a yacht race, a tug-of-war, and day-long
dancing, the opening was a veritable ‘‘three-ring circus,’’ said the
Los Angeles Express. Along with Jay Lawyer and Henry Clarke, the
director of sales, more than a hundred employees were on hand to
greet the visitors and, if asked, to show them the site. For perhaps
the only time in the history of Palos Verdes Estates, no effort was
made to sell anything. ‘‘Business was laid aside,’’ observed the Los
Angeles Times, ‘‘and the day was given over to pleasure and study.’’ 7
For all the inflated rhetoric, Palos Verdes Estates was not a
‘‘New City.’’ Indeed, it was not a city at all. It was a suburb, a
suburb designed ‘‘predominantly for fairly prosperous people
wanting detached houses and a garden setting but unwilling to
burden themselves with the care of extensive grounds,’’ wrote
Olmsted, Jr. It was ‘‘a model residential suburb,’’ said Cheney,
and ‘‘the largest single piece of city planning by private enterprise
ever undertaken in this country for permanent development.’’ In
accord with principles formulated long ago by Olmsted, Sr., the
streets were laid out to fit into the contour of the hilly site, with
the lots arranged to preserve the expansive views. Through traf-
fic was concentrated on a few wide streets, Olmsted, Jr., wrote,
‘‘leaving the great majority of local residence streets indirect,
comparatively free from traffic, quiet and safe for children.’’ Hun-
dreds of acres were reserved for parks, playgrounds, bridle trails,
 

and a golf course. Also set aside were several miles of seashore.
Palos Verdes was a place not only ‘‘to invest, but to live,’’ read
one of its ads. As one of the promotional brochures put it: ‘‘Palos
Verdes is typical of that proverbial suburban community of which
the city dweller often dreams but seldom sees; uncommon in its
abundance of natural beauty, restful in its quiet peace, and warm
in its spirit of easy friendliness and charm. A community, com-
pact and secluded[,] which has succeeded in shutting out all din
and confusion of modern metropolitan life.’’ 8 As well as any sub-
urb in the country, Palos Verdes Estates embodied the vision of
the ‘‘bourgeois utopia’’ so brilliantly described by historian Robert
Fishman.

Through newspaper ads and promotional brochures, Lawyer

and his associates hammered away at the point that Palos Verdes
Estates stood, in Olmsted’s words, ‘‘head and shoulders’’ above any
other residential community. They pointed to its natural beauty,
especially its unspoiled coastline and rolling hills, its open spaces,
its recreational facilities, and its unsurpassed climate, warm in
winter, cool in summer, sunny and dry almost all year round.
Also highlighted were its extensive improvements—an abundant
water supply, a system of roads on which traffic would flow freely
and pedestrians move safely, and a subdivision plan that provided
ocean views for most lots. Although it was anything but, Palos
Verdes, claimed its promoters, was conveniently located, forty
minutes from downtown Los Angles, thirty-five from Wilshire
Boulevard, one of the city’s main outlying shopping districts; and
with a handful of fine shops and stores within Palos Verdes it was
not even necessary to leave the peninsula for everyday goods and
services. Palos Verdes was a splendid place to raise a family, read
  

the ads. It had—or would soon have—good schools, churches,

and clubs. Growing up in Palos Verdes, ‘‘your little girl may skate
along the sidewalk, safely ride her bicycle or play a game of old
fashioned ‘hopscotch,’ ’’ and ‘‘that lad of yours’’ will be spared the
memory of ‘‘emotional sex movies, concrete backyards, lawns not
made for summersaults and streets that are danger lanes of traf-
fic.’’ Lots were not cheap, but prices ‘‘are far below what you may
expect,’’ said another ad. And property values were bound to go
up.9
The ads and brochures portrayed Palos Verdes as a world of
beautiful houses overlooking the ocean, sturdy boys playing pi-
rates on the beach, a well-dressed girl riding her pony, a man
returning home from a round of golf, greeted by his children,
one on each arm, and his wife, picking flowers from the garden.
But without meaning to, the ads and brochures revealed that this
Pacific paradise had a dark side as well. Nowhere was this side
more clearly revealed than in the repeated assurances that its resi-
dents would be protected, in the words of Olmsted, Jr., against
‘‘encroachment by any possible developments of an adverse sort,’’
especially developments that jeopardized the ‘‘stability and per-
manence’’ of the community. They would be protected against
‘‘undesirable neighbors.’’ Against ‘‘oil derricks, tank farms, lum-
ber yards, warehouses,’’ and other industrial enterprises. Against
commercial garages, funeral parlors, and other objectionable
businesses that had blighted many once fashionable neighbor-
hoods. Against apartment houses and single-family houses built
on top of one another. Even against ‘‘unsightly structures,’’ includ-
ing ‘‘the inartistic, the injurious in design.’’ The residents would
be protected not only by the natural setting and topography, by
the ocean on three sides and the hills on the fourth, but also by
 

what Olmsted Brothers called an ‘‘unusually complete, inclusive

and elaborate’’ set of restrictive covenants. ‘‘Permanent protec-
tive restrictions, officially recorded, cover every foot of the entire
City,’’ read one of the ads.10
There was never much doubt that some restrictions would be
imposed on Palos Verdes whether it was developed as an exclusive
colony for the very wealthy or as a garden suburb for the mod-
erately well-to-do. Vanderlip, whose subdivision in Scarborough-
on-the-Hudson was highly restricted, was very much in favor of
them. So were the Olmsted brothers, who had drafted the restric-
tions not only for Vanderlip’s small subdivision but also for sev-
eral much larger subdivisions all over the country. Lewis was con-
vinced that restrictions would enhance the desirability of Palos
Verdes as a residential community, as was Cheney, who took a
large hand in drafting the restrictions for the Palos Verdes project.
H. T. Cory, the project’s chief engineer, and Frank James, its gen-
eral counsel, had reservations, but in time they came around—
or went along. Drawing heavily on restrictions imposed on other
upper-middle-class subdivisions, some of which had been drafted
by Olmsted Brothers, Lewis’s team eventually came up with a
long list of its own, a list, said the Olmsted firm, that had ‘‘run the
gauntlet of legal criticism by a number of able attorneys.’’ The re-
strictions were written into the contract between Lewis and the
Title Insurance and Trust Company in . And a year or two
later the Commonwealth Trust Company, acting on behalf of the
new owners, filed substantially the same restrictions, the Palos
Verdes Estates Protective Restrictions, in the Los Angeles County
courthouse.11
Imposed on every lot, incorporated into every deed, forming
part of the contract between buyer and seller and as binding le-
  

gally as any other part, the restrictions severely limited what the
owners could do with their property. What were called, most
likely by Cheney, ‘‘the usual restrictions’’ forbade an owner to
sell or rent a lot or house to anyone ‘‘not of the white or Cau-
casian race.’’ Except in the case of chauffeurs, gardeners, or do-
mestic servants who lived on the same premises as their em-
ployers, an owner was even forbidden to permit an African- or
Asian-American to use or occupy the property. Far from being
thought repugnant, these restrictions were central to Lewis’s
vision that Palos Verdes would bring together ‘‘the cream of the
manhood and womanhood of the greatest nation that has ever
lived, the greatest race that has ever lived, the Caucasian race
and the American nation.’’ Although desperately short of capi-
tal, Lewis was so wedded to this vision that he would not even
allow non-Caucasians to invest in the Palos Verdes project. Other
restrictions barred the owners from using their property for a
wide range of activities, some of which were nuisances and others
which, if not nuisances, were considered objectionable in resi-
dential communities. Among them were slaughterhouses, oil re-
fineries, iron foundries, and coal yards, reform schools, mental
asylums, sanitariums, and cemeteries, and saloons and places
for the manufacture of ‘‘malt, vinous or spirituous liquors.’’ (It is
interesting to note that at a time when the Los Angeles Chamber
of Commerce was working hard to persuade eastern manufactur-
ers to set up branch factories in southern California, Palos Verdes
Estates barred any trade or business ‘‘obnoxious or offensive by
reason of the emission of odor, smoke, gas, dust or noise’’—in-
deed ‘‘any noxious trade or business’’ whatsoever.)12
Even an owner who had no intention of using the property for
a coal yard or a mental asylum, much less to sell or rent it to an
 

African- or Asian-American, was subject to a host of other restric-

tions. Suppose he or she wanted to build a single-family house—
the only type of house permitted on more than  percent of
the lots. The restrictions spelled out where on the lot it could
stand, how much of the lot it could cover, and how high above
the ground it could rise. They even specified how much it had
to cost. This cost, which included architect’s fees and builder’s
profits, but not garages or other outbuildings, varied according to
the lot, the view, and the neighborhood and ranged from moder-
ately to extremely expensive. But as Lewis pointed out, an expen-
sive house was not necessarily a well-designed house. Hence he
included in the restrictions a provision about which Jay Lawyer
was initially skeptical. Prior to construction, every owner had to
submit the plans to the Palos Verdes Art Jury, without whose ap-
proval nothing could be built. The jury, whose members included
Myron Hunt and other prominent architects, required not only
that the design be ‘‘reasonably good’’ but that in most cases it con-
form to what was known as ‘‘California architecture’’—a distinc-
tive type of architecture that derived ‘‘its chief inspiration directly
or indirectly from Latin types, which developed under similar cli-
matic conditions along the Mediterranean.’’ Whether the design
was approved depended on such things as the color (generally
‘‘light in tone’’), the materials (as a rule plaster, stucco, concrete,
or ‘‘an approved artificial stone’’), and even the pitch of the roof—
‘‘preferably not steeper than thirty () degrees and never to ex-
ceed thirty-five ().’’ 13
If the Art Jury gave its approval, the owners could begin build-
ing, though they could not use any ‘‘old or second hand ma-
terial’’; nor could the buyers or anyone else occupy the house or
any part of it until construction was finished. Even after a family
  

moved in, they were subject to still more restrictions. Suppose

they wanted fresh eggs for breakfast or believed it would be in-
structive and enjoyable for their children to tend to a handful of
domestic animals. They were out of luck. The restrictions banned
not only cows and hogs but even chickens and rabbits. Suppose a
homeowner thought a sturdy wooden fence would give the family
more privacy or keep the neighbor’s dog off the lawn and out of
the flower garden. Under the restrictions a fence could not be
erected without permission from the Palos Verdes Homes As-
sociation, the community’s governing body, and approval by the
Palos Verdes Art Jury. And all fences (as well as hedges, walls,
and poles) were limited to ‘‘a reasonable height.’’ Or suppose a
homeowner wanted to take down, cut back, or just trim a tree that
was obstructing the view of the ocean. If it was more than twenty
feet tall, permission from the Homes Association was needed. (If
a tree was so tall that it blocked a neighbor’s view, the Associa-
tion could cut it back against the owner’s wishes.) And suppose
the owner decided to move and put the house on the market, a
routine decision for residents of greater Los Angeles. Under the
Palos Verdes restrictions the seller could not even post a ‘‘For
Sale’’ sign on the property.14
For an owner who viewed property in Palos Verdes more as an
investment than as a homesite, the restrictions were even more
onerous. Suppose the owner wanted to capitalize on the grow-
ing demand for housing in Los Angeles by erecting multifamily
units on the lot. It was out of the question. The restrictions barred
two-family houses and apartment buildings of any kind outside
the few districts that served as buffers between the small busi-
ness centers and the surrounding single-family communities.
The same was true for an owner who hoped to take advantage
 

of the growing demand for shops and stores, which were barred
outside the business centers. Palos Verdes Estates might have
been a good investment for someone who was happy with a grad-
ual increase in property values, but not for someone looking for
a windfall spurred by changes in land use. The restrictions also
prevented owners from generating income from their property.
At a time when the outdoor advertising industry was booming,
many companies were ready to pay good money to rent space for
billboards on well-located lots. But the restrictions banned bill-
boards. Even signs for the few shops and stores needed the ap-
proval of the Art Jury. At a time when oil companies were making
one spectacular strike after another in the Los Angeles basin,
some not far from Palos Verdes, their representatives were offer-
ing landowners handsome royalties in return for mineral rights.
But the restrictions banned drilling for oil and natural gas too.15
The Palos Verdes Estates Protective Restrictions were not a
gimmick. Rather they were guidelines, designed to regulate the
development of the community in the decades ahead. To be effec-
tive, they had to be enforced in a conscientious way. So long as
the trustee owned most of the property, it could be counted on to
do so, but once most of the lots were sold, it would no longer have
much of a stake in the community. Anticipating this problem,
Lewis and his associates created the Palos Verdes Homes Asso-
ciation, a nonprofit organization that was run by a five-member
board elected by the property owners. Among its many tasks,
which included managing the waterworks and maintaining the
grounds, it was authorized to enforce the restrictions. To abate
a violation, it was empowered to enter the premises, even over
the owner’s objection, and, if need be, to apply for an injunction.
To be effective, the restrictions also had to be imposed for a long
  

time. But Lewis and his associates were afraid that if extended in
perpetuity they would not survive a legal challenge. So they came
up with what they thought was the next best arrangement. The
restrictions would remain in force until , or for thirty-seven
years. Then they would be automatically renewed for successive
twenty-year periods unless the owners of more than one-half of
the property, exclusive of streets, parks, and other public lands,
agreed in writing to abolish or modify them.16 In spirit, if not in
law, the restrictions extended more or less in perpetuity.

Palos Verdes Estates was not a utopian community. It had little

in common with the many cooperative and communitarian set-
tlements that had sprung up in California in the late nineteenth
century. Indeed, it had as little in common with these settle-
ments as Shaker Heights had with the Shaker colony that had
once occupied the site on which the Van Sweringen brothers,
Oris T. and Mantis J., later developed Cleveland’s most fash-
ionable suburb. Nor was Palos Verdes Estates a philanthropic
or quasi-philanthropic enterprise—akin, say, to the Russell Sage
Foundation’s Forest Hills Gardens, a middle-class subdivision in
Queens, one of New York City’s outer boroughs, or the City and
Suburban Homes Company’s York Avenue Estate, a dozen model
tenements on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. For all the rhetoric
of ‘‘a great Acropolis’’ and ‘‘the New City,’’ Palos Verdes Estates
was a real estate subdivision, albeit an exceptionally large, well-
planned, and high-priced one. For Vanderlip and Lewis, it was a
commercial venture. Although intent on doing as good a job as
possible, Olmsted and Cheney saw it much the same way. So did
the investors, many of whom were assured that nonconvertible
notes in the Palos Verdes project were ‘‘an investment without
 

parallel in the history of land development.’’ 17 To succeed, Lewis

and his successors did what other subdividers before them had
done. They spent a lot of money, preferably other people’s money,
to buy, improve, and subdivide the land and then put the lots on
the market, hoping that the sales would generate enough reve-
nue to recover the capital and yield a substantial profit.
If Palos Verdes Estates had to sell lots—and to sell them be-
fore property taxes and other carrying charges depleted the re-
maining capital and threatened the solvency of the entire enter-
prise—why did Vanderlip, Lewis, and their associates impose so
many restrictions on how prospective purchasers could use their
property (and, to a lesser degree, dispose of it)? Also, why did
they impose some restrictions that were so drastic that Frank
James told Lewis that he ‘‘wouldn’t live in such a place’’? And why
did they impose these restrictions at a time when the residential
real estate market in Los Angeles was so fiercely competitive—a
time when more than one hundred new subdivisions were open-
ing every month, many of which were more conveniently located
than Palos Verdes, some of which had sites almost as spectacular?
If the restrictions were so far-reaching and, in some instances,
so burdensome, why did the hard-headed businessmen in charge
of Palos Verdes Estates publicize and even celebrate them? Why
did the newspaper ads stress that Palos Verdes Estates was more
highly restricted than other residential communities? Why did
Lawyer and Clarke use ‘‘rigid restrictions’’ as a marketing tool,
as valuable a one as the splendid setting, superb design, and ex-
pensive improvements? In other words, why did the developers
assume the restrictions would make Palos Verdes Estates more
appealing to prospective purchasers? 18
Assuming the developers knew what they were doing, this
  

question raises many others. Like most Americans, the residents

of Los Angeles strongly believed in the sanctity of private prop-
erty—which, wrote the New Jersey Supreme Court in , was
‘‘the keystone of the arch of civilization.’’ Although they went
along with a rudimentary zoning law in  and a more sophis-
ticated one thirteen years later, why would they choose to move
into a subdivision that limited in so many ways their ‘‘natural
right’’ to use and dispose of their property as they saw fit? These
people also lived in a city where, one journalist wrote, real estate
speculation ‘‘permeates all walks of life’’; as a character in The
Boosters, a novel about Los Angeles in the s, observes, ‘‘no
matter what a man’s business, he is almost certain to dabble in
real estate on the side.’’ Why would such people submit to so
many constraints on their wheeling and dealing? What makes
these questions so perplexing is that Palos Verdes Estates was de-
signed for the well-to-do. The price of the lots, plus the minimum
cost of the houses, put it far beyond the reach of everyone else.
Moreover, it was designed for homeowners, not for tenants, who,
as a rule, had to put up with many onerous restrictions on how
they used someone else’s property. They either took the premises
on the landlord’s terms or did not take it at all. Why would those
residents of Los Angeles who could afford to live virtually any-
where in the metropolitan area—and who, in all likelihood, sub-
scribed to the popular view that a man’s home was ‘‘His Castle’’—
buy and build in so highly restricted a subdivision as Palos Verdes
Estates? 19
If restrictive covenants were found nowhere in Los Angeles
but in Palos Verdes—if they were a product of, say, the size of
the subdivision or the influence of the Olmsteds—they would be
only moderately intriguing. But this was not the case. At about
 

the same time Palos Verdes was opened, scores of other restricted
subdivisions came on the market all over greater Los Angeles.
Bel-Air, ‘‘the Suburb Supreme,’’ high up in the hills above west
Los Angeles, was ‘‘highly restricted.’’ So was Hancock Park, a sub-
division off Wilshire Boulevard that was so exclusive it did not
mention the price of the lots in its ads. (As J. P. Morgan suppos-
edly said when asked about the cost of his yacht, ‘‘if you have to
ask you can’t afford it.’’) Beverly Crest, another hillside subdivi-
sion, boasted of ‘‘rigid restrictions,’’ as did Flintridge Highlands,
which was in the San Gabriel Valley. Santa Monica’s Canyon Vista
Park stressed its ‘‘high grade restrictions,’’ nearby Boulevard Ter-
race its ‘‘high-class restrictions.’’ West Van Nuys, a San Fernando
Valley subdivision, took pride in its ‘‘Wise Restrictions.’’ So did
Silver Lake Terrace, which was located between Los Angeles and
Pasadena. Other subdivisions had ‘‘carefully worked-out restric-
tions,’’ ‘‘desirable restrictions,’’ ‘‘sensible restrictions,’’ and ‘‘ade-
quate restrictions.’’ Still others had ‘‘strict race restrictions and
moderate building restrictions,’’ or building restrictions that were
‘‘high enough to prevent poor surroundings, still not too high for
a modest home.’’ By the early s, if not earlier, so many sub-
divisions were restricted in one way or another that some prop-
erty owners thought it necessary to mention it in ads when they
had unrestricted lots for sale.20
Restrictive covenants would also be only moderately intrigu-
ing if they were found nowhere in the United States but in Los
Angeles, a city with a well-deserved reputation for outlandish
fads of all kinds. But again this was not the case. By the time
Palos Verdes Estates was opened, hundreds of restricted subdivi-
sions had gone on the market all over the country. The Olmsteds
worked on dozens of them, the best known of which were Guil-
  

ford, Maryland, Forest Hills Gardens, Great Neck Hills, in New

York’s Nassau County, and Colony Hills, in Springfield, Massa-
chusetts. Cheney, Cory, and Elvon Musick, counsel to the Title
Insurance and Trust Company, visited what Cory called ‘‘high
class [meaning highly restricted] developments’’ in a dozen cities,
among them Baltimore’s Roland Park and Kansas City’s Coun-
try Club District. It was this trip, Cory told a group of prospec-
tive investors, that dispelled his and Musick’s doubts about the
value of tough restrictions. Indeed, in drafting the Palos Verdes
Protective Restrictions, Cheney drew heavily on the experience
of Roland Park, Forest Hills Gardens, the Country Club District,
and St. Francis Wood in San Francisco. Like Palos Verdes Estates,
these subdivisions used restrictions as a marketing tool, stress-
ing that they were ‘‘rigid,’’ ‘‘thorough,’’ and ‘‘wise’’ and, in the case
of Chatham Crescent, Savannah’s ‘‘finest resident section,’’ prom-
ising that ‘‘they will be rigidly enforced.’’ To make sure everyone
got the point, J. C. Nichols included at the top of most ads for
his Country Club District the phrase ‘‘ Acres Restricted,’’ a
phrase that was copied by River Oaks, Houston’s most exclusive
subdivision.21
A nationwide phenomenon, restrictive covenants were found
not only in much-heralded subdivisions designed for the well-
to-do. They were also found, albeit not as often, in little-known
tracts intended for the less affluent—even, in some cases, for
workingmen and their families. They were found, too, in coopera-
tive apartment houses built for the very rich in New York and a
few other cities in the early twentieth century (and sometimes in
the exclusive watering spots where they spent their summers).22
But these covenants reveal more about the suburbs, where by the
s they were the rule, than about the cities, where they were
 

the exception. They tell us much not only about the dreams of
suburbanites, which have been vividly described by many other
historians, but about their nightmares; not only about their hopes
but about their fears. About their fear of others, of racial minori-
ties and poor people, once known as ‘‘the dangerous classes,’’ and
their fear of people like themselves. About their fear of change
and their fear of the market, of which they were among the chief
beneficiaries. The restrictions reveal that suburbia reflected, in
Fishman’s words, more than ‘‘the alienation of the middle classes
from the urban-industrial world they themselves were creating.’’ 23
It also reflected a host of deep-seated fears that permeated much
of American society in the late nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries. Better than anything else, these restrictions illumi-
nated the dark side of the ‘‘bourgeois utopia.’’
one
Suburbia, –:
The Quest for Permanence
 The Problem of Unwanted Change

Frederick Law Olmsted, Sr., had nothing to do with the

planning of Palos Verdes Estates—and in all likelihood he never
even saw the Palos Verdes Peninsula.1 By the time Vanderlip and
his associates bought the property from Bixby and hired Olmsted
Brothers to help subdivide it, Olmsted had been dead for more
than a decade. But had he lived long enough, he would probably
have approved of how his sons designed Palos Verdes Estates—
how, in line with principles he had formulated, they enhanced
the natural beauty by reserving hundreds of acres for parks and
open spaces, how they preserved the breathtaking views by lay-
ing out the streets and lots to fit into the contour of the hilly ter-
rain, and how they rendered the streets quiet and safe by fun-
neling traffic into a few wide thoroughfares. He would also have
approved of how the Olmsteds and Cheney restricted Palos Ver-
des Estates—how, in an attempt to ensure its ‘‘stability and perma-
nence,’’ they imposed a set of sweeping and stringent restrictions
on what the owners could do with their property. For much like
the restrictions in other upper-middle-class subdivisions in the
late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Palos Verdes
Estates Protective Restrictions were designed to solve a problem
that Olmsted had noticed as early as the s and s, a prob-
lem that raised strong doubts about the future of suburbs in the
United States. Although Olmsted was not the only American who
was aware of this problem, no one else spelled it out so vividly
and perceptively.
As a designer, consultant, and writer, Olmsted devoted much
of his prodigious energy to trying to ameliorate some of the worst
features of America’s cities. But by the s he began to doubt


     

that it was possible to build in these cities ‘‘a convenient and

tasteful’’ house ‘‘adapted to the civilized requirements of a single
family, except at a cost which even rich men find prohibitive.’’
Given the natural tendency of people to ‘‘flock together’’ in cities,
a return to the country was out of the question. So was an exodus
to ‘‘the sterile parts of the great West.’’ But a move to the sub-
urbs was not. For most Americans, Olmsted argued, the suburbs
offered the benefits of city life without the congestion, tumult,
noise, crime, and vice, and the pleasures of country life without
the inconvenience, isolation, and lack of amenities. As he wrote
to Edward Everett Hale, a Boston clergyman best known today
as the author of ‘‘The Man Without a Country,’’ the suburbs pro-
vided ‘‘elbow room about a house without going into the coun-
try, without sacrifice of butchers, bakers, & theatres.’’ In a society
racked by class conflict, ‘‘a suburban yeomanry,’’ in the words
of two Olmsted scholars, also served as a much-needed balance
wheel. Well-planned and well-designed suburbs, Olmsted wrote
in the late s, were ‘‘the most attractive, the most refined and
the most soundly wholesome forms of domestic life.’’ 2
But as Olmsted pointed out, few suburbs were well planned
and well designed, much less ‘‘attractive,’’ ‘‘refined,’’ and ‘‘soundly
wholesome.’’ With the subdividers driven by short-term pecu-
niary goals, most suburbs were built ‘‘little by little, without any
general plan’’; and where the subdivisions were laid out in a me-
thodical way, ‘‘no intelligent design has been pursued to secure
any distinctly rural attractiveness.’’ The result, Olmsted observed,
was that most suburbs were ‘‘as yet little better than rude over-
dressed villages, or fragmentary half-made towns.’’ More often
than not, the roads were ‘‘untidy, shabby, uninviting, and com-
pletely contradictory to the ideal which most townspeople have
 ,  –

in view when they seek to find a pleasant site for a suburban

home’’—a site at once sylvan and picturesque. Sometimes the lots
were ‘‘in themselves attractive,’’ Olmsted conceded. But all too
often they were located next to ‘‘rough clearings in old wood land
with blocks of gaunt trees left standing; patches of waste land
and ill kept fields[,] raw banks by the side of the road, puddles
and swamps[,] roadside taverns and beer gardens[,] shanties, di-
lapidated stables or small groups of buildings such as are to be
looked for in the most repulsive outskirts of cities with cinders
and garbage strewn before them New York fashion.’’ Even worse,
some suburbs were ‘‘malarious or otherwise unhealthy.’’ No won-
der, Olmsted wrote in the mid-s, there was little demand
for suburban lots near New York City and many of them ‘‘can be
bought at half their original cost.’’ 3
Even more disturbing than the sorry state of what Olmsted
called ‘‘catch-penny speculations’’ was the rapid deterioration of
once fashionable suburbs. As he wrote in the early s, ‘‘Nu-
merous suburbs of New York, which a few years ago were dis-
tinguished for their rural beauty and refined society, have thus,
through the gradual development of various uncongenial ele-
ments, entirely lost their former character.’’ What were once
‘‘charming villas and cottages’’ have been sold ‘‘at less than half
their cost’’ and turned into ‘‘boarding and tenement houses.’’
These suburbs were ‘‘laid waste almost as by an invading army.’’
To Olmsted, it was plain that the success of suburbia led to its
undoing. Attracted to a new subdivision by the expansive views
and wooded grounds, a few families bought lots and then built
houses and made other improvements, which detracted from
the natural setting. For a while the suburb retained many of the
qualities that first drew people to it. But before long other fami-
     

lies moved in. Through ‘‘ignorance, incompetence, bad taste, or

knavery,’’ Olmsted wrote, the newcomers destroyed ‘‘just those
circumstances of the locality which have really constituted the
chief parts of its value to cultivated townspeople.’’ Far from happy
with the changes, some owners lost interest in their property or
found other uses for it. ‘‘Rural buildings and fences are allowed to
fall into decay, woods and orchards to be cut down, shops, brick-
yards, breweries, factories to be brought in, and a poor semblance
of the scattering outskirts of a large town to overgrow what had
been a beautiful countryside.’’ 4
Olmsted had observed this deterioration on a tract of about a
thousand to fifteen hundred acres on Staten Island, where he had
worked on and off as a gentleman farmer in the late s and
early s. A tract that was once ‘‘the most attractive of any on the
island, or even perhaps of any on this side of the Atlantic,’’ it had
been covered by farms and villages, whose residents lived in cozy
cottages alongside pretty roads, ‘‘winding among the great trees,
crossing clear brooks and skirting the clean meadows.’’ Then a
wharf was built, and a ferry began running between the island
and the city. New roads were constructed, and old farms were di-
vided into suburban lots, ‘‘inviting to a good class of residents.’’
But no provision was made for proper drainage, and no care was
given to protecting the natural setting. Soon the growing suburb
attracted not only the well-to-do but also servants, laborers, and
what would now be called day-trippers. To tap the new market,
one businessman opened a beer garden; others set up shops and
stables and built small dwellings, ‘‘to make room for which fine
trees were often felled.’’ ‘‘At length,’’ Olmsted wrote, ‘‘two or three
factories were established in the neighborhood, increasing the de-
mand for small lots for lodging houses, stores, and dram shops’’
 ,  –

and making the place less attractive for single-family houses. Pol-
luted by household wastes and left stagnant by road construc-
tion, the once sparkling brooks became ‘‘disgusting and danger-
ous.’’ The once beautiful woodlands, cleared by builders (and then
stripped by the poor for fuel), were replaced by ‘‘bare, unsightly
wastes’’ and ‘‘pestiferous swamps.’’ To Olmsted, it was extremely
troubling that ‘‘a suburban district of great beauty’’ that was easily
accessible to the city could deteriorate so rapidly.5
Things were just as bad in the cities, where rapid deteriora-
tion was spreading over many once attractive residential com-
munities. Five years earlier, Olmsted wrote in the early s,
New York’s Washington Heights was a neighborhood of ‘‘noth-
ing but elegance & fashion.’’ Now it showed ‘‘the unmistakable
signs of the advance guard of squalor.’’ Homeowners were eager
to sell, but no one other than saloon keepers were willing to
buy. The same process was under way in Brooklyn, Philadelphia,
and other cities. A case in point was Boston’s South End. In
only two or three decades, it went from a well-to-do residential
community, featuring handsome houses and private parks, to a
port of entry for working-class immigrants, full of taverns, fac-
tories, and, in one sociologist’s words, ‘‘women of dubious char-
acter.’’ (In John P. Marquand’s novel The Late George Apley, the
hero’s father leaves the South End after he sees ‘‘a man in his
shirt sleeves’’ on the steps of a brownstone across the street.)
Residential deterioration was not just an East Coast phenome-
non. It also took place on Cleveland’s Euclid Avenue and Kansas
City’s Quality Hill, a fashionable residential neighborhood be-
fore it was abandoned by the elite in the late nineteenth century.
To Olmsted, unwanted change was bad enough in the cities, but
even worse in the suburbs—where, one journalist wrote in the
s, ‘‘population attracts business; business begets more busi-
     

ness, and soon what was once a residence community becomes a

city, and a part of the population starts moving again, out toward
that fringe of green that will always be the ideal setting for the
home.’’ 6
Other Americans shared Olmsted’s concern. Brookline had
once been ‘‘the garden of Boston,’’ wrote town historian Harriet
Woods in . But lately ‘‘greedy speculators’’ were wiping out
‘‘every vestige of rural beauty’’ and the other qualities ‘‘which
have for years made our town proverbial for its charms.’’ A Brook-
line Chronicle writer made a similar point. Ever since the rail-
road and the Irish, ‘‘who never object to living in close quarters,’’
came to Brookline, he said five years later, ‘‘there seems to be a
mania for destroying everything that is old or beautiful or natu-
ral.’’ George E. Kessler, another prominent landscape architect,
complained in the mid-s about what he called ‘‘the erratic
tendency’’ of shops and stores to follow residents to the periphery,
where they formed ‘‘a large sprawling [and unattractive] combina-
tion of city and village.’’ This litany continued well into the twen-
tieth century. ‘‘Choose any city you please,’’ wrote J. C. Nichols,
subdivider of Kansas City’s Country Club District, in . Go
into the part ‘‘that was ultra-fashionable a dozen or a score of years
ago; there you will find mansions turned into boarding houses
and modiste shops, or remodeled or razed for office and store
buildings; or if some homes have not been used in that way, you
will find their original residence values destroyed by the estab-
lishment of stores, shops, undertaking parlors, and the like, in
proximity.’’ 7
For someone of means and refinement who was thinking of
moving from the city to the suburbs this created a serious prob-
lem, Olmsted pointed out, one that raised hard questions about
any parcel, no matter how attractive it was at first glance.
 ,  –

‘‘Suppose I come here, what grounds of confidence can I have that

I shall not by-and-by find a dram-shop on my right, or a beer-
garden on my left, or a factory chimney or warehouse cutting off
this view of the water? Is this charming road sure not to be turned
also into a common town street, strewn with garbage, and in place
of these lovely woods, can I be certain that here also there will not
soon be a field of stumps with shanties and goats and heaps of
cinders? If so, what is likely to be the future average value of land
in this vicinity? . . . Looking either with reference to enjoyment
of it as a place of residence, or as an investment for my children,
I must be cautious not to be too much affected by superficial ap-
pearances. What improvements have you here that tend to insure per-
manent healthfulness and permanent rural beauty?’’ 8

Without satisfactory answers to these questions, most Americans

were not likely to move. They were not likely to leave for suburbia
if before long it was doomed to lose the very qualities that made
it so attractive to them. They were not likely to uproot their fami-
lies if before long they would be forced to uproot them yet again.
They were not likely to invest their hard-earned money in sub-
urban real estate if before long they would have to sell at a loss.
To put it another way, few Americans were likely to move to sub-
urbia unless they saw it as more than a stopgap in the quest for a
wholesome domestic environment. Whatever else suburbia had
to offer, it had to offer permanence. Somehow a solution to the
problem of unwanted change had to be found.

The Search for a Solution

The very rich had little trouble finding a solution. To pre-

vent what they regarded as undesirable people and undesirable
activities from spoiling their suburban retreats, they built homes
     

on estates of scores, hundreds, and even thousands of acres. They

made sure that no nearby buildings would deteriorate by making
sure that there would be no buildings nearby. One case in point
was Woodburne, the estate of William Minot, who was reputedly
Boston’s largest landowner. Another was Druim Moir, the home
of Henry Howard Houston, a very wealthy Philadelphia busi-
nessman, investor, and railroad director. Even more impressive
than Woodburne and Druim Moir were the huge estates, many
with hundred-room mansions (and their own golf courses and
race tracks), that were built on Long Island’s North Shore by the
Pratts, Vanderbilts, Guggenheims, and other magnates. Perhaps
the most impressive was Greentree, the -acre estate of Payne
Whitney, who paid more in income taxes in the mid-s than
any other American except Henry Ford and John D. Rockefeller.
After visiting the White House with their mother (who was a
granddaughter of Franklin D. Roosevelt), two of Whitney’s great
grandchildren remarked that it was ‘‘nice enough, but hardly on
a par with Greentree.’’ Even larger than Greentree were some
of Chicago’s North Shore estates. Westleigh, the estate of meat-
packer Louis Swift, covered more than , acres. Melody Farm,
the estate of Swift’s rival J. Ogden Armour, was half as large but
had a private siding to the Milwaukee railroad. Even the largest of
these estates were dwarfed by Rockefeller’s compound at Pocan-
tico Hills in Tarrytown, New York, which by the s covered
more than , acres, nearly ten square miles, almost twice as
large as Palos Verdes Estates.9
But this solution was well beyond the means of all but a handful
of Americans, all but a few thousand out of tens of millions. Even
the well-to-do could not afford to buy such large tracts, much
less build such huge houses. Nor could they afford to retain the
 ,  –

staffs of landscapers, gardeners, handymen, laborers, cooks, and

domestics needed to run these places and cater to the demands
of the owners and their guests. According to Olmsted, Sr., it took
more than just ‘‘very unusual wealth’’ to create great estates. It
took ‘‘quite exceptional tastes’’ as well. As a rule, he wrote, even if
a site is well chosen and ‘‘the surrounding circumstances are favor-
able,’’ a ‘‘space of private ground of many acres . . . is entirely un-
desirable.’’ (Presumably Biltmore, George W. Vanderbilt’s enor-
mous estate near Asheville, North Carolina, on which Olmsted
spent the last years of his career, was an exception.) These es-
tates had other drawbacks, argued Frank J. Scott, one of the most
forceful advocates of suburbia in the mid and late nineteenth cen-
tury. With ‘‘extensive private grounds,’’ he wrote, comes ‘‘isola-
tion and loneliness,’’ especially among the women of the house.
The very wealthy can compensate for the lack of neighbors by in-
viting people to their homes. ‘‘But much company brings much
care,’’ he pointed out. ‘‘It is paying a high price for company when
one must keep a free hotel to secure it.’’ How long will ‘‘the ‘fine
mansions’ and broad fields, in a lonely locality, bring peace and
comfort to the owner?’’ A few families may enjoy a life ‘‘without
neighborly society,’’ but they are ‘‘cluster-jewels of great rarity.’’ 10
Another solution available to the very rich, one that avoided
some of the drawbacks spelled out by Scott, was to build homes
in Tuxedo Park or one of a handful of other exclusive suburban
communities, among the best known of which were Llewellyn
Park and Short Hills, New Jersey, and Kenilworth, Illinois. Each of
these places was the brainchild of an extremely wealthy business-
man—or, in the case of Tuxedo Park and Kenilworth, one of his
heirs. But none were commercial enterprises. Lorillard did not
become a developer to add to his already huge fortune. Neither
     

did Llewellyn S. Haskell (of Llewellyn Park), Stewart Hartshorn

(of Short Hills), or Joseph Sears (of Kenilworth). (For Hartshorn,
it was just as well. He did not make a profit from Short Hills
until the mid-s, by which time he was well into his nineties.)
Rather these men used their huge fortunes to build utopian com-
munities for people like themselves. They spared no expense in
acquiring and subdividing the sites. And to ensure that the com-
munities retained their high quality, they carefully screened pro-
spective residents (and also tightly restricted what they could do
with their property). To give a couple of examples, Hartshorn ran
character checks. If he was not sure the buyers would fit into
the community, he would insist they rent first. If they passed
muster, he would hold the closing at his Short Hills mansion,
where they would be served tea and, writes historian Mary Corbin
Sies, ‘‘judged according to their command of contemporary so-
cial niceties.’’ Sears met prospective residents at a downtown Chi-
cago office building, where, one later recalled, ‘‘I had to give an
account of myself, my family, occupation and, in the language of
the Constitution, my ‘age, race, color and previous condition of
servitude.’ ’’ 11
These exclusive communities embodied the ideal suburb, pro-
viding, in Scott’s words, ‘‘half-country, half-town life’’ and the
company of ‘‘congenial gentlemen.’’ 12 But as a solution to the
general problem of suburbia that greatly troubled Olmsted and
others, they left much to be desired. Although a home in Short
Hills was much less expensive than an estate on Long Island’s
North Shore, it was still way beyond the reach of all but a few
Americans. And of the few who could afford to buy property
there, even fewer met Hartshorn’s stringent standards. Moreover,
very few Americans had the resources of a Lorillard, Haskell,
 ,  –

Hartshorn, or Sears. And of those who did, very few were inclined
to follow their lead. Most were too busy making money. If they
felt an obligation to give away part of their fortune, they made a
gift to a college, museum, or symphony orchestra. Whereas a few
idiosyncratic millionaires could open suburbia to the very rich,
it would take thousands of ordinary subdividers to open it to the
middle and upper middle classes. But these people would not
move to the suburbs unless they felt confident their house would
not soon have a dram shop on its right or a beer garden on its
left. This meant that the subdividers would have to keep out those
‘‘undesirable’’ people and activities that were widely blamed for
the deterioration of so many once delightful residential neighbor-
hoods.
In the absence of zoning, a form of systematic land-use regula-
tion that had not yet been adopted anywhere in the country, the
subdividers had three options, none of which looked promising.
One was to resort to nuisance law, a field, wrote a commentator in
the mid-s, that ‘‘escapes all rule and definition.’’ According to
H. G. Wood, an authority on the subject, nuisance law was based
on the principle that property rights were not absolute. ‘‘It is,’’ he
wrote, ‘‘a part of the great social compact to which every person
is a party, a fundamental and essential principle in every civi-
lized community, that every person yields a portion of his right
of absolute dominion and use of his own property [so that] others
may also enjoy their property without unreasonable hurt or hin-
drance.’’ As Wood explained, there were two types of nuisances
—public nuisances, whose suppression was the responsibility of
local officials, and private nuisances, over which these officials
had little authority. Private nuisances, a source of great concern
to Olmsted, Sr., fell into two categories. Some—a slaughterhouse
     

or a tannery, for example—were nuisances per se, noxious by

their very nature, producing intolerable noise, smells, or fumes.
Others, which were not inherently noxious—a livery stable, for
instance—were nuisances because they were located or oper-
ated so as to work, in Wood’s words, ‘‘material inconvenience,
annoyance, discomfort, injury and damage’’ on nearby property
owners. Under nuisance law, a subdivider (or, for that matter, any
nearby property owner) could ask the courts to issue an injunc-
tion—and, if the injury was irreparable, to award damages.13
But the subdividers had little reason to believe that nuisance
law could do much to prevent residential deterioration. Although
Richard M. Hurd and other real estate economists argued that
in a fashionable residential district ‘‘the erection of almost any
building other than a residence’’ was a nuisance, most judges did
not agree. A ‘‘row of mean and unsightly tenements’’ was not
a nuisance, one ruled, even if located next to ‘‘a costly house,
upon a fashionable street.’’ Nor was a building a nuisance, Wood
pointed out, because it was ‘‘offensive to the eye or cultivated
tastes of people’’ or because it blocked a neighbor’s ‘‘unobstructed
prospect.’’ A ‘‘well-kept butcher’s shop’’ was not a nuisance, an-
other judge held; nor was ‘‘a green grocery near a costly dwelling-
house.’’ A business would be a nuisance if it covered the nearby
houses with ‘‘smoke and vapor, or offensive odors, or dust and
dirt,’’ but not, a New Jersey judge wrote, if it attracted ‘‘crowds
of orderly people, and numbers of carts and carriages’’ whose
presence reduced property values and rent rolls. As Wood put
it, ‘‘the law will not declare a thing a nuisance because it is un-
pleasant to the eye, because all the rules of propriety and good
taste have been violated in its construction, nor because the prop-
erty of another is rendered less valuable, nor because its exis-
 ,  –

tence is a constant source of irritation and annoyance to others.’’

It would declare something a nuisance only if it ‘‘produces a tan-
gible and appreciable injury to the [nearby] property.’’ Given that
the bar was set so high and, said Wood, that the burden of proof
was ‘‘always cast upon the plaintiff,’’ it is little wonder the courts
were very reluctant to issue an injunction against an alleged nui-
sance.14
The courts were even more reluctant to issue an injunction
against a prospective nuisance—one, said a New York judge, that
was only ‘‘threatened or anticipated.’’ In such a case the complain-
ant had to establish the prospective nuisance with ‘‘reasonable
certainty’’; the danger had to be ‘‘imminent’’ and ‘‘clearly impend-
ing,’’ and the injuries ‘‘irreparable.’’ Just how hard it was to meet
these criteria was revealed when a group of Chicago homeowners
asked the courts to issue an injunction against the construction
of a nearby icehouse. The courts refused, pointing out that no
one could say with certainty how much damage it would do.
Would the wagons make too much noise? It depends, said Judge
Edmund W. Burke, on ‘‘the kind of pavements on the streets
and the character of the wagons used.’’ Would the horses give
off ‘‘offensive odors’’? It depends, he wrote, on how many were
used, where they were kept, and how they were cared for. But
as Olmsted, Sr., pointed out, nothing was more offensive to ‘‘the
better class’’ of residential suburbs than manufacturing establish-
ments. Even if the courts were willing to issue an injunction after
one was up and running—which, in view of the capital already
invested, was highly unlikely—the damage would already have
been done. The factory would have set in motion the forces that
would lead inevitably to the deterioration of the residential en-
vironment. The nearby property owners could sue for damages,
     

but no amount of money could restore those qualities that had

drawn them to the community in the first place.15
This deep-seated reluctance to issue an injunction stemmed
largely from the widespread belief that what the complainants
viewed as nuisances were part of the price of urban life. Explain-
ing an Illinois appellate court’s decision to deny an injunction
against an eight-story hotel that spewed dense smoke, dust, and
soot into the nearby homes, Judge Joseph E. Gary wrote, ‘‘Those
who seek and enjoy the advantages of life in a great city must take
them with all the inevitable drawbacks.’’ ‘‘The air of open fields
cannot be hoped for in the streets of a commercial and manu-
facturing metropolis,’’ he said. Gary applied the same logic when
the court refused to issue an injunction against a noisy bowling
alley. By ‘‘choosing to live in a great city,’’ he wrote, the plaintiff
must bear up with ‘‘the inevitable concomitant of the city amuse-
ments.’’ (Another Illinois judge put it more bluntly, saying, ‘‘I can
not regulate the noise of a city by injunction.’’) A Pennsylvania
justice showed a similar solicitude for the city’s business inter-
ests. A court, he wrote, ‘‘whose arm may fall with crushing force
upon the every day business of man, destroying lawful means of
support and diverting property from legitimate uses,’’ cannot ap-
proach an application for an injunction ‘‘with too much caution.’’
H. G. Wood nicely summed up the conventional wisdom of the
bench. ‘‘People living in cities and large towns must submit to
some inconvenience, to some annoyance, to some discomforts,
to some injury and damage; must even yield a portion of their
rights to the necessities of business, which, from the very nature
of things, must often be carried on in populous localities and in
compact communities.’’ 16
Another thing the subdividers could do was to adopt new de-
 ,  –

sign guidelines, an approach favored by Olmsted, Sr., and other

landscape architects. According to Olmsted, most subdivisions
were laid out in a way that left them vulnerable to pernicious
changes. Much like city streets, the roads were arranged in a grid,
one about as wide as the other, most running to the business
district and connecting with many other roads. Thus laid out,
said Olmsted, they served not to preserve the ‘‘conditions of rural
attractiveness’’ but rather to facilitate the conversion of single-
family houses into stores and shops. They created prime sites for
‘‘butchers and bakers and tinkers and dramsellers and the fol-
lowers of other bustling callings.’’ Along with the ‘‘mechanics &
laborers’’ who followed in their wake, and the ‘‘cheap tenement
& boarding houses’’ in which they lived, the shopkeepers and
tradesmen soon turned ‘‘quiet & secluded neighborhood[s]’’ into
‘‘noisy, dusty, smoking, shouting, rattling and stinking one[s].’’
Making matters worse, the lots were often so small that if some
property owners did something distasteful—if, said Olmsted,
they built ‘‘ill-proportioned, vile-colored, shabby-genteel dwell-
ing houses, pushing their gables or eaveboards impertinently
over the sidewalk,’’ or erected ‘‘high dead-walls, as of a series of
private mad houses, as is done in some English suburbs’’—many
others would be affected. Also, few subdividers set aside land for
parks and open spaces, which might have served as a buffer be-
tween property owners within the subdivision or between the
subdivision and its surroundings.17
To lay out suburbs in a way that preserved, in Olmsted’s words,
their ‘‘tranquility and seclusion’’—and thereby to offer some as-
surance to prospective purchasers ‘‘that these districts shall not
be bye and bye invaded by the desolation which thus far has in-
variably advanced before the progress of the town’’—Olmsted and
     

other landscape architects came up with a set of guidelines that

was widely accepted by the end of the nineteenth century. In-
stead of straight, most roads should be curvilinear, designed not
to run through the natural surroundings but to fit into them—
and to enhance the views where possible. A handful should be
wide enough to handle through traffic, the rest only wide enough
to provide access to local residents. With very few exceptions, the
roads should not lead, as Olmsted put it, ‘‘with special direct-
ness,’’ to the business district or connect with many other roads.
Nor should they be too steep, he wrote, ‘‘as anyone knows who
has been to Boston, Liverpool or Edinburgh.’’ The roads should be
well planted too, full of grass and trees, without which they would
differ from town streets ‘‘chiefly in the quality of desolation and
dreariness.’’ The roads should be good—well-paved, well-drained,
and ‘‘frost-proof, rain-proof,’’ wrote Olmsted, ‘‘let them cost what
they will.’’ And they should be convenient. But they should not
be too good and too convenient. They should be good enough
and convenient enough to attract residents, but not so good and
so convenient that they attracted businesses (and drove out resi-
dents).18
As well as good roads, the guidelines called for good sidewalks,
‘‘pleasant to the eye,’’ said Olmsted, conveying a sense of ‘‘re-
fined domestic life.’’ No less important were large, well-planted
spaces between the sidewalk and the homes. ‘‘We cannot judi-
ciously attempt to control the form of the houses which men
shall build,’’ he wrote, ‘‘[but we can] take care that if they build
very ugly and inappropriate houses, they shall not be allowed to
force them disagreeably upon our attention when we desire to
pass along the road upon which they stand.’’ Large lots, much
larger than customary suburban lots, would also help stabilize
 ,  –

the community. Shopkeepers and tradesmen would be put off by

their size, working people by their cost. Plenty of open spaces
—what Olmsted Brothers called ‘‘generous provision for parks
and recreation areas’’—were highly recommended too. ‘‘There is
probably no custom which so manifestly displays the advantages
of a Christian, civilized and democratic community,’’ Olmsted
wrote, than the tendency of people ‘‘of all classes’’ to assemble ‘‘on
equal terms’’ on ‘‘common property.’’ (One of the best known of
these places was the Ramble, a fifty-acre common in the middle
of Llewellyn Park.) Perhaps also worth considering were stone
lodges or wooden gates at the entrances to the property. Among
other things, said Olmsted, they could ‘‘exclude from the lanes
whatever it may be thought undesirable to admit.’’ 19 If subdividers
followed these guidelines, Olmsted believed, they stood a good
chance to slow down, and perhaps even head off, residential de-
terioration in suburbia.
But it was far from clear that the subdividers would follow
the guidelines. Although Olmsted downplayed the point, they
would have raised costs and, unless there was a strong demand
for large and expensive lots, lowered revenues. A few subdividers
were ready to run the risk. A case in point was J. C. Nichols,
the developer of Kansas City’s Country Club District, who was
determined to do whatever was necessary ‘‘to prevent business
encroachment’’ on the ‘‘quiet, residential streets’’ in his subdivi-
sion.20 But few subdividers had the long-term vision that Nichols
had. Most were running a small business, operating on a narrow
margin, and eager to get rid of their lots and start over again else-
where. It was also far from clear that the guidelines would work
as well as Olmsted and others hoped. An aesthetic tour de force,
they had serious limitations. As Olmsted conceded, they could
     

not prevent someone of poor taste from building a ‘‘very ugly and
inappropriate’’ house or from building it to the very edge of the
property. Nor could they prevent someone who had bought a lot
as a short-term investment from selling to someone who wanted
it as a site for a store, boardinghouse, or, worse still, a dram shop
or a beer garden. By the late nineteenth century, even Olmsted
realized that the guidelines by themselves were not enough to
bring about a high degree of permanence in suburbia.
Yet another thing the subdividers could do was to impose re-
strictive covenants, a measure that meshed nicely with the land-
scape architects’ design guidelines. These covenants had been
used in England as early as the mid-eighteenth century by mem-
bers of the nobility who wanted to add to their fortunes by sub-
dividing parts of their huge estates in and around the rapidly
growing cities. But since they preferred to lease the lots rather
than to sell them, they wanted to retain control over how the
lots were used in the years ahead. As well as to generate income,
their aim was to preserve what historian Donald J. Olsen calls
‘‘the reversionary value of the property,’’ to make sure that when
the lease expired, in, say, ninety-nine years, and the property re-
verted to them, it could be profitably re-leased or redeveloped by
their heirs. The best way to preserve the reversionary value, it was
widely assumed, was to prevent the lessee from using the prop-
erty in undesirable ways, and especially from converting houses
into shops and stores. Hence the strong appeal of restrictive cove-
nants. Typically, they provided that the property could only be
used, in Olsen’s words, as ‘‘gentlemen’s private residences.’’ It
could not be occupied by butchers, bakers, brewers, pubs, bone-
boilers, cheesemongers, and, in the commonly used phrase, ‘‘any
noisy, noisome or offensive trade or business whatever.’’ Also
 ,  –

barred were schools, colleges, police stations, and public offices

‘‘of any kind,’’ as well as brothels, hospitals, infirmaries, and dis-
pensaries. Some covenants prescribed how far the houses had to
be set back, how high they could rise, and what sorts of materi-
als had to be used in construction.21
Restrictive covenants soon made their way from England to
America. During the second half of the eighteenth century and
the first half of the nineteenth, some property owners used them
to preserve their fashionable neighborhoods as ‘‘quiet and de-
sirable places of abode,’’ in the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial
Court’s words. Boston’s Lewisburg Square was one example, New
York’s Gramercy Park another. A few subdividers also used them,
said Judge William T. McCoun of New York, ‘‘to form a respect-
able neighborhood,’’ if not necessarily a fashionable one, and to
make sure ‘‘that the sale of one or more [lots] should not impair
the value or prejudice the sales of the rest.’’ With one or two excep-
tions, restrictive covenants were used to keep out ‘‘undesirable’’
activities more than ‘‘undesirable’’ people. A New Yorker who sub-
divided thirty-nine lots in Greenwich Village in the s banned
a long list of noxious industries—as well as ‘‘any other manufac-
tory, trade or business whatsoever which should or might be in
anywise offensive to the neighboring inhabitants.’’ And a Cambridge
lawyer who subdivided a small parcel east of Harvard Square in
the s prohibited any activity ‘‘which shall tend to disturb the
quiet or comfort of the neighborhood.’’ (The lawyer was Richard
Henry Dana, Jr., best known today as author of Two Years Before
the Mast and counsel to Anthony Burns, the most famous fugitive
slave in U.S. history.) Included in many covenants were provi-
sions that barred the owners from building more than one house
per lot, building it too close to the property line, or building it of
     

anything but brick or stone. A few covenants specified that the

house had to be built no later than one year after the sale of the
lot, a provision designed to discourage speculation.22
By the mid-nineteenth century restrictive covenants had been
imposed on a number of properties, especially in New York and
other big cities. A noteworthy, if somewhat idiosyncratic, case
in point was Boston’s Back Bay. Early in the s, after almost
half a century of discussion, the state decided to fill nearly six
hundred often foul and noxious acres along the banks of the
Charles River and turn the reclaimed land into the city’s pre-
mier upper-middle-class neighborhood. In an effort to attract
what the Boston Public Land Commissioners called ‘‘industri-
ous, enterprising, intelligent and order-loving citizens,’’ many of
whom would otherwise have moved to the suburbs, the authori-
ties not only created a magnificent system of streets, squares,
and boulevards. They also imposed a host of restrictive covenants.
Besides banning ‘‘any business which shall be offensive to the
neighborhood for dwelling-houses,’’ the covenants stipulated that
the houses ‘‘shall be of a good class, not less than three stories
in height, and built of no other materials than brick, stone, or
iron.’’ On Commonwealth Avenue they also had to be set back at
least twenty feet from the property line. In the event of a viola-
tion, the city was empowered to act after giving sixty days’ notice.
Underlying these restrictions was the belief, wrote the Land Com-
missioners, that ‘‘useful and respectable’’ Bostonians were more
likely to move to Back Bay if they felt secure ‘‘that their own places
are not to be rendered less desirable by the uses to which other
lands in their neighborhood are to be appropriated.’’ As the state’s
Supreme Judicial Court later said, Bostonians would not have
built fine homes in Back Bay unless assured that the neighbors
 ,  –

were bound by ‘‘the same restrictions by which they themselves

were bound.’’ 23
But as late as the s, the imposition of restrictive covenants
was very much the exception. Most city lots were not restricted.
And except in a few places—among the best known of which
was Llewellyn Park, whose developers took the unusual step of
creating a homeowners association to enforce the rules—neither
were most suburban lots. Of the others, most were restricted in
minor ways—a provision for setbacks, say, or a ban on saloons—
and for short periods. As historian Michael Holleran has pointed
out, the early restrictions ‘‘did not withdraw land from potential
change indefinitely to protect purchasers, but only long enough
to protect the developer while selling off the lots in a subdivi-
sion.’’ 24 Few covenants included effective enforcement mecha-
nisms either. Thus, as a solution to the problem of rapid resi-
dential deterioration in suburbia, restrictive covenants looked no
more promising than nuisance law or design guidelines. But in
this case looks were deceiving. For several momentous changes
were—or would soon be—under way that would weaken the legal
and other constraints that had thus far discouraged most sub-
dividers from employing restrictive covenants.

Legal and Market Constraints

Some subdividers were reluctant to impose restrictive

covenants out of fear that the courts would not enforce them.
Under common law, it had been settled that the courts would not
enforce a covenant that restricted an owner’s right to ‘‘alienate’’
his property—or, in lay terms, to sell or otherwise transfer owner-
ship of it. One anonymous legal commentator nicely spelled out
     

the logic of this position. ‘‘To say that one shall have an estate
in fee simple in land [or, in other words, to own it outright],’’ he
wrote, ‘‘and yet that he shall not alienate it, is to say that he shall
have such an estate, and at the same time that he shall not have it.’’
To impose restrictions on alienation was therefore to create ‘‘an
inalienable estate,’’ which was ‘‘an absurd impossibility.’’ Chan-
cellor James Kent, the eminent American legal theorist, agreed.
‘‘[I]n a country like ours, where lands are as much an article of
sale and traffic as personal property, and the policy of the state has
been to encourage both the acquisition and easy and free alien-
ation of lands, such restrictions ought not to be encouraged by the
courts.’’ Although the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in  that pro-
hibitions aimed at ‘‘particular persons’’ or imposed for ‘‘a limited
period’’ were not necessarily invalid, most state courts refused to
enforce restrictions on alienation. The Michigan Supreme Court
held in the mid-s that even a partial restriction—even one
that ‘‘would suspend all powers of alienation for a single day’’—
was ‘‘unreasonable and void.’’ Decades later the Maryland Court
of Appeals struck down a covenant that prohibited the buyer from
selling or renting without the written consent of the subdivider—
who, in order to maintain the neighborhood as ‘‘a desirable high
class residential section,’’ had retained the right ‘‘to pass upon the
character[,] desirability and other qualifications of the proposed
purchaser or occupant.’’ 25
But as early as the late s the Massachusetts courts began
to draw a distinction between restrictions on alienation and re-
strictions on use. During the next few decades other courts fol-
lowed suit. By the middle of the century the validity of restrictions
on use was no longer in doubt, said the Massachusetts Supreme
Judicial Court. Explaining the court’s decision to uphold a ban on
 ,  –

taverns or ‘‘any mechanical or manufacturing, or any nauseous or

offensive business whatever,’’ Justice George T. Bigelow declared
that a subdivider had the right to impose restrictions to prevent
the lots from being used in ways that might reduce the value of
the rest of the subdivision or ‘‘impair its eligibility’’ as sites for
private residences. ‘‘That such a purpose is a legitimate one, and
may be carried out, consistently with the rules of law, by reason-
able and proper covenants, conditions or restrictions, cannot be
doubted.’’ The only qualifications were that the restrictions ‘‘be
exercised reasonably, with a due regard to public policy, and with-
out creating any unlawful restraint of trade.’’ If doubts remained
about the validity of restrictions on use, they were dispelled by
the U.S. Supreme Court in . In Cowell v. Springs Company it
upheld a restriction banning the manufacture or sale of intoxicat-
ing liquor on a parcel in Colorado Springs. Counsel for the defen-
dant, the proprietor of a ‘‘billiard saloon,’’ insisted that his client
had ‘‘absolute ownership’’ of the property, ‘‘with liberty to use it
in any lawful manner which he might choose.’’ Rejecting this ar-
gument, Justice Stephen Field wrote that nothing in the Consti-
tution precluded the state from imposing ‘‘a limited restriction’’
on the use of property, ‘‘however much the restriction may affect
the value or the nature of the estate.’’ Noting that many courts
had upheld similar restrictions, he said that to rule against them
would ‘‘defeat numerous arrangements in our large cities for the
health and comfort of whole neighborhoods.’’ 26
By drawing a distinction between restrictions on alienation
and restrictions on use, the courts removed one of the legal ob-
stacles to the use of restrictive covenants. But others remained. If
a covenant was a form of contract, a Maryland judge wrote, it was
binding on the original seller and buyer. But suppose the buyer
     

sold the property to someone else. Was the covenant binding on

the new owner, who had not been a party to the original con-
tract? It was not, some lawyers argued. The covenant, one said, ‘‘is
merely personal,’’ an agreement between the grantor and grantee
that does not ‘‘run with the land.’’ If so, there was little the courts
could do if the new owner violated the restrictions. Nor was that
all. Under contract law, the seller could ask the courts to enforce
the restrictions. But suppose he had sold all or most of the lots
and no longer had a stake in making sure the restrictions were
enforced. Could the people who had bought the lots file suit if
one of the neighbors was violating the restrictions? They could
not, some lawyers contended. The new owners, they said, had no
contract with one another—only with the original seller. Even if
the restrictions were imposed for their benefit, they could not ask
the courts to enforce a contract that did not exist.27 If restrictive
covenants were binding only on the original buyer and could be
enforced only at the request of the original seller, it was hard to
see how they could protect residential neighborhoods from un-
wanted change for long.
But the situation was not as bleak as it seemed. During the
second third of the century the New York and Massachusetts
courts removed the remaining legal obstacles to the use of re-
strictive covenants. In landmark decisions they ruled that restric-
tive covenants were binding on others besides the original seller.
In Brouwer v. Jones, which was decided in , the New York
Supreme Court upheld a trial court’s decision to enjoin the de-
fendant, who had bought two lots in a Greenwich Village sub-
division that prohibited dangerous, noxious, or offensive trades,
from operating a sawmill that spewed smoke, dust, and soot on
the adjoining lots. Speaking for the court, Judge James Emott re-
 ,  –

jected the argument that the defendant could not be sued for vio-
lating the restrictions because he had not purchased the property
from the original seller and thus was not a party to the original
agreement. Since the objective of the covenant was ‘‘to protect
the whole tract and every lot belonging to it,’’ Emott said, it was
binding on everyone, from ‘‘the original owners’’ to ‘‘any subse-
quent grantees.’’ The Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court took
much the same position. In Whitney v. Union Railway Company,
which was decided in , it barred the defendant from building
stables, constructing a turntable, and laying down rails on a lot
in a Cambridge tract that banned mechanical and manufactur-
ing activities. Writing for the court, Justice Bigelow dismissed the
defendant’s argument that since he had not bought the lot from
the plaintiff there was no ‘‘privity of contract’’ between them. So
long as the defendant had notice of the covenant, he was bound
to abide by it. ‘‘It is not essential that it should run with the land,’’
Bigelow declared. ‘‘A personal covenant or agreement will be held
valid and binding in equity on a purchaser taking the estate with
notice.’’ 28
In other landmark decisions the courts ruled that these cove-
nants could be enforced at the request of others besides the origi-
nal seller—an issue that did not arise in Brouwer and Whitney
because in both cases the plaintiff was the original seller. In Bar-
row v. Richard, which was handed down in , the New York
Court of Chancery issued an injunction preventing the defendant
from operating a coal yard on two lots in Greenwich Village (and
spewing coal dust over the nearby houses) in spite of a covenant
that prohibited any business offensive to the neighbors. Writing
for the court, Judge William T. McCoun declared that the object
of the covenant was to protect not the seller, who no longer had an
     

interest in the property, but the buyer, who was entitled to relief
in the event of a breach by another buyer. The defendant appealed,
arguing that the plaintiffs were not parties to his contract with the
seller, but Judge Reuben H. Walworth upheld the decision. The
Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court came to much the same
conclusion. In Parker v. Nightingale, which was handed down in
, it ordered the defendant to stop running a restaurant on
one of several lots in Boston’s Hayward Place that could be used
for ‘‘a dwelling-house only.’’ Noting that the restaurant’s ‘‘noisy
and boisterous’’ patrons made Hayward Place ‘‘almost unfit for
quiet and comfortable residences,’’ Bigelow, now chief justice, de-
clared that ‘‘there can be no room for doubt that the plaintiffs are
entitled to equitable relief.’’ Every Hayward Place property owner
who was subject to the restrictions had the right to ask the courts
to enforce them. There was no need for the original seller, who
had no ‘‘present interest’’ in the property, to be a party to the pro-
ceedings.29
Although one legal scholar observed late in the nineteenth cen-
tury that the subject was ‘‘still in its infancy,’’ a consensus was
rapidly emerging in favor of restrictive covenants. In what one
commentator called the leading case on the subject, the New Jer-
sey Court of Chancery followed the lead of the New York and Mas-
sachusetts courts in the early s. The Maryland courts joined
the fold soon after, as did the West Virginia and Wisconsin courts.
The Illinois Supreme Court bucked the trend for a time. (Stress-
ing that ‘‘real estate is an article of commerce’’ and ‘‘the uses to
which it should be devoted are constantly changing as the busi-
ness of the country increases,’’ Justice Alfred M. Craig declared
that it was contrary to public policy ‘‘to tie up real estate’’ with re-
strictions. Quoting Judge Murray F. Tuley, the Cook County judge
 ,  –

who had tried the case, he went on to say, ‘‘All doubts should, as a
general rule, be resolved in favor of the free use of property, and
against restrictions [thereon].’’) But eventually it came around.
Two decades later the West Virginia Supreme Court said that in
the case of a breach of a covenant the courts now grant an injunc-
tion almost ‘‘as a matter of course.’’ 30
The West Virginia court’s statement was a slight exaggeration.
In the course of crafting a new consensus, the courts spelled out
several conditions under which they would not enforce restric-
tions on the use of property. It had long been settled that they
would not enforce ones that were contrary to public policy or
in restraint of trade. Nor would they enforce ones about which
the buyers had no notice. Now it was also settled that the courts
would not enforce a covenant unless it was designed for the bene-
fit of the buyers—and, in many states, unless it was part of what
the New Jersey Court of Chancery called ‘‘some general scheme
or plan for the improvement or development of the property.’’ No
less important, the courts would not issue an injunction where,
in one legal scholar’s words, the plaintiffs had ‘‘acquiesced in a
breach [of a covenant] for an unreasonable time.’’ As Justice Bige-
low wrote, ‘‘It would be contrary to equity and good conscience
to suffer a party to lie by and see acts done involving risk and ex-
penses by others, and then permit him to enforce his rights and
thereby inflict loss and damage on parties acting in good faith.’’
Nor would the courts issue an injunction where the surround-
ings had already changed so much that, as the New York Court
of Appeals wrote, ‘‘neither their better improvement nor perma-
nent value can be promoted by enforcing its [the covenant’s] ob-
servance.’’ If a covenant’s objective could not be achieved, its en-
forcement ‘‘would work oppression, and not equity.’’ It would ‘‘ha-
     

rass and injure the defendant,’’ said the Massachusetts Supreme

Judicial Court, without helping the plaintiff.31
But in the absence of any of these conditions—in a case where
the restrictions were part of a general plan, the plaintiffs were
seeking relief in a timely manner, and the surroundings were as
yet largely unchanged—the courts would enforce the covenant.
Provided the restrictions had not yet expired, they would enforce
it even if the defendant was not the original buyer nor the plain-
tiff the original seller. Some courts stressed that covenants would
be ‘‘strictly construed,’’ that restrictions would be taken to mean
what they said, not what they implied, and that doubts about their
meaning would be resolved in favor of the defendant. Refusing
to stop a Chicago property owner from building an apartment
house on a lot that could be used for ‘‘only a single dwelling,’’
the Illinois Supreme Court wrote that if the subdivider had in-
tended ‘‘to prohibit the erection of a flat’’ or any other dwelling to
be occupied by more than one family, he should have said so in
the deed. But as long as the meaning was clear, even these courts
would enforce the covenants. Writing in , by which time the
employment of restrictive covenants had become commonplace,
Justice William C. Walsh of the Maryland Court of Appeals said
what most of his colleagues had long come to believe: ‘‘Whether
this tendency is wise or unwise, it is not our province to deter-
mine.’’ So long as the restrictions are reasonable (and the inten-
tions clear), the courts would uphold them.32
Most subdividers, however, were reluctant to impose restric-
tive covenants less out of fear that they would not hold up in
court than that they would drive away prospective purchasers.
As J. C. Nichols recalled, ‘‘When I began selling lots at the tag-
end outskirts of the city [at the turn of the century], I was afraid
 ,  –

to suggest my present broad building restrictions. I thought no-

body would buy rigidly restricted lots.’’ It was, Nichols pointed
out, ‘‘hard enough to sell them anyhow!’’ And selling lots was how
subdividers made their living. As King Thompson, a Columbus,
Ohio, subdivider, said, ‘‘I did not enter the land business some
years ago because I had any theories of city building to work out,
but merely because I thought I could make a living at it.’’ To make
a living, the subdividers had to do more than just cover the costs
of buying the land, putting in the streets, installing the utilities,
and laying out the lots. They also had to pay property taxes and
interest charges. Unless we sell the lots, and sell them quickly,
‘‘the carrying charge will eat us up,’’ Nichols warned his fellow
subdividers. But as E. H. Bouton, head of the Roland Park Com-
pany, pointed out, most people were in no rush to buy suburban
lots. They were loath to sell their homes in the city and leave
their friends and neighbors behind. They were also reluctant to
move into even well-designed subdivisions before the schools
and churches were built and the saplings provided much in the
way of shade.33
As hard as it was to sell ordinary suburban lots, it was even
harder to sell highly restricted ones. When the Roland Park Com-
pany began selling ‘‘restricted land’’ just outside Baltimore in
the mid-s, one of its executives later recalled, it ran into a
good deal of resistance. ‘‘Salesmen, in describing the advantages
of these restrictions, were met with the comment, ‘When I have
bought and paid for a lot, I do not understand why you retain
such control that I cannot make use of it as I see fit.’ ’’ A repre-
sentative of another real estate company reported that many pro-
spective purchasers refused to buy restricted lots on the grounds
that ‘‘they did not care to hold property in their name unless they
     

could build what they wanted and dispose of their lot to anybody
they saw fit. In other words, they did not care to buy property with
any restrictions whatsoever upon it.’’ To the extent that his obser-
vation implied that prospective purchasers found all restrictions
equally objectionable, it was misleading. But as a reflection of a
widespread sentiment, it was on the mark. As Thomas Adams,
a prominent English town planner who was visiting the United
States, remarked, ‘‘It ha[s] been stated to me over and over again
that you could not get an owner of land in this country to submit
to any restriction of his claim to use his land as he chooses.’’ 34
Restrictive covenants were objectionable because they ran
counter to deep-seated beliefs about property rights, home-
ownership, and suburbia. Although some Americans were start-
ing to think that some form of land-use control was necessary,
most were still wedded to the traditional view of private prop-
erty. No one had the right to tell anyone else how ‘‘to use, enjoy
and dispose of ’’ their property, wrote a New Jersey judge, unless
it was being used in a way that created a nuisance or otherwise
infringed upon the property rights of others. Yet in addition to
banning slaughterhouses and other noxious businesses, the cus-
tomary restrictions barred all sorts of other activities that were
by no means a nuisance or an infringement of property rights.
Most Americans also believed in the virtues of homeownership.
A home of his own, they held, gave a man not only a stake in the
community, a commitment to its long-term well-being, but also
what one real estate promoter called ‘‘a certain independence, a
force of character that is obtained in no other way.’’ If a home-
owner was his ‘‘own man’’ and his home was ‘‘his castle,’’ why
should he put up with so many restrictions on what he could do
with it? Such restrictions might be appropriate in cities, it was
 ,  –

conceded, but not in suburbs. Suburbia encourages ‘‘individu-

alism,’’ one suburbanite wrote. There ‘‘you may wear what you
please,’’ she said, and do other things ‘‘you would never dare in
the City.’’ There ‘‘you may, if you wish, paint your house orange
and purple and put a pink roof on.’’ 35
Restrictive covenants were also objectionable because they put
a damper on speculation in suburban property. Given that the
United States was, in the words of two real estate experts, ‘‘a na-
tion of speculators,’’ it is small wonder many Americans viewed a
suburban lot as an investment as much as a homesite. They knew
that a good deal of money could be made from a lot that under-
went a change in land use, but they also knew that restrictive
covenants made such a change highly unlikely, if not impossible.
For the many people who saw real estate speculation as, next to
poker, the ‘‘great American game,’’ it made no sense to play by
such strict rules. Also underlying their reluctance to play by these
rules was a strong belief that change was not only desirable but
also inevitable, that it was, said the Detroit Free Press, a ‘‘universal
law,’’ a law that applied to people, to cities, and, above all, to real
estate. As Richard M. Hurd wrote, land would always go to ‘‘the
highest bidder,’’ the one who could earn ‘‘the highest amount’’
from it. It would always be changing because its owner would
always be looking for its ‘‘highest and best use.’’ 36 From this per-
spective restrictive covenants were a shortsighted and ultimately
fruitless attempt to interfere with the natural laws of the real
estate market, if not the universe itself.
But during the late nineteenth century, a time of widespread
civil disorder, many well-to-do Americans began to question the
conventional wisdom that change was desirable and inevitable.
Unlike their fathers and grandfathers, they were dismayed as old
     

landmarks and elegant houses were torn down to make way for
stores and offices and tall buildings were demolished to make way
for even taller ones. Like Olmsted, Sr., they were appalled as once
fashionable neighborhoods—what a Dallas subdivider later called
‘‘the very best part of town,’’ the part that housed ‘‘the better class
of people’’—were taken over by apartment and boarding houses.
Why was it, many Americans asked, that ‘‘every good develop-
ment around every growing city should have a life of only ten or
fifteen years and then give way to something less desirable and
perhaps hideous’’? Why was it not possible that a good develop-
ment could withstand the forces of change? Why was it not pos-
sible that with ‘‘the softening influences of time’’ it might become
even more attractive? Prompting these questions was a growing
longing for permanence, the lack of which was now lamented by
many well-to-do Americans other than Olmsted. As John F. W.
Ware, a Unitarian minister from Cambridge, said, ‘‘The want of
permanence is one of the crying sins of the age. It prevents that
local attachment which is one of the strongest and purest senti-
ments of the human breast.’’ Americans, he added, ‘‘are always
getting ready to live in a new place, never living.’’ 37
As many Americans voiced their growing concern about ‘‘the
want of permanence,’’ some subdividers began to have second
thoughts that restrictive covenants would drive away prospective
purchasers. Could it be that their longing for permanence might
outweigh their devotion to property rights? Could it be that their
fear of the market might overcome their opposition to land-use
regulation? Might they be willing to bear up with restrictions in
order to exclude those ‘‘undesirable’’ people and ‘‘undesirable’’
activities that inevitably led to unwanted change? Might they be
willing to forgo the chance of a short-term windfall for the sake of
 ,  –

long-term stability? Was it possible, some subdividers wondered,

that there was a large market of what Olmsted, Jr., called ‘‘the
most discriminating and intelligent and enterprising among the
people of means’’ that could be tapped by imposing restrictive
covenants? At a time when few suburban tracts were highly re-
stricted, and many not restricted at all, was it possible that these
covenants would give them an edge over their competitors? Pro-
vided the restrictions imposed on one lot were imposed on all
the others—provided, as a Baltimore attorney put it, ‘‘they apply
equally and uniformly to all other lots similarly situated’’—some
subdividers came to the conclusion it might be easier to sell lots
with restrictive covenants than without.38
Some subdividers also came to the conclusion that restrictive
covenants might help solve the problem of what J. C. Nichols
called ‘‘the tag ends.’’ As early as the mid-nineteenth century, sub-
dividers had realized that once a tract of more than a few acres was
laid out it would take a while before all the lots were sold. Even if
a subdivider could afford to hold on to the unsold lots, there was
always a chance that in the meantime one of the buyers might use
a lot in a way that, in Judge McCoun’s words, might ‘‘prejudice
the sales of the rest.’’ This problem grew even more serious in the
late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, by which time it
was commonly believed that a subdivider had to sell two-thirds or
perhaps even three-quarters of the lots to break even; the profits
would come from the sale of the last third or quarter. If some of
the initial buyers used their lots in an offensive way, if they built
houses up to the property line or if, as Charles H. Cheney wrote,
they built houses that were ugly or tacky, even ‘‘of bad design or
off-color,’’ the subdivider might have trouble selling the remain-
ing lots.39 If a subdivider could not sell them—or could sell them
only at a deep discount—so much for the profits. Other than by
     

imposing restrictive covenants, subdividers were hard pressed to

think of a way to deal with this problem.
By the early s it seemed that restrictive covenants were an
idea whose time had come. Some Americans had already bought
restricted lots; and if a subdivision appealed to them, others were
inclined to buy them. Some Americans who had once been skep-
tical about restrictive covenants had changed their minds too.
Even Olmsted, Sr., who in the late s had expressed reser-
vations about anything but the least onerous restrictions, was
now urging his clients to impose stringent restrictions for a long
period. Writing in  to Brookline subdivider Henry M. Whit-
ney, he recommended banning trade and manufacturing, barring
more than one house per lot and, among other things, requiring
that the house cost at least ten to fifteen thousand dollars, a huge
sum at the time. No revisions should be allowed for sixty years—
and, after sixty years, only with the unanimous consent of the
lot owners.40 But whether subdividers were ready to impose such
tough restrictions for so long a time remained to be seen. With
the conspicuous exception of Llewellyn Haskell and a few other
idiosyncratic millionaires, none of them had done so yet, at least
not on a subdivision of more than a few acres. For the time being
it seemed that they were all waiting for someone else to take the
lead, to test the market for restricted suburban property, to do on
a large scale what had hitherto been done, when done at all, on a
small one.

A Breakthrough in Baltimore

They did not have to wait long. During the late s
Charles Grasty, editor of the Kansas City Times and part-time real
estate speculator, formed a working relationship with Jarvis and
 ,  –

Conklin, a Chicago investment house that acted as a conduit for

British investors looking for opportunities in America’s growing
cities. Although he moved to Baltimore in  to become edi-
tor of the Baltimore News, Grasty continued to keep an eye out
for property that might interest Jarvis and Conklin and its British
clients. He soon learned that William H. Edmunds, publisher of
a trade paper called the Manufacturers’ Record, was willing to sell
a one-hundred-acre parcel about five miles north of downtown
Baltimore, not far from Lake Roland, that was well suited for de-
velopment as a fashionable residential suburb. Grasty told Jarvis
and Conklin about it. He also urged Edward H. Bouton, another
Kansas City real estate man, to join the venture. Bouton, who was
having troubles with his creditors, decided it was a good time to
seek his fortune elsewhere. After Grasty, Bouton, and a repre-
sentative of the British investors visited the site in the spring of
, Jarvis and Conklin bought not only Edmunds’s one hun-
dred acres but nearly four hundred additional acres next door. To
develop the property, it formed the Roland Park Company, which
was capitalized at  million, the bulk of it in inflated real estate,
and named Bouton, who had worked for Jarvis and Conklin in
Kansas City in the s, general manager.41
The timing could hardly have been worse. Within two years
the Panic of  left the nation reeling. In its wake, Jarvis and
Conklin went under, and Stewart and Young, another Chicago
investment house, took over Roland Park. The capital markets
dried up, leaving the company in a precarious position. Worst of
all, the demand for suburban property in and around Baltimore,
which had not been strong before the Panic, grew even weaker.
Still, Bouton and his associates pressed ahead with their plan to
turn Roland Park into a fashionable residential suburb. To lay
     

out the first tract, the company hired George E. Kessler, who had
worked under Olmsted, Sr., on Central Park before moving to
Kansas City in the s. For the next tract, which was started
several years later, it retained Olmsted Brothers. At a cost of more
than one hundred thousand dollars, the company laid out and
graded the streets and put in the sidewalks, gutters, utilities, and
storm drains. It also brought in George E. Waring, Jr., the coun-
try’s leading sanitary engineer, to help with the sewage system. In
an effort to make the community more accessible to downtown
Baltimore, the company built the Lake Roland Elevated Electric
Railroad. And in an effort to stimulate lagging sales, it erected a
few houses, a measure designed to give prospective purchasers
a sense of things to come. After looking into Tuxedo Park, Llew-
ellyn Park, and Sudbrook, Maryland, a subdivision laid out by
Olmsted, Sr., in the late s, Bouton and his associates made
perhaps their most far-reaching decision. They imposed restric-
tive covenants on all the lots.42
It was a calculated risk, akin, J. C. Nichols later said, to set-
ting out onto ‘‘an uncharted sea.’’ And in the aftermath of the
Panic, it was anything but smooth sailing. The restrictions drove
away some prospective purchasers. In a few cases, Edmunds in-
formed Bouton in , they drove them to other subdivisions.
Anticipating resistance from prospective purchasers, Bouton and
his associates shied away from imposing highly onerous restric-
tions. They banned privies and other nuisances as well as stores,
saloons, and businesses of any kind; and they forbade more than
one house per lot. But under the restrictions an owner could build
a house for as little as two thousand to three thousand dollars, a
sum well within the reach of Baltimore’s upper middle class; and
at the start it was possible to build without first submitting the
 ,  –

plans to the company for approval. The restrictions prevented an

owner from building a house up to the property line, but not from
putting up a fence around it. They barred raising hogs, but not
keeping chickens and rabbits. Bouton and his associates thought
about imposing a restriction that no lot could be sold to or occu-
pied by ‘‘negroes or persons of African descent.’’ But on the advice
of their lawyers, who held that such a restriction was an illegal
restraint on alienation, they shelved the idea. The company did
not impose restrictions against other racial and ethnic minorities
either—though in one case it bought back a lot to prevent ‘‘a jew
named Walters’’ from buying it.43
Bouton and his associates also downplayed the restrictions.
Some of the company’s ads did not even mention them. Instead
they highlighted Roland Park’s hilly site and healthy surround-
ings and compared its ‘‘pure air’’ to the ‘‘smells, dust and decaying
filth of the city.’’ The ads that did refer to the restrictions did so
in a cautious, even defensive way. ‘‘We hear,’’ said one, ‘‘of erro-
neous impressions as to the restrictions on Roland Park lots,’’
especially impressions that they were sweeping and stringent. To
the contrary, they are ‘‘few and simple,’’ ‘‘proper’’ and ‘‘reason-
able.’’ They were designed, on the basis of ‘‘careful thought and
mature experience,’’ to protect Roland Park from ‘‘unhealthful
surroundings and undesirable neighbors.’’ Homeowners could
rely on them to ensure ‘‘a satisfactory class of residents,’’ to ‘‘main-
tain the beauty of the place, its healthfulness, the value of the
property and [the] purity and cleanliness of the air and its soil,’’
and to ensure ‘‘the permanence of its [Roland Park’s] advantages
and attractions.’’ What the company said in its ads, it repeated to
prospective purchasers. ‘‘We have thrown around our property a
number of well chosen and reasonable restrictions,’’ Richard W.
     

Marchant, Jr., told William R. Abbott, for no purposes other than

to prevent nuisances and maintain property values. Nothing in
the restrictions, said a member of the sales department, would
deprive an owner of ‘‘the full use and enjoyment of his property
at all times.’’ 44
During the s the Roland Park Company weathered a fi-
nancial panic, a chronic dearth of capital, and a sluggish real
estate market. Although it did not earn much of a profit until
later, long after the British investors sold out to Bouton and a
local syndicate in , the company stayed afloat. It sold some
lots, opened a second tract, and achieved a degree of stability that
had once seemed unattainable. During the s the company
sold more lots. And as the owners built houses and planted trees,
bushes, and lawns, Roland Park gained a reputation as one of
the country’s outstanding residential suburbs. Duncan McDuf-
fie, developer of St. Francis Wood and other wealthy suburbs in
and around San Francisco, called it ‘‘by far the most success-
ful residence subdivision in the United States.’’ The ‘‘secret of
the success,’’ he said, was that the Roland Park Company put a
higher value on creating ‘‘an ideal residence district’’ than on pro-
ducing ‘‘large dividends for its stockholders.’’ Olmsted, Jr., urged
other subdividers to visit Roland Park and held it up as a model
to students at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design, where he
taught the next generation of landscape architects. After a trip
east in , J. C. Nichols, who was rapidly emerging as the chief
spokesman for the leading subdividers, paid Roland Park the ulti-
mate tribute. ‘‘When people ask me how I enjoyed my trip and
what I saw,’’ he wrote Bouton, ‘‘I tell them I saw Roland Park;
and I feel there is not much need of describing anything I saw
elsewhere.’’ 45
 ,  –

According to Thomas Adams, Bouton and his associates be-

lieved that Roland Park’s success was due largely to its restric-
tions. So did others. The Baltimore American attributed Roland
Park’s ‘‘phenomenal growth’’ to its ‘‘wise restrictions.’’ And jour-
nalist Arthur Tomalin held that these restrictions, ‘‘rightly ad-
hered to, have been the making of Roland Park.’’ Even more im-
portant, the residents of Roland Park, some of whom had once
viewed the restrictions ‘‘as a curtailment of their personal rights,’’
now saw them, wrote the Roland Park Review, as ‘‘vital to the
future well-being of our suburb’’—‘‘as not only desirable but as
necessary,’’ a former president of the company later recalled. The
residents, wrote the American, ‘‘would be loath to see them abol-
ished.’’ If anything, said another journalist, ‘‘the demand of the
community has not been for fewer restrictions, but for more de-
tailed, comprehensive ones.’’ Over the years residents occasion-
ally violated one or another of the restrictions. But down through
 none filed suit to stop the company from enforcing them.
A few objected to the requirement, imposed on the second tract,
that they submit their plans to the company for approval before
building. But most—even those, Adams wrote, who had paid four
to five thousand dollars for a lot and now wanted to build a house
for ten to twenty thousand dollars—were willing to put up with
this and what he called other ‘‘arbitrary’’ restrictions to make sure,
as one ad said, that ‘‘no undesirable house will be built near [their
homes], and that nothing will be done to render the neighbor-
hood unhealthful and objectionable.’’ 46
After reorganizing the company in  and taking over as its
president, Bouton began to look for other opportunities in sub-
urban Baltimore. Eight years later he and his associates joined
forces with the Guilford Park Land Company, which owned
     

roughly three hundred acres not far from Roland Park. The re-
sult was a stronger Roland Park Company. With Bouton at the
helm, the company brought in the Olmsteds to lay out a new
subdivision called Guilford. Although a replica of Roland Park in
many ways, Guilford was far more sweepingly and stringently re-
stricted. Fully convinced of the value of restrictions, Bouton and
his associates incorporated them into a twenty-three-page decla-
ration that covered the whole subdivision. Besides banning nui-
sances on all the lots and businesses and multifamily houses on
all but a few, the restrictions called for setbacks not only at the
front but at the rear and sides. They barred not only hogs and live-
stock but ‘‘any live poultry.’’ They forbade the emission of ‘‘dark
smoke or thick gray smoke’’ too. Although they dropped the mini-
mum cost requirements, about the value of which Bouton had
grown skeptical, they strengthened the design review process,
giving the company the right to reject plans ‘‘for aesthetic or other
reasons,’’ and to take into account whether the proposed house
was in ‘‘harmony’’ with its surroundings. A property owner could
still build a fence, but only after the company approved the plans.
Unlike the Roland Park restrictions, the Guilford restrictions in-
cluded a provision that no house or lot could be occupied ‘‘by any
negro or person of negro extraction’’—by then ‘‘a very common
provision in Baltimore,’’ said Bouton, one found ‘‘even in subdivi-
sions that almost have no other restrictions at all.’’ This provision
did not apply to other racial or ethnic minorities, but as Bouton
told his fellow subdividers, the Roland Park Company did not sell
to Jews ‘‘of any character whatever.’’ 47
Far from downplaying the restrictions at Guilford, as they had
at Roland Park, Bouton and his associates built their marketing
campaign around them. The company’s ads boasted of ‘‘
 ,  –

Acres of Restricted Land.’’ ‘‘ of the many desirable features

of ,’’ said one, ‘‘appeals more to the careful home inves-
tor than do its protective restrictions.’’ More than anything else,
the ads stressed that the restrictions guaranteed permanence.
‘‘Regardless of changes that may take place in other parts of the
city,’’ read one, ‘‘property owners in this district [meaning Roland
Park and Guilford] have full control for all time over the uses to
which the land may be put.’’ Given ‘‘a degree of protection’’ found
nowhere else, said another, the residents could be confident that
nothing would encroach upon their property and reduce its value.
To those who had doubts about the benefits of restrictions, the
company suggested, ‘‘ ‘Ask the man who lives there’—the longer
he has lived there the better.’’ To reinforce the point, the company
took half-page ads in the major Baltimore newspapers in which
more than thirty residents, most of them well-off businessmen
and professionals, gave testimonials to the value of restrictions.
One after another they said that the restrictions were the best
thing about Roland Park. Without them it would have lost the ad-
mirable qualities that set it apart from other residential suburbs.
Some added that they would not live in Roland Park without re-
strictions—and even that they would not live anywhere but in a
highly restricted community.48

‘‘The Rule, Rather than the Exception’’

Where Bouton led, others followed—albeit with some

trepidation. By far the most famous was J. C. Nichols, whose
Country Club District, which consisted of two dozen tracts on
more than three thousand acres by the mid-s, stood ‘‘head
and shoulders above all other subdivisions in America,’’ said Sam-
     

uel S. Thorpe, a Minneapolis subdivider and former president of

the National Association of Real Estate Boards. At the turn of the
century, Nichols later recalled, he had been afraid to impose re-
strictions on his property. But over the objections of his associ-
ates, he decided to give them a try. And ‘‘now,’’ he told a national
conference of real estate men in the early s, ‘‘I cannot sell
a lot without them.’’ At first the restrictions were simple and far
from onerous. But inspired by Bouton’s success at Roland Park,
Nichols later imposed more sweeping and stringent ones. In spite
of strong opposition from prospective purchasers, he even re-
quired owners to submit their plans to his company before con-
struction. By the late s the Country Club District was one
of the nation’s most highly restricted communities. And Nichols
was one of the chief advocates of restrictive covenants. It pays to
impose restrictions, he said at a conference in the early s.
It pays because prospective purchasers are more likely to buy
lots with restrictions than without. ‘‘Our protective restrictions
largely are responsible for the extensive demand for homesites
and homes in [the] Country Club District,’’ said the Nichols Com-
pany in the mid-s. ‘‘They are our most valuable asset.’’ 49
Nichols’s story was a familiar one. At the start ‘‘I was very much
opposed to placing any restrictions upon the property,’’ said a
Baltimore real estate man, referring to a seventeen-acre plot close
to Roland Park and Guilford that he had been asked to subdivide
in the mid-s. But he soon found that buyers were so wor-
ried about what their neighbors might do that it was impossible
to sell the lots at a good price without them. A decade later a
Minneapolis subdivider remarked that he and his associates had
initially been ‘‘a little apprehensive’’ about imposing restrictions,
having not yet ‘‘learned our lesson,’’ he wrote. But learn it they
 ,  –

did. So did other subdividers. By the mid-s so many sub-

dividers were employing restrictive covenants that, Nichols wrote
with some exaggeration, ‘‘Practically every city has its restricted
and highly protected residence section for the better homes.’’ By
the s, Olmsted, Jr., pointed out, the use of restrictive cove-
nants was ‘‘general among developers who aimed at what they
believed to be a discriminating market of lot buyers.’’ And on the
eve of the Great Depression, Charles E. Clark, a Yale Law School
professor and a leading authority on restrictive covenants, wrote
that ‘‘restricted residential property is now becoming the rule,
rather than the exception, in or near our cities.’’ 50
What drove subdividers to embrace restrictive covenants was
the belief, as a Cleveland real estate man put it, that restricted
property was ‘‘more valuable and more desirable’’ than unre-
stricted property. What made it more valuable and more desirable
was that it was more marketable. And what made it more market-
able was that many middle- and upper-middle-class Americans
were afraid that the neighbors would use their property in ways
that would make the community less appealing. Out of this deep-
seated fear grew the widespread belief that restrictions were, as
an Omaha subdivider wrote, ‘‘not only desirable, but quite neces-
sary.’’ They were, said Hugh E. Prather, subdivider of Highland
Park, the most fashionable suburb in Dallas, ‘‘the life-blood of a
high-class development.’’ Provided the same restrictions were im-
posed on their neighbors’ property, many Americans were willing
to accept them on their own. Indeed, many would not buy unre-
stricted property. Writing in the mid-s about Colony Hills, a
highly restricted suburb in Springfield, Massachusetts, one jour-
nalist said, ‘‘Springfield property twenty years ago was difficult to
sell if heavily laden with restrictions. The prospective buyer felt
     

that he was being imposed upon if he could not do exactly as he

pleased with his own property. But to-day the home-seeker de-
mands the highest and most detailed restrictions as part of his
right.’’ 51
Nothing revealed the new attitude toward restrictive covenants
more clearly than an article in Suburban Life, a magazine de-
voted to promoting the well-being of suburbia. Written in  by
journalist Charles K. Farrington and titled ‘‘When You Buy Your
Building-lot,’’ it offered advice to prospective homeowners. What
was striking about the piece was that it was devoted almost en-
tirely to restrictive covenants. ‘‘Look carefully into the restrictions
before you buy your lot,’’ Farrington wrote. ‘‘Also, which is about
as important, find out if the vacant property around you (even
on nearby streets) is also fully protected.’’ In addition to check-
ing that shops and factories are banned, make sure that ‘‘only one
house can be placed on a lot.’’ Also be sure that ‘‘double houses,
two-family houses, and flats’’ are prohibited. Bear in mind the
impact of inflation. Twenty years earlier a minimum cost require-
ment of, say, five thousand dollars would have ensured the erec-
tion of ‘‘a good, substantial house.’’ But ‘‘you will undoubtedly be
astonished at the small dwellings that can be built now’’ for that
amount. Above all, check the duration of the restrictions. If they
were set to run for thirty years, which was fairly common, and
twenty-five have already passed, ‘‘you will be protected for only
five years.’’ 52
In an attempt to tap the growing market of so-called discrimi-
nating buyers, many subdividers did more than just impose re-
strictions. Like Bouton, they also built their marketing cam-
paigns around them. Following Nichols’s lead, Bouton and,
among others, Mike and William C. Hogg, developers with Hugh
 ,  –

Potter of River Oaks, Houston’s most fashionable suburb, they

ran ads offering ‘‘, Acres Restricted,’’ a phrase that was usu-
ally put in boldface and capital letters. Other subdividers pointed
out that their tracts, most of which did not have a hundred, much
less a thousand, acres, were ‘‘highly restricted,’’ ‘‘fully restricted,’’
and ‘‘carefully restricted.’’ Some also insisted that their tracts were
more carefully (or highly or fully) restricted than their competi-
tors’ were. Besides emphasizing the restrictions in ads, the sub-
dividers urged their salesmen to use them as what Olmsted, Jr.,
called a ‘‘talking point’’ or ‘‘selling point.’’ And it worked. Accord-
ing to Samuel Thorpe, restrictions ‘‘proved to be our best sales ar-
gument.’’ Henry Clarke, general manager of a Washington, D.C.,
real estate firm (and former director of sales at Palos Verdes Es-
tates), agreed. Looking back at the history of hundreds of success-
ful residential suburbs developed in the past twenty-five years,
he said in , ‘‘In practically every case the developer based his
sales appeal in the protection he offered the purchasers of his
property.’’ 53
As historian Michael Holleran has pointed out, the subdividers
were selling permanence. Or to put it another way, they were
exploiting the growing fear of unwanted change, especially of
the encroachment of ‘‘undesirable’’ people and ‘‘undesirable’’ ac-
tivities. A good example of their approach was a promotional
brochure for Brendonwood, a -acre subdivision northeast of
Indianapolis that was developed by Charles E. Lewis and laid out
by George E. Kessler. The brochure showed a ‘‘Silver Flash’’ gas
station and, under it, issued the following warning:

You know you don’t like a thing like this against or over the way
from your home. You know how it grates on you. . . . Possibly
it hasn’t reached  home yet—but how can you keep it away
     

once it lifts its peace-destroying, price-destroying head at your

door? How can you tell when it will reach your home? One day we
see in the paper that Meridian St. at Maple Road is in danger. Next
we learn that Delaware at th St. is threatened. Look around you!
See the havoc that has been and is being wrought. What street,
what neighborhood is safe?

The subdividers of Raymond Village, a tract not far from Pasa-

dena, asked prospective purchasers a similar question. ‘‘When
you buy a lot for a home, what assurance do you have, ordinarily,
that an unsightly shanty, a chicken ranch, or other objectionable
structure will not be placed next door?’’ It has happened before,
the subdividers warned, and it could happen again. If it was not
a gas station or an unsightly shanty, it would be a saloon, a fac-
tory, a laundry, or a funeral parlor. Time and again families buy
a lot in an attractive subdivision, said an ad for Hollywood Hills,
a tract northwest of downtown Los Angeles. ‘‘Years later, when
they have invested heavily in a handsome house, they find that re-
strictions are lapsing around them, values depreciating and their
best neighbors leaving:—they learn, in short, that their location
is becoming  for a first-class residence.’’ 54
Americans had a choice, the subdividers claimed. They could
buy a lot in an unrestricted tract, build a house, wait for the neigh-
borhood to decline, sell the property, more often than not for
less than they paid, and buy another lot in another unrestricted
tract. Or they could ‘‘  ’’—or one of the many
other highly restricted subdivisions that had solved the prob-
lem of permanence. There, declared the Nichols Company, resi-
dents are ‘‘ by thorough restrictions  
 .’’ There, said a River Oaks pamphlet, you will
have a home ‘‘for all time,’’ a home in a community of nothing but
 ,  –

homes, all ‘‘carefully planned, substantially built, in keeping with

River Oaks standards.’’ There, another Brendonwood brochure
pointed out, you can live in your home all your life and ‘‘hand it
down’’ to your children. How nice, it said, to be able to live ‘‘in the
homes of our fathers.’’ Other subdividers hammered away at the
same points. St. Francis Wood will remain unspoiled, claimed
the Mason-McDuffie Company. Its restrictions ‘‘are a shield per-
manently protecting its homes and stabilizing and increasing its
land values. They ward off the blighting effect of stores, flats and
apartments; they prevent crowding together of houses and cut-
ting off of view[s]; they deny entrance to undesirable neighbors
and ugly and inharmonious houses.’’ Shaker Village will never
change, said the Van Sweringen Company of one of its many sub-
divisions in Shaker Heights. ‘‘No matter what changes time may
bring around it, no matter what waves of commercialism may
beat upon its borders, Shaker Village is secure, its homes and gar-
dens . . . serene and protected for all time.’’ 55
In an attempt to gain an edge over their competitors, a few
subdividers decided to offer prospective purchasers something
in addition to permanence. That something was exclusivity. The
subdividers had long known that there was a small market for
exclusive suburbs like Llewellyn Park and Tuxedo Park. But now
they had reason to believe that the market was rapidly grow-
ing, that the same well-to-do Americans who were joining ex-
clusive country clubs, spending summers at exclusive oceanside
communities, and sending children to exclusive prep schools
might also want to live in exclusive residential suburbs. And ex-
clusive residential suburbs meant highly restricted suburbs. In
Lawrence Park, a subdivision in Bronxville, New York, prospec-
tive purchasers could be confident that the residents would be ‘‘of
     

the very best material,’’ said developer William Van Duzer Law-
rence; all others would be ‘‘rigidly excluded.’’ Brendonwood resi-
dents, read a brochure, could be sure that ‘‘your neighbors will be
men and women of similar tastes who, like yourself, will cherish
Brendonwood and treasure all it gives them.’’ And the owners of
Beverly Crest, a subdivision in the foothills of Los Angeles, adver-
tised it as a ‘‘Permanently   for 
.’’ In some affluent subdivisions exclusivity was even more
of a ‘‘talking point.’’ Hancock Park, which boasted of ‘‘its strin-
gent restrictions,’’ called itself ‘‘the most exclusive residential dis-
trict’’ in Los Angeles. Not to be outdone, Bel-Air, which said it
was to suburbia what Tiffany was to gold and silver, claimed it
was ‘‘The Exclusive Residential Park of the West.’’ Short Hills de-
scribed itself as ‘‘New Jersey’s Most Exclusive Residence Section.’’
And nearby Montclair said it was ‘‘The Handsomest and Most Ex-
clusive of New York’s Suburbs.’’ 56
By the late s it seemed that the subdividers had solved the
problem Olmsted had identified more than half a century earlier.
By virtue of their efforts, most cities had at least one or two highly
restricted suburbs for the well-to-do. Many big cities had dozens.
As well as Roland Park and Guilford, Baltimore had Homeland,
the Roland Park Company’s third big venture. It now advertised
‘‘, acres of restricted land.’’ Washington, D.C., had several re-
stricted suburbs, among the most famous of which was Chevy
Chase, Maryland, a huge parcel that was subdivided by Francis G.
Newlands, a U.S. senator from Nevada who had made a fortune
in the West before moving to the nation’s capital. Affluent Phila-
delphians had a host of restricted subdivisions to choose from,
most of them located along the ‘‘Main Line.’’ With dozens of re-
stricted subdivisions spread over Westchester County, southern
 ,  –

Connecticut, northern New Jersey, and Nassau County, well-off

New Yorkers had an even greater choice. Among the best known
of these subdivisions were Lawrence Park, Great Neck Hills, in
Nassau County, and Forest Hills Gardens, a highly restricted sub-
division in Queens that was sponsored by the Russell Sage Foun-
dation (and, at the start, managed by Bouton). Boston, home of
the Olmsted firm, had its share of highly restricted suburbs too.
One of the most noteworthy was Oak Hills Village. Located in
Newton, about seven miles from the State House, it was devel-
oped by Arnold Hartmann, who not only imposed the customary
restrictions but also required every prospective purchaser to sub-
mit three social and three business references, all of which were
‘‘carefully investigated.’’ No resident, no matter how highly rec-
ommended, could let anyone lease or occupy his home without
Hartmann’s written permission.57
The Midwest had many highly restricted suburbs too. In a
class by itself was Kansas City’s Country Club District, which
was hailed by the Nichols Company as ‘‘the largest high-class,
restricted residential development under one management in
the world’’ and praised by Raymond Unwin, a leading British
town planner, as ‘‘America’s best example of residential plan-
ning.’’ (After Palos Verdes Estates was developed, the Country
Club District was no longer the largest such development in the
United States, but along with Roland Park it was still the most
influential.) Almost as well known as the Country Club Dis-
trict was the Van Sweringen brothers’ Shaker Heights, some of
whose tracts were restricted into the twenty-first century. What
the Country Club District was to Kansas City and Shaker Heights
to Cleveland, Brendonwood was to Indianapolis and Ottawa Hills
to Toledo. Covering more than twelve hundred acres just west
     

of the city, Ottawa Hills was developed by John North Willys,

a wealthy automaker, and managed by Paul A. Harsch, a local
real estate man. It is ‘‘The Greatest Suburban Development Ever
Undertaken,’’ wrote landscape architect William Pitkin, Jr. De-
troit, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, and Columbus had several highly
restricted suburbs too—though none dominated its market in the
way that the Country Club District did. Chicago, the metropolis
of the Midwest, had even more, the most famous of which were
spread along the North Shore.58
The West also had its share of highly restricted suburbs.
Among the earliest was The Uplands, which was located in Vic-
toria, capital of British Columbia. Covering nearly five hundred
acres of oceanfront property, it was developed in the early s
by Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, a Winnipeg firm that retained Olm-
sted Brothers to work on both the layout and the restrictions.
Along with Montreal’s Westmount, Toronto’s Lawrence Park, and
Calgary’s Mount Royal, The Uplands became one of Canada’s
most fashionable suburbs—‘‘a second Tuxedo Park,’’ wrote Cor-
nelius Vanderbilt, Jr., in . The Bay Area lagged behind. ‘‘Ex-
cept for three small tracts with a total area of less than fifty
acres, there is no property in San Francisco upon which any re-
strictions whatever have been placed,’’ Duncan McDuffie said in
. There was not much in Oakland and Berkeley either. Things
changed after McDuffie’s firm, Mason-McDuffie, developed St.
Francis Wood, a highly restricted suburb about three miles south-
west of the San Francisco Civic Center, in the mid-s. Inspired
by the success of St. Francis Wood, which the prominent German
planner Werner Hegemann called ‘‘the most distinguished residen-
tial suburb in America,’’ Walter H. Leimert and others imposed
stringent restrictions on their East Bay subdivisions after World
 ,  –

War I. Nowhere in the West, and perhaps nowhere in the United

States, did restricted subdivisions proliferate as rapidly as in Los
Angeles, the country’s fastest growing metropolis and its most
thoroughly suburban. From the Palos Verdes Peninsula to the
San Fernando Valley, from the San Gabriel Valley to the Pacific
Ocean, subdividers turned tens of thousands of acres of flatlands
and foothills into Oak Knoll, Beverly Hills, Huntington Palisades,
and scores of other highly restricted suburbs.59
Even the South and the Southwest had restricted suburbs,
though far fewer than the more urbanized regions. (As late as
, at which time a dozen American cities had more than half
a million people, New Orleans, Louisville, and Atlanta were the
only southern or southwestern cities with as many as two hun-
dred thousand.) Atlanta had Druid Hills. Developed by the Kirk-
wood Land Company, it was another large subdivision whose
manager, local entrepreneur Joel Hurt, relied heavily on the ad-
vice of the Olmsteds. Birmingham had Redmont Park and Moun-
tain Brook Estates, both of which were subdivided by Robert
Jemison, Jr., the only southerner invited to join Nichols, Bouton,
and the other leading subdividers at their annual conferences.
Among the other highly restricted southern subdivisions were
Louisville’s Bonnycastle Terrace, Greensboro’s Irving Park, and
Savannah’s Chatham Crescent, whose promoters claimed, ‘‘Great
care has been taken to protect this property with suitable building
restrictions.’’ Down through  the Southwest’s best known
suburb was Highland Park in Dallas, which was subdivided by
Hugh E. Prather, the only southwesterner invited to the develop-
ers’ annual conferences. It was soon overshadowed by Houston’s
River Oaks, which was modeled on the Country Club District.
Borrowing from the Nichols Company’s ads, River Oaks billed
     

itself as ‘‘the largest high-class residential area under one man-

agement in any Southwestern city.’’ 60 Perhaps inspired by High-
land Park and River Oaks, subdividers laid out Tucson’s first re-
stricted suburb, Colonia Solana, in the late s.
Some subdividers, the best known of whom were Bouton and
Nichols, appealed exclusively to the well-to-do. Others targeted
other groups as well. Henry E. Huntington, the Los Angeles
transit and real estate magnate who developed large parts of the
San Gabriel Valley, subdivided Oneonta Park in South Pasadena
for middle-class Angelenos who could only dream of living in
Oak Knoll and his other posh subdivisions in Pasadena and San
Marino. The Thompson brothers, King and Ben, who, along with
Charles F. Johnson, were the leading subdividers in Columbus,
Ohio, developed Grandview, a middle-class suburb in the mid-
s, a few years before they followed Nichols’s lead and created
a Country Club District of their own for the well-to-do—a com-
munity later incorporated as the village of Upper Arlington. Still
other subdividers focused exclusively on the middle-class mar-
ket. And by the s many middle-class subdivisions were re-
stricted. But since the subdividers were aware that the middle
class was somewhat ambivalent about restricted property, these
tracts were less sweepingly and stringently restricted than the
upper-middle- and upper-class tracts on which they were mod-
eled, and as a rule their restrictions expired sooner. The sub-
dividers employed restrictions as a marketing tool in middle-
class tracts too but, except in the case of racial covenants, in
a gingerly way. Instead of describing the restrictions as sweep-
ing and stringent, the ads referred to them as sensible, reason-
able, suitable, adequate, and ‘‘wise but not prohibitive.’’ An ad for
City Terrace, a lower-middle-class subdivision a few miles east of
 ,  –

downtown Los Angeles whose ‘‘homesites’’ cost only , was

typical. ‘‘Strict race restrictions and moderate building restric-
tions,’’ it read.61
Some subdividers held that even working-class suburbs should
have restrictions. Ironically, one of the most forceful spokesmen
for this position was Nichols, whose Country Club District was
not only very expensive, well beyond the reach of all but the
well-to-do, but also very exclusive. According to a  study, it
was home to more than half the Kansas City elite. The working-
man—‘‘the man who earns  a day, or less’’—needed restric-
tions, Nichols said. With ‘‘the help of his wife and family’’ and
after ‘‘years of saving,’’ he may be able ‘‘to build himself an at-
tractive, modest, four-roomed cottage.’’ But without restrictions,
‘‘he may soon find his little home between unpainted, one-room
shacks, and the most undesirable neighbors, or he may find the
adjoining lot often being used as a junk pen, or a huckster’s un-
sanitary yard.’’ Indeed, Nichols wrote, working people needed re-
strictions more than the well-to-do. They were more vulnerable
to unwanted change—and, as their homes were ordinarily their
major asset, less capable of coping with it. They were more likely
to live in neighborhoods that were susceptible to the encroach-
ment of stables, coal yards, factories, and other noxious activi-
ties. They were also more likely to live on very small lots, which
left them at the mercy of inconsiderate neighbors. Proper restric-
tions, Nichols wrote, would not only safeguard the workingman’s
home against nuisances and give it some privacy. They would also
provide space for ‘‘a little grass plot’’ and ‘‘a tree or two’’ that would
protect the family from ‘‘the noise, dirt and dust’’ of the streets.
Land-use controls ‘‘will prove just as great a benefit to the com-
munity’’ if applied to ‘‘neighborhoods of workmen’s cottages’’ as
     

they do when applied to ‘‘the residential sections of the well-to-

do.’’ 62
A few subdividers practiced what Nichols preached. Chief
among them was Jared S. Torrance, a successful New York busi-
nessman who moved in  to southern California, where he
made a fortune as a real estate subdivider and major stockholder
in Union Oil, Union Tool, and other companies. With the back-
ing of Lyman Stewart, president of Union Tool, which was run-
ning out of space in the southeastern industrial district, Torrance
put together a syndicate that bought the Dominguez Ranch, a
three-thousand-acre tract located roughly halfway between down-
town Los Angeles and the Los Angeles harbor, in . The aim
of the syndicate, known as the Dominguez Land Company, was
to turn the old ranch into a model industrial town that would
serve as home to firms that were looking for more spacious quar-
ters and, in the words of historian Robert Phelps, ‘‘a haven from
a volatile labor situation’’ in Los Angeles proper. To draw the
plan for this bastion of the open shop, the company hired the
Olmsted brothers. On their advice, it adopted a set of restric-
tions that, to quote Torrance, after whom the town was named,
treaded ‘‘pretty hard on the toes of the Constitution of the United
States.’’ Although much less sweeping and stringent than the re-
strictions at Guilford, which was subdivided at about the same
time, they banned slaughterhouses, glue factories, and other nui-
sances. They prohibited saloons and the sale of alcohol. They lim-
ited many lots to single-family homes. They mandated modest
setbacks and design review. And following the then conventional
practice, the company excluded ‘‘Blacks’’ as well as ‘‘Hindoos and
other Asiatics’’—though it set up a separate ‘‘foreign quarter’’ in
which non-whites were allowed to live.63
 ,  –

Although praised by one observer as ‘‘America’s first great in-

dustrial garden city,’’ Torrance languished, writes historian Becky
M. Nicolaides. The company had so much trouble selling resi-
dential property that it lowered prices  to  percent. But even
with lots as low as a hundred dollars, working people were not
interested. Much as they favored racial covenants, they opposed
building and land-use restrictions. So instead of Torrance, they
headed to Home Gardens and other nearby tracts that imposed
few restrictions other than a ban on non-Caucasians. What was
true in Los Angeles was true in other cities. From the viewpoint
of working people, factories might be a source of noise, dirt, and
dust, but they were also a source of jobs. Far from a nuisance,
saloons were a convivial place to relax after work. And gas sta-
tions, reviled at Brendonwood, were more a convenience than an
annoyance. Many working people saw nothing wrong with build-
ing their homes without architects and contractors, copying the
plans from books, doing the work themselves, using the cheap-
est materials, and adding rooms when they had the money. Nor
did many working people see anything wrong with raising chick-
ens and rabbits, or goats and cows for that matter, all of which
served as valuable sources of food and income and helped insu-
late their families from the vagaries of the market. Above all, most
working people did not value permanence as much as the well-
to-do did. They did not intend to spend their lives in a Torrance
or Home Gardens; nor did they expect their children to live there
after they died. These suburbs were not so much the last stop, as,
say, Roland Park or the Country Club District was, but a way sta-
tion—a place that announced not that its residents had arrived,
but that they were on the way.64 Thus by the late s what was
the rule, in Professor Clark’s words, for the well-to-do (and, to
     

a lesser degree, the middle class) was still the exception for the
workingman.

‘‘The More Restrictions the More Buyers’’

At the same time restrictive covenants were spreading

over much of suburbia, they were changing in a number of im-
portant and highly revealing ways. Perhaps the most striking was
in the length of the restrictions. When Bouton subdivided Roland
Park, he followed the customary practice of including the restric-
tions in the deed—one or two sides of a long sheet of paper that
gave the names of the seller and the buyer, a description of the
parcel, and the price and terms of payment, if any. By the time his
company developed Guilford, the restrictions were so long that it
had to publish them as a separate document that ran more than
twenty pages. Things were much the same in other large-scale
subdivisions. Lakeshore Highlands had more than ten pages of
restrictions, Ottawa Hills more than twenty, and Palos Verdes Es-
tates more than thirty. (The Palos Verdes Estates Protective Re-
strictions seemed even longer because they were published in the
same booklet as the articles of incorporation and by-laws of the
Homes Association.) Robert Jemison, Arnold Hartmann, and a
few other large-scale subdividers bucked the trend and included
the restrictions in the deeds, but most went along. An interest-
ing case in point is the Knight-Menard Company, developer of
Devonshire Downs, a tract of more than five hundred acres in
the affluent Bloomfield Hills district north of Detroit. Worried
that if the restrictions were too long they would annoy prospec-
tive purchasers, Knight-Menard favored keeping them as short as
possible. Yet its general restrictions, which applied to the entire
 ,  –

tract, ran seventeen pages. And the general restrictions did not
deal with the setback regulations, minimum cost requirements,
and other items that were included in the supplementary restric-
tions, which were imposed on each part of the tract as it was put
on the market.65
As well as longer, the restrictions became more wordy. The
subdividers were driven to make this change largely by concerns
about how the courts would respond if asked to enjoin a property
owner from violating one or another of the restrictions. These
concerns were so strong that subdividers began to hire lawyers
to draft the restrictions—or, at the very least, to review and re-
vise them. (Perhaps one reason the restrictions were so wordy
was that lawyers were trained to anticipate every possibility, no
matter how remote.) These concerns were far from groundless.
At the same time the courts said that they would enforce re-
strictive covenants under certain conditions, they stressed that
the restrictions would be ‘‘strictly construed.’’ By this the judges
meant that they would read the restrictions as they were written,
that they would take them to mean exactly what they said, no
more and no less. They would not infer anything from them; nor
would they take into account anything they implied. Given that
the law ‘‘favors the free and untrammeled use of real property,’’
as the Missouri Supreme Court put it, the judges would not only
put the burden of proof upon the subdividers (and other prop-
erty owners applying for an injunction), but would also resolve
all doubts against them.66
Just how strictly the restrictions would be construed was re-
vealed by a Massachusetts trial court in . Although restrictive
covenants were by then enforceable in the Bay State, the court re-
fused to restrain the defendant from opening a grocery store in
     

a Cambridge tract whose subdivider had banned ‘‘any nauseous

or offensive trade whatsoever’’ and any trade that threatened ‘‘the
quiet and comfort of the neighborhood.’’ A grocery, said the court,
was not one of the trades ‘‘enumerated in the deed’’; nor was it
‘‘nauseous or offensive’’ or a threat to ‘‘the quiet and comfort of the
neighborhood.’’ A Missouri appellate court came to the same con-
clusion in , when it declined to issue an injunction against a
property owner who was planning to build a hotel in a St. Louis
tract whose developer had banned livery stables, manufacturing
establishments, and, among other things, saloons and grocery
stores. Upholding the trial court’s decision, the court wrote that
nowhere in the restrictions was there a reference to hotels. In the
absence of such a reference, or a restriction against any place of
business, it had no alternative but to rule that the proposed hotel
was ‘‘a proper use of the property.’’ The Illinois Supreme Court
construed restrictive covenants even more strictly in , when
it ruled against a group of plaintiffs who had applied for an in-
junction against a Chicago property owner who was building flats
(or apartment houses) in a tract whose restrictions allowed ‘‘only
a single dwelling.’’ Despite the plaintiff ’s argument that ‘‘a single
dwelling’’ meant a ‘‘dwelling house to be occupied by a single
family,’’ which was almost surely what the subdivider intended,
the court held that it meant ‘‘one dwelling house, which may be
used by one family or more.’’ If they intended ‘‘to prohibit the
erection of a flat on the property, why did not the parties say so in
the deed,’’ it asked, ‘‘or if they intended that only a building such
as is usually built for a private residence of a family, should be
erected, why not say that in the deed?’’ 67
The subdividers got the message. Instead of a short statement
that the lots could be used only for ‘‘residence purposes’’ (or only
 ,  –

for ‘‘a single dwelling’’), they now included a carefully worded

provision that excluded anything but a single-family house. ‘‘No
building of any kind whatsoever shall be erected or maintained
[on the tract] except private dwellings, each dwelling being de-
signed for occupation by a single family,’’ read the Guilford re-
strictions. At Devonshire Downs only ‘‘one private detached
dwelling’’ could be built on each lot, and ‘‘no such private dwell-
ing shall be designed for or occupied by more than one family
together with the domestic employees thereof.’’ At the Fairway
Section, part of Samuel S. Thorpe’s Country Club District, no lot
could ‘‘be improved, used or occupied for other than private one-
family residence purposes’’—and, to leave no room for doubt,
‘‘flats, duplexes, [and] apartments’’ were expressly prohibited. In-
stead of saying that the lots could not be used for a handful of
nuisances and any noxious, offensive, and dangerous trade, the
restrictions now enumerated scores of proscribed trades, every-
thing from oil refineries to quarries, breweries to canneries, brick-
yards to crematories. Palos Verdes Estates even excluded slaugh-
terhouses—though it was inconceivable that anyone would build
a slaughterhouse in a place that had no cattle and no railroads to
carry them there. In —a decade before Munsey Park, a highly
restricted subdivision in Nassau County, listed one hundred dif-
ferent types of proscribed businesses—one observer noted that
subdividers were already specifically banning ‘‘practically every
known kind of manufactory or trade.’’ 68
As well as more wordy, the restrictions became more stringent.
When subdividers used restrictive covenants in the early and mid
nineteenth century, they routinely included a provision banning
noxious, offensive, and dangerous trades, by which they meant
trades most Americans regarded as nuisances. A slaughterhouse
     

fell into this category, as did a foundry, a tannery, and a brew-

ery, a blacksmith’s forge, a livery stable, an iron factory, and, in
the words of an  deed, ‘‘any manufactory for the making of
glue, varnish, vitriol, ink or turpentine.’’ No fashionable residen-
tial neighborhood, it was believed, could survive the encroach-
ment of these smelly, noisy, and dirty businesses. But things
changed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,
when the subdividers realized there was a large market for tightly
restricted property. To tap this market, they not only added to the
list of proscribed trades. They also banned trades that were far
from noxious, offensive, and dangerous—a hardware store, for
example, or a stationery store. Instead of enumerating all the pro-
scribed businesses, which would have taken pages, The Uplands
banned ‘‘any trade or business whatsoever.’’ So did other large-
scale subdivisions. In line with the conventional wisdom of the
real estate economists, subdividers even expanded the concept of
nuisance to include anything other than single-family homes. A
case in point was the Mason-McDuffie Company, subdivider of
St. Francis Wood, which banned ‘‘flats, double houses, apartment
houses, tenement houses, hotels, and public boarding or lodging
houses’’ as well as a ‘‘store, grocery or mercantile business of any
kind.’’ 69
Some subdividers were worried that such restrictions, how-
ever well intended, might be too stringent. How, they wondered,
would doctors and other professionals who were in the market for
suburban property react when they found out that they would not
be allowed to keep offices in their homes? How would other pro-
spective purchasers respond when they learned that they would
not be able to shop for groceries and stationery anywhere in the
neighborhood? What was the point of such restrictions when
 ,  –

there were many well-to-do Americans who had raised their chil-
dren and grown tired of running a house and now were in the
market for an apartment in the same neighborhood? And, said
Nichols, what was the point of such restrictions when there were
many nearby property owners who stood ready to build shops and
stores to capitalize on the buying power of the Country Club Dis-
trict and other affluent communities? Some subdividers were so
worried that they allowed doctors and other professionals to work
out of their homes—though, in one case, only with the approval
of  percent of the owners of the nearby lots. Some also set aside
a few small parts of the tract for shops and stores, which had re-
strictions of their own, and other small parts for low-rise apart-
ment houses, which were often located at the edge of the tracts,
where they served as a buffer between the small business cen-
ters and the large single-family neighborhoods. A few even built
large shopping centers, the best known of which was Nichols’s
Country Club Plaza. (Nichols also rented some lots for use as gas
stations—which, he told his fellow subdividers in , were gen-
erating a good deal of much needed revenue.)70
During the early and mid nineteenth century a few subdividers
used restrictive covenants to bar owners from building too close
to the street. A typical restriction, imposed on a tract in West
Roxbury, one of Boston’s ‘‘streetcar suburbs,’’ defined too close as
less than twenty feet. Once again things changed in the late nine-
teenth and early twentieth centuries, when restrictive covenants
grew much more common. Not only did many subdividers im-
pose what were known as setbacks, but they also imposed them
at the rear and the sides as well as the front, where they ordinarily
ran from fifteen to fifty feet. Garages and other outbuildings were
subject to setbacks too. So, on occasion, were covered porches,
     

bay windows, and other projections. In some cases the setbacks

were uniform, in others they varied from one section to another.
Often the owners were forbidden to subdivide their property. And
sometimes they were barred from building on much of it. Per-
haps the most stringent such restriction was imposed at Hycliff,
a very expensive subdivision that was laid out in Stamford, Con-
necticut, in the late s. No house could cover more than 
percent of the lot. Nor could the width of the house (or, to be pre-
cise, of the ‘‘main part’’ thereof ) exceed  percent of the width
of the lot.71 Except on lots of at least one or two acres, these re-
strictions very much limited what an owner had to say about the
siting and size of his home.
Less common than setback regulations, though more common
than area requirements, were height restrictions. These restric-
tions had a curious history. During the mid-nineteenth century
some subdividers found themselves in a bind. They had to sell
lots. But if they sold one to someone who built a small and flimsy
house, one out of place in a fashionable residential neighborhood,
they might have trouble selling the remaining lots. Hence some
subdividers imposed a minimum height limit, a restriction that
no house could be built that was less than two or three stories
high, exclusive of the basement and attic. By the turn of the cen-
tury, however, many subdividers found themselves in a different
bind. By imposing minimum height limits, they could block the
erection of small and flimsy houses, but such a restriction would
not prevent a lot owner from building a house that obstructed a
neighbor’s view or detracted from the natural setting. So instead
of a minimum height limit, many subdividers imposed a maxi-
mum height limit, which was usually two or three stories, again
exclusive of the basement and attic. As a rule subdividers set a
 ,  –

uniform limit in the whole tract, though sometimes they set dif-
ferent limits in different sections.72
As well as more stringent, the restrictions became more sweep-
ing. As late as the s subdividers seldom imposed more than
a handful of restrictions—if they imposed any at all. A typical
deed included little more than a ban on nuisances, saloons, livery
stables, and offensive trades as well as a setback regulation and a
height limit. ‘‘Our first restrictions,’’ one associate of Nichols later
recalled, ‘‘were all contained in one paragraph.’’ But in response
to what one observer called ‘‘the constantly increasing demand
. . . for homes in restricted residential districts,’’ subdividers now
competed with one another to offer even more highly restricted
tracts. That meant, said Nichols, they had to impose more restric-
tions. And impose them they did. In Wilmington, Delaware, for
example, the number of restrictions per deed increased from an
average of four in the early s to an average of thirteen in the
late s. In general, large subdivisions, most of which were laid
out by professionals, had more restrictions than small ones, most
of which were laid out by amateurs. Some of the new restrictions
followed in the path of the old ones, but many went off in what
Bouton called ‘‘other directions.’’ 73 Some had never been consid-
ered. Others had been considered, only to be rejected because
the subdividers feared that the market was not ready for them or,
even if it was, that the courts were not likely to enforce them.
Among the new restrictions were the minimum cost require-
ments. Starting in the s, a few subdividers adopted a novel
strategy to prevent the erection of houses that might lower the
value of the remaining lots. Instead of imposing a minimum
height limit, they banned houses that cost less than a specific sum
—two thousand dollars in an Everett, Massachusetts, tract, for
     

example, and four thousand dollars in a Brookline subdivision. A

major break with past practice, this restriction caught on quickly.
Over the next three decades most of the dozens of subdivisions
the Olmsteds worked on imposed this requirement. So did most
of the hundreds of others whose subdividers managed without
the Olmsteds. In Columbus, Ohio, for example, nearly three of
every four subdivisions laid out between  and , many by
Charles F. Johnson and the Thompson brothers, had a minimum
cost requirement. This restriction was found not only in very ex-
pensive subdivisions but also in moderately priced ones—even
in a few where the minimum cost was as low as five hundred to
a thousand dollars. From  to  the minimum cost rose
steadily, if unevenly, the result in large part of the rising cost of
living. By the s many subdivisions had restrictions of five to
ten thousand dollars, several of ten to fifteen thousand, and a few,
including one in Scarsdale named Berkley and another in sub-
urban Detroit named Chelmsleigh, of twenty to thirty thousand
dollars.74 (It is interesting to note that in the wake of the great
wartime inflation some subdividers began to think it might be
time to replace a minimum cost requirement with a minimum
square footage requirement, which would not be affected by the
rising cost of living.)
But as the subdividers knew, an expensive house was not nec-
essarily an attractive one—or, for that matter, one that contrib-
uted to the architectural harmony of the community. And if they
forgot, the architects were there to remind them. ‘‘A , cot-
tage, tastefully designed, adds greatly to the charm of its envi-
ronment,’’ said Oswald C. Herring of New York in , ‘‘where
a , house of commonplace or freakish design becomes
an indelible blot upon the landscape.’’ Money and taste were not
 ,  –

the same, he pointed out: ‘‘Many families of cultivation and re-

finement lack a well-filled purse and could not afford to invest
more than , or , in a suburban home. Why should
persons of this highly desirable class be barred from settling in
a convenient and attractive locality that allows an ill-mannered,
uneducated boor to build a huge costly edifice awkwardly pro-
portioned, vulgar in outline and glaring in color, an eyesore to
the neighborhood?’’ If minimum cost requirements did nothing
to prevent the erection of architectural eyesores—if, as Frank L.
Meline, a Los Angeles real estate man, put it, they did nothing
to discourage the unsightly mix of ‘‘pseudo-Italian villa[s]’’ next
to Colonial cottages and ‘‘within a stone’s throw’’ of Spanish-style
dwellings—perhaps more drastic measures were needed. Instead
of permitting ‘‘each owner to build without regard to what his
neighbor has done or is likely to do,’’ wrote John Charles Olm-
sted in , perhaps it made sense to impose restrictions that
allowed only ‘‘a single style of architecture’’ and ‘‘a limited choice
of exterior building materials.’’ Perhaps it also made sense to in-
clude in the deeds a provision that gave subdividers the right
to review building plans before construction. These restrictions
would drive away some customers, Olmsted conceded, but in the
long run they would boost sales.75
By the mid-s the idea of design review had been floating
around for nearly half a century. It had been tried as early as ,
when the Peabody Heights Company laid out Lilliendale, Balti-
more’s ‘‘ideal dwelling house neighborhood,’’ and included in the
deeds a provision that the design of the houses had to be approved
by the company’s directors, a provision upheld by the Maryland
courts. But the idea did not catch on as quickly as minimum cost
requirements, and through the s design review was uncom-
     

mon. It was one thing to prevent a lot owner from operating an

offensive business or building a house up to the property line,
but as even Olmsted, Sr., admitted, it was quite another to sit in
judgment on the design of someone’s home. Subdividers, wrote
one well-informed observer, were reluctant to evaluate architec-
ture, about which they had no special expertise, and ‘‘to criticize
the taste of a prospective buyer and his architect.’’ Buyers ‘‘fancied
the idea as little’’ as subdividers. ‘‘It seemed like over-stepping the
legitimate bounds of real estate restrictions and impertinently to
interfere with a man’s private opinion.’’ Even Nichols, a strong
supporter of restrictive covenants, was hesitant to impose design
review. ‘‘I am trying to get my nerves up to requiring purchasers
to submit their plans to me for approval,’’ he wrote to Bouton, one
of the first subdividers to adopt this restriction, in . ‘‘I have
talked to a great many of my purchasers about it, and almost in-
variably they say at first that they would not buy the ground under
that regulation, because it has never been done in any way in this
part of the country, and it will take time for me to work it out.’’ 76
It did not take long. Nichols soon followed Bouton’s lead, as did
other subdividers who had come to believe their customers were
more likely to buy if they felt confident the neighbors could not
build houses that were poorly designed (or, even if well designed,
unsuitable for the site or the neighborhood). By the mid-s
design review was fairly common. (Some subdividers went over
the plans themselves; others turned the job over to an indepen-
dent art or architectural jury, a step taken to insulate them from
irate property owners.) Besides requiring good design and archi-
tectural harmony, a few subdividers also imposed restrictions on
style, color, and materials. Outside of Palos Verdes Estates, no-
where were these restrictions as tough as in Shaker Village. No
 ,  –

artificial stone was allowed, no buff or colored brick, and no black

or dark-colored mortar either. No tar or composition sheet roof-
ing was permitted (‘‘because it has neither character nor beauty’’),
no asphalt shingles (‘‘for a similar reason’’), and no tile roofs on
Colonial houses. On ‘‘the side elevations in the principal rooms,’’
only full-length windows would do. Once seen as an obstacle
to sales, Olmsted, Jr., wrote, architectural control turned into a
strong ‘‘selling point.’’ Of all the restrictions, it was ‘‘one of the
most important, certainly the most broadly inclusive, and when
skillfully employed the most effective.’’ Although troublesome, it
was necessary, said Bouton, who added that in a subdivision with
architectural control minimum cost requirements were ‘‘wholly
unnecessary.’’ Despite his misgivings, Nichols was pleased to re-
port in the mid-s that he had not lost more than a dozen
sales because of his decision to require lot owners to submit their
plans to him.77
Other restrictions went in still other directions. Late in the
s Olmsted, Sr., persuaded the owners of Sudbrook, a tract
outside Baltimore, to include in the deeds a provision that barred
fences (and hedges) more than four feet high. Another major
break with past practice, this restriction was soon adopted by
many other subdividers. During the next three decades they regu-
lated the type and location of fences as well. In some subdivi-
sions fences were even subject to design review. In one they had
to be screened by hedges or other plants. In many they could not
be put up without the subdivider’s permission. In one, fences
could not be built ‘‘except for the purpose of protecting growing
hedges.’’ In a posh subdivision in Erie County, Pennsylvania, they
could not be built at all. Starting in the early twentieth century,
many subdividers also imposed restrictions on billboards and
     

other signs. They prevented property owners from posting any-

thing but a doctor’s or dentist’s doorplate and ‘‘For Sale’’ and ‘‘For
Rent’’ signs. Even these signs were strictly regulated—nowhere
more so than in Great Neck Hills, where they had to be ‘‘lettered
in gilt with a black back-ground’’ and could not exceed ‘‘one foot
in height by three feet in length.’’ Along with Great Neck Hills,
St. Francis Wood was one of many highly restricted subdivisions
in which no sign could be posted without prior approval. To be
on the safe side, its subdividers reserved the right to ‘‘summarily
remove and destroy all unauthorized signs.’’ 78
Olmsted, Sr., also included in the Sudbrook restrictions a pro-
vision banning pigs and putting a limit on the number of horses
and cows. Although one Boston subdivider had barred swine as
early as the mid-s, this restriction was yet another major
break with past practice, one that was widely adopted after the
turn of the century, and especially after World War I. In Wil-
mington, for example,  percent of the restricted subdivisions
filed in the s prohibited domestic animals. As this restric-
tion grew more common, it also became more sweeping. Start-
ing with pigs, many subdividers soon banned horses, cows and
cattle, goats and sheep, and, in some places, chickens (and other
fowl) and rabbits. A typical subdivision, Thorpe’s Country Club
District, for example, banned domestic animals ‘‘of any kind, ex-
cept dogs and cats’’—though it allowed riding horses with the
written permission of the subdivider. Hycliff also allowed ‘‘house-
hold pets’’—though it drew the line at vicious dogs and ‘‘raucous’’
parrots. Even the subdivisions that did not prohibit domestic ani-
mals carefully regulated them. The Uplands permitted cattle, but
only on a lot of at least five acres, a very large lot indeed, and only
if ‘‘well screened.’’ Brendonwood allowed chickens, but only with
 ,  –

the permission of the property owners’ association. Other sub-

divisions permitted some domestic animals, but not, as at Devon-
shire Downs, if they were ‘‘offensive or obnoxious to neighbors
or to the community.’’ 79
After the turn of the century subdividers imposed other novel
restrictions, most of which were less common than the restric-
tions on fences, signs, and domestic animals. In some tracts no
one could operate a quarry (or a gravel or sand pit), and in a few—
many of them in southern California, the site of vast petroleum
deposits—no one could drill for oil, natural gas, or other hydro-
carbons. A handful of subdividers required that an owner start
or finish building a house within two or three years after buying
the lot, a provision favored by Olmsted and his sons as a way to
curb speculation. More common were restrictions that prevented
the owner from occupying the house before it was completed or
putting up a garage or other outbuilding before the house. Re-
strictions were also imposed on what the owners could do once
they moved in. Some forbade them to burn bituminous (or soft)
coal or any fuel that gave off heavy black smoke. Some barred
them from leaving garbage and ash cans in the open or burning
refuse without the permission of the homeowners’ association.
A few even regulated clotheslines. In Great Neck Hills, for ex-
ample, owners were required to screen ‘‘articles of a conspicuous
nature,’’ in order to avoid marring ‘‘the general appearance of the
premises as high-class residence property.’’ And in Colony Hills,
wrote a journalist, garages—which were allowed only as ‘‘part of,
or closely attached to, the house’’—could not open to the street.
‘‘There is,’’ he pointed out, ‘‘no special pleasure to be gained from
peering into your neighbor’s garage and seeing his storm doors,
     

oil cans, and his very utilitarian but dirty overalls in which he
putters over his gasoline slave.’’ 80

Caucasians Only

Many subdividers also employed restrictions to exclude

‘‘undesirable’’ people as well as ‘‘undesirable’’ activities. By far the
most common of these provisions were racial covenants. Under
a typical covenant, an owner was forbidden to sell or lease the
property to a member of any of a number of allegedly undesirable
racial, ethnic, or religious groups. He or she was also forbidden
to allow a member of these groups, other than chauffeurs, gar-
deners, or domestic servants, to use or occupy the property. A few
subdividers had employed racial covenants in the mid-nineteenth
century. In Brookline, for example, one forbade ‘‘any negro or
native of Ireland’’ to occupy a dwelling, and in Baltimore another
barred the sale or lease of a house to ‘‘a negro or person of African
or Mongolian [that is, Asian] descent.’’ But such restrictions were
very much the exception before the s. Indeed, not even the
most racist subdividers imposed racial covenants. A case in point
was Francis G. Newlands, the mining magnate and U.S. senator
who laid out Chevy Chase in the early s. Newlands saw the
United States as ‘‘the home of the white race.’’ To him, ‘‘race toler-
ance’’ meant ‘‘race amalgamation,’’ and ‘‘race intolerance’’ meant
‘‘race war.’’ Fusing the racism of the South with the racism of the
West, he called for repealing the Fifteenth Amendment, thereby
denying African-Americans, ‘‘an inferior race,’’ the right to vote,
and restricting immigration to ‘‘the white race,’’ thereby exclud-
ing Chinese, Japanese, and other Asians. Despite his outspoken
 ,  –

racism, Newlands did not include racial covenants among the

minimum cost requirements and other restrictions he imposed
on the first subdivisions at Chevy Chase.81
At a time of widespread racism, not to mention nativism and
anti-Semitism, why did Newlands and other large-scale subdivid-
ers refrain from imposing racial covenants? The answer is two-
fold. Most subdividers had reason to believe that racial covenants
were unnecessary.Very few African-Americans lived in their com-
munities. Even fewer earned enough to buy a lot, much less to
build a house that met the minimum cost requirement. What
was true for African-Americans was true for Asian-Americans,
though not necessarily for Jewish Americans. In the unlikely
event that, say, an African-American wanted to buy a lot, a sub-
divider could always refuse to sell, even in the absence of a racial
covenant. If a black person wanted to buy a house in a white
neighborhood, most real estate agents would not show it to him.
And if he somehow managed to find a place, said Hugh E. Prather
of Dallas, ‘‘the next morning he would be hanging to a flag pole.’’
Many subdividers also had reason to believe that racial covenants
were illegal. Asked by Bouton in  for an opinion on his com-
pany’s plan to impose a covenant aimed at ‘‘negroes or persons of
African descent,’’ a Baltimore law firm replied that it would be in-
valid. What it called ‘‘the weight of authority’’ was against restric-
tions on alienation, especially ones that excluded ‘‘not a limited
number of persons, but a whole race of people,’’ a race whose civil
rights were protected by the Fourteenth Amendment. Hence for
the time being Bouton refrained from imposing a racial covenant.
So did other subdividers, at least some of whom were afraid that
if the courts held one restriction invalid they might feel obliged
to invalidate the others.82
     

After the turn of the century, and especially after World War I, a
few developments drove the subdividers to rethink their position.
By far the most momentous was the exodus of African-Americans
from the rural South that began in the late nineteenth century
and picked up momentum in the early twentieth. In its wake the
number of African-Americans rose sharply in cities all over the
country. Between  and  it more than doubled in Chi-
cago, more than quadrupled in Cleveland, and went up more than
sixfold in Detroit. By  African-Americans made up  per-
cent of the population in Indianapolis,  percent in Baltimore, 
percent in Washington, D.C., and more than  percent in Rich-
mond and Birmingham. The number of African-Americans also
went up in Los Angeles, though not as much as the number of
Japanese-Americans. Most of the newcomers settled in crowded
and squalid neighborhoods in the center of the city. But before
long a few attempted to move into the surrounding residential
communities, most of them home to working- and middle-class
whites, many the children and grandchildren of European im-
migrants. Fears of what was known as encroachment soon sur-
faced in the cities—where they fueled the race riots that erupted
after World War I—and then spread to the suburbs. For the first
time subdividers grew frightened that African-Americans might
‘‘invade’’ their communities as they had ‘‘invaded’’ LeDroit Park.
A suburb of Washington, D.C., that was laid out in the s
and called as ‘‘exclusive a settlement as one might want or imag-
ine,’’ it was taken over by African-Americans a few decades later.
Subscribing to what one scholar has called ‘‘an exclusionary real
estate ideology that associated the presence of blacks [and other
non-whites] with declining property values and neighborhood in-
stability,’’ subdividers (and other white property owners) came to
 ,  –

believe that racial covenants were needed to ensure racial homo-

geneity.83
To subdividers, the need for racial covenants grew especially
pressing after , when the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that
racial zoning was unconstitutional. An idea that had been around
since , racial zoning made no headway until . That
year, over the strong objections of many African-Americans (and
some white property owners and real estate brokers), Baltimore
adopted the first of four ordinances that excluded blacks from
any block on which more than half the residents were white
(and vice versa). Richmond followed suit, as did Birmingham,
St. Louis, and other cities. Given that the courts had already up-
held segregation in public schools and on railway cars, legal ex-
perts assumed that racial zoning was constitutional. But when
the laws were challenged, the results were mixed. They were up-
held in some states, struck down in others. The issue came to
a head when the U.S. Supreme Court agreed to hear Buchanan
v. Warley, a  case in which the Kentucky Supreme Court
had upheld racial zoning in Louisville. Speaking for the defen-
dant, Louisville city attorneys Stuart Chevalier and Pendleton
Buckley argued that the ordinance was a valid exercise of police
power, one that would prevent racial conflict and protect prop-
erty values. (It would, they said, stop ‘‘a few of each race from
overstepping the racial barriers which Providence and not human
law has erected.’’) Representing the plaintiff, Clayton Blakey and
Moorfield Storey, president of the NAACP, countered that the
ordinance violated the Fourteenth Amendment, which barred
the states from depriving anyone of property without due pro-
cess of law. Writing for a unanimous court, Justice William R.
Day conceded that it was important to prevent racial conflict and
     

promote ‘‘public peace.’’ But it had to be done without violat-

ing constitutional rights. And the Louisville ordinance deprived
whites of the right to dispose of property and blacks of the right
to acquire it. After Buchanan v. Warley, it was clear that if sub-
dividers wanted to ensure racial homogeneity they would have to
use racial covenants.84
But would the courts enforce them? As late as the early s
most legal experts would have agreed with Bouton’s lawyers that
the answer was no. Some courts held that racial covenants were
an unlawful restraint on alienation, and in a highly influential
decision one ruled in  that they were a violation of the Four-
teenth Amendment. Rejecting the argument that the state was
not party to the covenant, Judge Erskine M. Ross of the circuit
court for California’s Southern District wrote, ‘‘Any result inhib-
ited by the constitution can no more be accomplished by contract
of individual citizens than by legislation, and the courts should
no more enforce the one than the other.’’ But starting in the mid-
s, by which time subdividers were routinely employing racial
covenants, many courts came around. These covenants, said the
Louisiana Supreme Court, do not violate the Fourteenth Amend-
ment, which ‘‘applies only to state legislation, not to the contracts
of individuals.’’ As long as restraints on alienation are not ‘‘total
and perpetual,’’ they do not run counter to public policy. As the
Missouri Supreme Court wrote, a seller has the right to impose a
restraint on alienation ‘‘in certain cases to certain persons, or for
a certain time, or for certain purposes.’’ The Washington, D.C.,
Court of Appeals upheld racial covenants too, and it was on an
appeal of its decision in Corrigan v. Buckley that the issue reached
the U.S. Supreme Court in . The plaintiff ’s attorneys, who
included not only Storey but Louis Marshall, a pillar of the New
 ,  –

York bar, argued that the covenant, which barred ‘‘any person
of the negro race or blood,’’ violated the Fifth, Thirteenth, and
Fourteenth amendments. (They also warned that it would not be
long before the same covenants that were applied to Negroes and
Jews were extended to Catholics.) Writing for a unanimous court,
Justice Edward T. Sanford dismissed the appeal, declaring, ‘‘It is
obvious that none of these Amendments prohibited private indi-
viduals from entering into contracts respecting the control and
disposition of their own property.’’ After Corrigan v. Buckley, one
legal scholar has written, many courts ‘‘disposed of the constitu-
tional issue on grounds that the Supreme Court had settled the
matter once and for all.’’ 85
Some courts did not come around, at least not all the way. In
a landmark decision handed down in , a California appellate
court held that racial covenants did not violate the Fourteenth
Amendment. But taking issue with the Louisiana and Missouri
courts, it ruled that they did violate the common law restraint on
alienation. Delivering the court’s opinion, Judge Frank G. Finlay-
son declared that ‘‘any restraint on alienation, either as to per-
sons or time, is invalid.’’ (If one could be barred from selling or
leasing property to persons of African, Chinese, or Japanese de-
scent, one could also be barred from selling or leasing ‘‘to any but
Albinos from the heart of Africa, or blond Eskimos.’’) In other
words, racial covenants were invalid not because they violated
the civil rights of blacks (and other racial minorities), but be-
cause they violated the property rights of whites. A few months
later, however, the California Supreme Court issued a decision
that left the appellate court’s ruling standing, but more or less
eviscerated it. Racial covenants could not be imposed to pre-
vent whites from selling or leasing property, wrote the court, but
     

they could be imposed to prevent blacks (and other racial mi-

norities) from occupying or otherwise using it. Despite counsel’s
argument that these covenants place ‘‘the negro and people of
other sects and creeds in the same category as slaughter houses,
livery stables, tanneries, garages, etc.,’’ the Michigan Supreme
Court took the same position as the California courts. So did the
West Virginia Supreme Court. ‘‘It may be an anomalous situa-
tion where a colored man may own property which he cannot
occupy,’’ the Maryland Supreme Court wrote, but so long as his
procedural rights were protected these restrictions would be en-
forced.86 And so long as they were enforced, African-Americans
were highly unlikely to buy or rent in a restricted subdivision.
As the courts were aware, racial covenants were an idea whose
time had come. Nichols employed them for the first time in ,
and in an attempt to keep up with the competition Bouton fol-
lowed suit not long after. Duncan McDuffie also imposed racial
covenants, as did the Thompson brothers and the Hogg brothers.
By the late s, a decade after Newlands died, the Chevy Chase
Land Company excluded ‘‘any person of negro blood’’ as well as
‘‘any person of the Semetic [sic] race.’’ The exception in the early
s, racial covenants were the rule two decades later. Worried
about how the courts would respond, a few subdividers refrained
from imposing restraints on alienation. A case in point was the
Knight-Menard Company, developer of Devonshire Downs. In
an attempt to abide by the Michigan Supreme Court’s rulings,
it provided only that none of the lots ‘‘shall be used or occupied
. . . by any persons not of the pure, unmixed, white, Caucasian,
Gentile race.’’ But Knight-Menard was in a small minority. Most
subdividers, even California subdividers who had reason to be
worried about how the courts would respond, included a ban on
 ,  –

alienation as well as on use and occupancy. By the s these

covenants were commonplace not only in middle- and upper-
middle-class subdivisions, but also in working-class ones. East-
mont No.  Tract, a tract east of downtown Los Angeles designed
expressly for ‘‘the working man,’’ advertised ‘‘Permanent Race
Restrictions.’’ City Terrace, another East Los Angeles tract that
offered lots for as little as –, boasted ‘‘strict race restric-
tions and moderate building restrictions.’’ And Petroleum Gar-
dens, a subdivision near Santa Fe Springs whose promoters were
peddling mineral rights more than homesites, assured prospec-
tive purchasers that lots would be sold only to members of ‘‘the
Caucasian or White Race.’’ As Bouton told his colleagues in the
mid-s, even subdivisions that imposed few or no other re-
strictions imposed racial covenants.87
Some subdividers excluded anyone who was not ‘‘white.’’ But
as scientists were not sure who belonged to the ‘‘white race,’’
indeed were not even sure whether there were four or five (or
even fifteen, twenty-nine, or sixty-three) races, many subdividers
preferred to use the term ‘‘Caucasian.’’ To be Caucasian, histo-
rian Matthew Frye Jacobson has pointed out, was by the s
‘‘to be conclusively, certifiably, scientifically white.’’ Leaving noth-
ing to chance, some subdividers explicitly barred Africans (who
were also referred to as Negroes and Ethiopians) and Asians (who
were also referred to as Mongolians, Chinese, and Japanese). Olm-
sted Brothers even urged Walter H. Leimert to include East Indi-
ans in his racial covenants—and to add the phrase ‘‘or any other
races in the discretion of the Lakeshore Homes Association.’’
Some subdividers also excluded Semites, which, said a Washing-
ton, D.C., developer, included ‘‘Armenians, Jews, Hebrews, Per-
sians, and Syrians.’’ (How Jews differed from Hebrews was not
     

spelled out.) Others barred Mexicans, Hawaiians, Puerto Ricans,

Filipinos, and American Indians. One even excluded ‘‘foreigners
of the Dago class.’’ Except for Westdale, a subdivision in Ontario,
Canada, which barred a host of racial and ethnic groups, includ-
ing ‘‘Armenians, whether British subjects or not,’’ and ‘‘foreign-
born Italians, Greeks or Jews,’’ no subdivision excluded so many
types as the Lake Shore Club District, which was located in Erie
County, Pennsylvania. As well as anyone ‘‘of Negro or Mongolian
birth or parentage,’’ the subdivider, the Hardscrabble Farm Real
Estate Trust, barred ‘‘any person of Hungarian, Mexican, Greek,
Armenian, Austrian, Italian, Russian [which may have meant
Jewish], Polish, Slavish, or Roumanian birth.’’ 88

Issues of Enforcement and Duration

As J. C. Nichols pointed out, it was one thing to impose

restrictions and quite another to enforce them. But if subdividers
imposed them, they had to enforce them; if they were not pre-
pared to enforce them, they should not have imposed them in
the first place. Subdividers might be well advised to overlook triv-
ial infractions, remarked one associate of Nichols, but they had
to keep a keen eye out for serious violations, even unintentional
ones, the accumulation of which, said Nichols, ‘‘may lead to the
downfall of the whole character of the property.’’ Given what one
well-informed observer called ‘‘proper machinery,’’ subdividers
believed it was possible to enforce the restrictions in a way that
not only protected the community from undesirable people and
undesirable activities but also, as a Roland Park homeowner put
it, preserved ‘‘pleasant relations among the residents.’’ Hence at
the outset many subdividers expended a good deal of time and
 ,  –

energy enforcing the restrictions. Nichols instructed his sales-

men and groundsmen to keep an eye out for violations. And if he
spotted one, he jotted down the address of the house in a small
black leather notebook and then asked one of his employees to
call it to the owner’s attention. Bouton routinely reviewed build-
ing plans and on occasion had the unpleasant task of informing
a lot owner that the proposed structure violated one or another
of the Roland Park (or Guilford) restrictions.89
Before long subdividers realized that enforcing the restrictions
was a thankless task. It took time, energy, and money they would
rather have spent on other things. It put them in an adversarial
relationship with the residents, the very people who, they hoped,
would help sell the subdivision to others. And sometimes it left
them caught between those residents who favored a lenient in-
terpretation of the restrictions and those who favored a strict one.
No matter which side the subdividers took, they were bound to
offend someone. Although serious, these problems were dwarfed
by another one. If all went well, the subdividers expected to dis-
pose of most of the lots in a few years and the rest not long after.
Once they did, they would move on—sometimes to a tract nearby,
sometimes to one elsewhere in the city, and sometimes, as in
the case of Walter H. Leimert, who left Oakland for Los Angeles,
to one in another city. Why, the subdividers asked, should they
enforce the restrictions in a tract in which they no longer had a
stake? Often they declined to do so—with the result, the Palos
Verdes Bulletin lamented, that many fine tracts in and around Los
Angeles have been allowed ‘‘to go to seed.’’ 90
The subdividers could have turned the matter over to the resi-
dents, who, as the beneficiaries of the restrictions, had a right to
enforce them. But this approach had serious drawbacks. It was
     

not just that, as Nichols said, what is ‘‘everybody’s business is no-

body’s business.’’ It was also that most residents were reluctant
to take a neighbor to court. As a resident of Roland Park pointed
out, people were highly unlikely to sue unless the infraction was
‘‘of such a nature as to be an unbearable nuisance.’’ Even if resi-
dents were willing to risk antagonizing their neighbor, they had
reason to think hard before proceeding. As a prominent midwest-
erner pointed out, they would have to be ready to ‘‘pay the cost
of starting the litigation, employing attorneys, and assuming the
incidental trouble and expense.’’ In states where the courts held
that the burden of proof should be placed on the plaintiff and all
doubts resolved in favor of the defendant, a resident would have
to demonstrate conclusively not only that the restrictions had
been violated but also that they were ‘‘valid and proper.’’ Making
matters worse, wrote Charles S. Ascher, an expert on the adminis-
tration of restrictive covenants, judges did not always look kindly
on what they viewed as squabbles between neighbors, especially
when their calendars where ‘‘clogged with commercial disputes,
condemnation proceedings, divorces, and affairs of state.’’ Even
if the suit was upheld, it would engender ill feelings that would
long ‘‘survive the litigation.’’ ‘‘After all,’’ Ascher added, ‘‘the home
owners will have to live next door to each other for many years
after.’’ 91
If a resident could not file suit without what one called ‘‘great
cost and trouble,’’ who would enforce the restrictions after the
subdivider, as Nichols put it, ‘‘sold out’’? The Olmsted brothers
began wrestling with this issue shortly after the turn of the cen-
tury. Writing to a Boston lawyer about a subdivision in nearby
Winchester, Olmsted, Jr., proposed that the deeds include a pro-
vision authorizing the formation of a property owners’ associa-
 ,  –

tion, to which everyone who held land in the subdivision would

belong, and empowering it to enforce the restrictions. Such a
broad-based organization would do more than shift the financial
burden of litigation from a handful of residents to the whole com-
munity. As John Charles Olmsted observed, it would also relieve
individual residents of ‘‘the often disagreeable task of enforcing
their rights upon neighbors.’’ In a country where homeowners’ as-
sociations, taxpayers’ associations, and voluntary associations of
all sorts were well established, this proposal struck a responsive
chord. Bouton created a property owners’ association, called the
Roland Park Roads and Maintenance Association, in  and
later advised other subdividers to delegate the enforcement of the
restrictions ‘‘to the property owners themselves as quickly as pos-
sible.’’ Nichols followed Bouton’s lead. So did the subdividers of
St. Francis Wood, Brendonwood, River Oaks, and Palos Verdes
Estates, where the Homes Association was designed expressly ‘‘to
pick [up]’’ where the developers ‘‘left off.’’ By the time Palos Verdes
Estates came on the market, property owners’ associations of one
sort or another were widespread—especially in subdivisions for
the well-to-do, where they were regarded as the most effective
mechanism for enforcing restrictive covenants.92
Once the subdividers decided to impose restrictions, they faced
another knotty problem. They had to figure out for how long to
impose them. Through the late nineteenth century most sub-
dividers imposed restrictions, in the words of the Olmsteds, ‘‘for
a very short period.’’ Fifteen or twenty years was typical, and ten
years was not unheard of. Opposition to long terms came from
lawyers, real estate agents, and prospective purchasers, for many
of whom, wrote Joel Hurt, subdivider of Atlanta’s Druid Hills,
‘‘the longer [the restrictions], the more abhorrent.’’ But soon after
     

the turn of the century a few subdividers realized that ten or even
twenty years was too short. Prospective purchasers, aware that
the restrictions would expire in the near future, were hesitant to
buy—or, if they bought, to build. In theory, it was possible to re-
impose the restrictions after they expired. But in practice, Nichols
pointed out, ‘‘it was impossible to get all owners [to go along].’’
Especially likely to object were the owners of strategically placed
corner lots, who hoped to benefit from their conversion from
residential to commercial use. To Hurt, fifty years seemed about
right. But the Olmsteds recommended ‘‘at least sixty years,’’ they
wrote Hurt. A prospective purchaser would soon realize that the
restrictions were ‘‘not intended so much to hamper his free use
of his land as to ensure him the benefits of a first-class neighbor-
hood.’’ Warning that tenement houses and other objectionable
structures might well be erected after the restrictions expired,
the Olmsteds urged that they ‘‘be kept in force for much longer
periods than have been customary.’’ 93
But how much longer? Should they run for fifty or sixty years,
or even a hundred years, as they did at Shaker Village? Or in the
interest of permanence, should they be made perpetual, as they
were in the first plat at Roland Park? By the s, if not earlier,
the subdividers had come to believe that perpetual restrictions
were inadvisable. As Nichols said, it was far from clear the courts
would enforce them—a view shared by John Charles Olmsted,
who told J. H. Oldfield, one of the developers of The Uplands,
that judges regarded such restrictions as contrary to public policy.
Even if the courts would enforce them—and, it turned out, a few
would—it was not a good idea to impose them, said Bouton. Ex-
plaining his decision to abandon perpetual restrictions in favor
of ones lasting twenty-five years, he told his fellow subdividers
 ,  –

that no one should presume to be ‘‘wise enough for all eternity.’’

By the s the subdividers had also come to believe that very
long restrictions were inadvisable. As Nichols pointed out, things
change over time, sometimes driven by technology, sometimes
by fashion. A good example was the advent of the automobile.
Suppose he had imposed a restriction against garages a few years
ago, he said in . Now that all his prospective purchasers
wanted a place to store their motorcars, ‘‘we would be up against it
to-day.’’ Given how hard it was to predict the future, Nichols sug-
gested that subdividers should build ‘‘a certain amount of elas-
ticity’’ into the restrictions.94
In an effort to come up with a term that was, in Nichols’s words,
‘‘long enough to give reasonable assurance [of permanence] and
yet short enough to permit readjustment . . . to changing modes
of life,’’ the subdividers were at sea. Some favored twenty-five or
thirty years, others fifty or sixty, and still others somewhere in be-
tween. (In general, one expert found, ‘‘the more highly developed
the subdivision, the longer the term of the restrictions.’’) But no
term had more to recommend it than any other. In , how-
ever, Nichols made a breakthrough. In the restrictions for Rock-
hill Place, a tract located at the eastern edge of the Country Club
District, he did more than extend the term from twenty to twenty-
five years, which was something he had recently done for the first
time at Sunset Hill, his most exclusive subdivision to date. Fol-
lowing a plan he credited to Bouton, Nichols also included in the
deeds a provision whereby Rockhill Place property owners could
extend the restrictions for another twenty-five years ad infinitum.
All it would take was the approval of the owners of a majority
of the front footage. A novel idea, an early reference to which is
found in a letter from John Charles Olmsted to J. H. Oldfield in
     

, it caught on quickly, not least because it offered prospective

purchasers a high degree of permanence without tying up their
property for a very long time.95
But as Nichols soon found out, it was ‘‘a Herculean task’’ to get
hundreds of property owners to agree to extend the restrictions.
Hoping to capitalize on a change in land use, some wanted to
see them expire. Others who might have approved an extension
were hard, if not impossible, to find. Some had moved out of the
subdivision, even, said Nichols, out of the country. To make mat-
ters worse, some lots had been left to heirs. Others were in the
hands of trustees or guardians. Still others were subject to a mort-
gage. To persuade many heirs, lawyers, and bankers who had little
interest in the subdivision to approve the extension was a time-
consuming and often futile effort. To overcome these obstacles,
Nichols came up with another innovative idea, one for which he
took full credit. It worked as follows. Five years before the expira-
tion date, the homeowners’ association would notify the property
owners that they had the right to modify or eliminate the restric-
tions. If they took no action—if, to be more precise, the owners
of a majority of the front footage did not approve a change—the
restrictions would be automatically renewed for another twenty-
five years. Adopted for the first time at Mission Hills, a tract
in the Country Club District that was subdivided in , this
scheme had several advantages. It shifted the burden from those
property owners who wanted to retain the restrictions to those
who wanted to modify or eliminate them. It also ensured that
the owners could not let the restrictions lapse inadvertently. By
doing so, it made the restrictions pretty much self-perpetuating.
Nichols later adopted this scheme at his other tracts, and other
subdividers followed his lead.96
 ,  –

‘‘Hand and Hand’’ with Zoning

Late in  Richard T. Ely, one of the nation’s foremost

economists, announced that the Institute for Research in Land
Economics and Public Utilities intended to publish two series
of monographs, one in Land Economics and the other in Public
Utility Economics. Founded by Ely in  at the University of
Wisconsin and later moved to Northwestern University’s campus
in downtown Chicago, the institute was the most influential orga-
nization of its kind in the country. Although the institute’s repu-
tation was based largely on pioneering work in finance and mar-
keting, Ely chose to inaugurate the Land Economics series with
a monograph titled The Use of Deed Restrictions in Subdivision De-
velopment. Written by economist Helen C. Monchow, it was the
first systematic study of the subject. If it did nothing else, it high-
lighted the vital role these restrictions played in suburbia. Found
everywhere in the United States, especially in subdivisions for
the well-to-do, deed restrictions were as integral to the suburbs
as the single-family houses whose setting, design, and cost they
regulated, as integral as the narrow streets (with, wrote Olmsted
Brothers, ‘‘gentle curves and comfortable grades’’) and the well-
tended lawns, ornamental bushes, and shade trees.97
By the late s restrictive covenants were so widespread
that it was easy to forget they were a relatively new phenome-
non, albeit one whose origins went back to the late eighteenth
and early nineteenth centuries. At the time Monchow wrote her
monograph, Roland Park was less than forty years old, Guilford
less than twenty. The first tracts of what became the Country Club
District were subdivided shortly after the turn of the century. St.
Francis Wood was put on the market in the early s, Great
     

Neck Hills a decade later. Restrictive covenants were such a new

phenomenon that many of the subdividers and the advisers who
had drafted them were still around—and could remember the
time when it was all but impossible to sell a lot with restrictions.
Bouton was still going strong. So were Nichols and McDuffie. Al-
though his father had been gone for more than twenty years and
his brother for nearly ten, Olmsted, Jr., was still in practice, well
established as the nation’s leading landscape architect and urban
designer. And Charles H. Cheney was living in Palos Verdes Es-
tates, where he spent much of the last two decades of his life as
secretary of the Art Jury, secretary of the Homes Association, and,
if that were not enough, editor of the Palos Verdes Bulletin—the
closest thing to the community newspaper.98 Less fortunate was
E. G. Lewis, who was serving five years in a federal penitentiary
for mail fraud.
By the late s most subdividers had come to believe that
restrictive covenants were indispensable—that more than any-
thing else, more than the huge sums spent on improvements
and amenities and more than the careful attention paid to design
guidelines, the imposition of stringent restrictions had solved the
problem of unwanted change that Olmsted, Sr., had spelled out in
the s and s. With restrictions in place, said an employee
of the Van Sweringens, Americans no longer need fear that an at-
tractive subdivision would soon ‘‘give way to something less desir-
able and perhaps hideous.’’ Restrictions, the subdividers believed,
also stabilized property values and encouraged homeownership.
Above all, they paid. They attracted prospective purchasers, many
of whom demanded the most stringent and sweeping restric-
tions possible.99 Restrictions paid so well that suburban subdivi-
sions made Bouton, Nichols, McDuffie, and Jemison among the
 ,  –

wealthiest businessmen in their communities. And they greatly

increased the Van Sweringens’ already huge fortune.
Several other groups also favored restrictive covenants. Speak-
ing for many city planners, Harland Bartholomew stressed that
property values soared in suburbs with stringent restrictions, but
not in ones that allowed ‘‘promiscuous development,’’ ones that
allowed a mix of homes, tenements, factories, stores, and stables.
Voicing the conventional wisdom of the real estate economists,
two experts insisted that restrictions ‘‘enhance the desirability of
the neighborhood as a location for high grade homes.’’

Home builders seeking to invest substantial sums of money in

fine houses desire to know that a neighborhood will be main-
tained as a district of homes for a sufficient length of time so they
will be undisturbed in the enjoyment of property. Few wish to in-
vest large sums of money in homes in locations where business
blocks may soon be built with accompanying heavy street traffic
and where, perhaps, next door may be constructed a cheap apart-
ment house, or a building with small stores.

Realtors and builders supported restrictions on the grounds that

they enhanced stability. Lenders, many of whom had hitherto
worried that restrictions would cloud titles, were beginning to
look favorably on them. And taking their cue from the experts,
journalists ‘‘underscored the desirability of restrictions,’’ writes
historian Susan M. Chase.100
Although most middle- and upper-middle-class Americans
were in favor of restrictive covenants, some had reservations.
They stemmed not from a notion that restrictions were an in-
fringement of property rights, but from a belief that they were
an ineffective way to regulate land use. As Lawrence Veiller, the
country’s leading tenement-house reformer, told a conference of
     

city planners in , it was unreasonable to expect to maintain

the long-term integrity of residential districts with ‘‘what is at
best merely a private contract or agreement between two parties.’’
It made as little sense to regulate the use of land by private agree-
ments as it did to regulate the purity of milk or the safety of
pedestrians by them. Restrictions, critics pointed out, could be
imposed in new subdivisions, but not as a rule in built-up com-
munities, where it was ordinarily very hard to get homeowners to
agree to anything. (Interestingly, the one exception to the rule oc-
curred when white homeowners felt so threatened by an influx of
African-Americans that they joined forces to impose racial cove-
nants.) Even in new subdivisions, critics claimed, things often
went wrong. In an otherwise highly restricted Cleveland subdivi-
sion, several lots were sold without restrictions against apartment
houses because of a foreclosure proceeding. Their omission re-
sulted in ‘‘very great injury [to] the nearby restricted property,’’
wrote Robert H.Whitten, advisor to the Cleveland City Plan Com-
mission.101
Restrictive covenants had two other serious defects, critics
charged. One was that they were very hard to enforce. Few resi-
dents had the stomach for a lawsuit. And as Charles E. Mer-
riam, a Chicago alderman and one of the city’s leading reform-
ers, pointed out, even fewer had the wherewithal. Litigation, he
wrote, is so expensive that only the wealthy can afford it. Even if
the residents filed suit, the odds of success were not good. Once
the restrictions expired, Veiller observed, the courts would not
enforce them. Nor would they enforce them if the plaintiff had
ignored the violations for an unreasonably long time or if the
neighborhood had changed so much that an injunction would
do damage to the defendant without giving relief to the plain-
 ,  –

tiff. According to the Advisory Council of Real Estate Interests, a

New York City trade organization, the courts were extremely in-
consistent as well. In spite of restrictions that banned anything
but private homes, they permitted landowners to construct an
apartment house in Manhattan but not a three-family house in
the Bronx. Despite other restrictions, they allowed businessmen
to operate a livery stable on East rd Street but not a bakery
on Southern Boulevard, a service station on Broadway but not a
garage in Flatbush. No less puzzling, said the council, were other
rulings by which ‘‘a private house may be altered into an under-
taking establishment on Madison Avenue and Forty-first Street;
into a dressmaking shop on West Twenty-fourth Street; but not
into a business building on West Fortieth Street.’’ 102
The other serious defect was that the restrictions were en-
forceable only within the subdivision. Even if a subdivider im-
posed stringent restrictions on a tract, Merriam pointed out, he
had no control over what took place ‘‘on the other side of the
street from his property.’’ No one could prevent another sub-
divider from imposing lenient restrictions on the adjacent prop-
erty—or even from leaving it completely unrestricted. Nor could
anyone stop the new owners from using the lots in a way that ren-
dered the restrictions ineffective. Even if you buy a lot in a tract
of thirty, forty, or a hundred acres, Nichols wrote, ‘‘you never can
be assured that the holders of the adjoining property will not do
something to depreciate the value of your own.’’ There was no
easy solution to what he called the problem of ‘‘the Border.’’ Sub-
dividers could adopt ‘‘a common covenant’’ that extended from
one tract to another. But the real estate business was so competi-
tive that they were not likely to do so. They could also set aside
land for parks and open spaces that would serve, Nichols said,
     

‘‘as a barrier to injurious encroachment of unrestricted or lowly

restricted property.’’ But these buffers did not come cheap. Nor
did they produce revenue. Finally, subdividers could acquire very
large tracts, ‘‘large enough,’’ said Paul A. Harsch, ‘‘to be self con-
tained.’’ 103 But unless they were bounded by a river or, as in the
case of Palos Verdes Estates, the ocean, even very large tracts had
borders.
In light of the many defects of restrictive covenants, Veiller,
Merriam, and other reformers called on the local authorities to
adopt a new form of land-use regulation known as zoning (or dis-
tricting). Zoning, said Edward M. Bassett, a lawyer and planner
who played a pivotal role in the passage of New York City’s pio-
neering ordinance of , had many advantages over private re-
strictions. It was enforced by public officials, it was enforceable
all over the city, and it was ‘‘more permanent and more elastic’’
than private restrictions. But not even zoning’s strongest advo-
cates thought it would ever replace restrictive covenants. Noting
that zoning could not be used to set a minimum cost for a house
or specify the style of its architecture, Veiller conceded that much
would still have to be done through private restrictions. Bassett
agreed. ‘‘Zoning and private restrictions do not interfere with
each other,’’ he wrote; ‘‘both may exist hand in hand. Prudent de-
velopers will still use private restrictions to supplement the zon-
ing regulations.’’ After thoroughly documenting the proliferation
of restrictive covenants and evenhandedly analyzing their advan-
tages and drawbacks, Monchow concluded that they ‘‘seem likely
to continue for some time to be an important force in controlling
the development of urban land.’’ 104
two
Bourgeois Nightmares:
Fears of Almost Everyone and Everything
 Restrictions as Protection

Early in  a dozen of the leading developers of what

was called ‘‘High Class Residence Property’’ held their second an-
nual conference at the Belvedere Hotel in downtown Baltimore.
Attending were J. C. Nichols, who had hosted the first annual
conference in Kansas City a year earlier, E. H. Bouton, Duncan
McDuffie, Robert Jemison, Jr., King G. Thompson, and, among
others, John F. Demarest, vice president of the Sage Founda-
tion Homes Company, developer of Forest Hills Gardens, and
Emerson W. Chaille, head of the company that had subdivided
Brendonwood. Absent were Paul A. Harsch and Hugh E. Prather.
After spending several hours touring Roland Park and Guilford
(and taking lunch at the Roland Park Country Club), the partici-
pants got down to business. With Nichols serving as chair, they
devoted much of the first two days to sales, especially to the prob-
lems of recruiting, retaining, and supervising an effective sales
force. (For the benefit of the others, Nichols read a long list of in-
structions he gave his salesmen. For example, ‘‘Don’t sit too far
from your prospect or across the table.’’ ‘‘Don’t assume a careless,
lounging attitude.’’ ‘‘Don’t sigh.’’ ‘‘Don’t chew gum.’’ ‘‘Don’t enter
a private office with a cigar or cigarette in your hand or mouth.’’
‘‘Never in any case have an odor of liquor on your breath.’’ ‘‘Never
express a strong opinion on any political, religious, war or city
administration matter that might prove antagonistic to the pros-
pect.’’ Also, ‘‘Get plenty of sleep.’’ ‘‘[Take a] cold bath in the morn-
ing.’’ ‘‘Eat slowly.’’ ‘‘Breathe deeply.’’ ‘‘Be a ‘joiner.’ ’’ ‘‘Belong to
lodges, church and clubs.’’ ‘‘Always know a great deal about your
purchaser before you call on him.’’ ‘‘Make friends [with] the sec-
retary, stenographer or telephone operator in [his] office.’’)1


       

On the third day, the last and by far the longest of the confer-
ence, the developers turned to a number of subjects other than
sales. At Nichols’s request, Bouton presented a paper on the ten
best reasons for living in places like Roland Park and the Country
Club District. The topic was of much interest to the subdividers,
some of whose projects were laboring not only because of the
wartime downturn in the real estate market but also because
of strong competition from apartment houses. Rehashing long-
standing anti-urban arguments, Bouton pointed out that these
subdivisions satisfied what he called ‘‘the universal desire for space,
light, air and sunshine.’’ Instead of the ‘‘dirt-laden, smoke-laden
and evil-smelling’’ air of the city, they provided the ‘‘clean, sweet-
smelling air’’ of the country, instead of the ‘‘nerve-racking, sleep-
destroying noises of the city, the restful quiet of the country.’’
Bouton also emphasized the beauty of the suburbs—a sharp con-
trast to ‘‘the ugliness of the city,’’ with its lack of order, harmony,
and ‘‘green spaces.’’ And he stressed that the suburbs provided a
pleasant place to raise a family, even assuring ‘‘desirable compan-
ions’’ for the children. Not least of all, Bouton highlighted ‘‘pro-
tective restrictions,’’ which relieve the resident ‘‘from many an-
noyances to which he is subjected [in communities] where such
protection is not afforded,’’ which help maintain property values,
and which foster ‘‘a spirit of neighborliness’’ that is not found
elsewhere.2
So far as his remarks about restrictions went, Bouton was
preaching to the converted; it would have been hard to find a
dozen leading real estate men who were more favorably disposed
to them. All the subdividers at the conference had used strin-
gent restrictions and found them an effective marketing tool.
They could no more have imagined opening up a new subdivi-
  

sion without restrictions than one without roads, lots, and utili-
ties. But one thing about restrictions troubled them, and that was
the word itself. As Demarest, who had worked as a Brooklyn real
estate man before taking over as manager of Forest Hills Gar-
dens, pointed out, developers thought of restrictions as a bene-
fit. But prospective purchasers often thought of them as an im-
position, which, he noted, is what the word ‘‘implies ordinarily.’’
Demarest made the point more sharply at the third annual con-
ference, which was held in Birmingham, Jemison’s hometown,
in . ‘‘Restrictions, in the minds of the average purchasers,
mean restraint,’’ he said. ‘‘The word ‘restriction’ is an ugly word.’’
At the very least, Demarest suggested, subdividers should in-
struct salesmen to explain the benefits of restrictions to prospec-
tive purchasers. They should also discourage them from ‘‘rattling
off,’’ in Demarest’s words, ‘‘ ‘We restrict against this and we re-
strict against that.’ ’’ 3
Demarest’s remarks struck a responsive chord. There was
something offensive about the word ‘‘restrictions,’’ even ‘‘some-
thing quite unAmerican,’’ as the German city planner Werner
Hegemann told a group of American city planners in . Mc-
Duffie said his company was ‘‘endeavoring, as far as possible, to
eliminate the use of the ‘restrictions’ and refer to restrictions as
‘Protective agreement[s].’ ’’ Chaille remarked, ‘‘We speak not of
restrictions, but of ‘Brendonwood protections.’’’ When the sub-
ject came up at the third annual conference, Jemison asked, ‘‘Isn’t
there some other word that could be used?’’ Harsch, who had
made it to Birmingham, replied, ‘‘Why not say protections, in-
stead of restrictions?’’ Why not indeed, said Prather, who was also
on hand this time: ‘‘I think it is a fine word.’’ Bouton was skepti-
cal. Restrictions ‘‘is a hard word to get away from,’’ he said, and
       

protections ‘‘is vague.’’ 4 Despite Bouton’s skepticism, the Roland

Park Company used the term ‘‘protective covenants.’’ The Knight-
Menard Company, developer of Devonshire Downs, preferred
‘‘protective restrictions.’’ So did the subdividers of Palos Verdes
Estates. Indeed, well before Palos Verdes Estates came on the
market, subdividers everywhere were insisting that restrictions
were above all a form of protection.
But who were they supposed to protect? And against what
were they supposed to protect them? To Nichols and the other
subdividers—and also to Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., who was
held in such high esteem that he was invited to attend the first
annual conference—the answers were obvious. The restrictions
were supposed to protect the subdividers, who were worried that
one of the first buyers might do something that would make
it very hard, if not impossible, to sell the remaining lots. They
also were supposed to protect the purchasers, lot owners and
homeowners alike, who were afraid that the neighbors might use
their lots in a way that would undermine the community’s long-
term well-being. A solution to the problem that Olmsted, Sr., had
spelled out half a century before, the restrictions were supposed
to protect subdividers and purchasers against unwanted change
that might destroy the sylvan setting that had drawn people to
the subdivision in the first place. Such changes, in Demarest’s
words, had ‘‘ruined’’ one high-class residential district after an-
other, often in less than fifteen years, forcing the residents to
sell their homes at a loss and start up again elsewhere. The re-
strictions were supposed to prevent unwanted change by keep-
ing ‘‘undesirable’’ people and activities, commonly referred to as
‘‘undesirable encroachments,’’ out of the community.5
What made otherwise respectable and law-abiding people un-
  

desirable? Was it race, religion, or ethnicity? Or was it class—a

lack of money or the absence of what one real estate ad called
‘‘good-taste and refinement’’? Or was it something else entirely?
An incident that occurred in Los Angeles in  nicely illumi-
nated the problem. It began when Nat King Cole, an African-
American and one of the most successful entertainers of the
day, bought a twelve-room house in Hancock Park for eighty-five
thousand dollars, a huge sum at the time. Located a few miles
west of downtown Los Angeles, Hancock Park had been sub-
divided in the early s and marketed as one of the city’s most
exclusive and highly restricted communities. The residents, most
of them lawyers, doctors, and wealthy businessmen, mobilized
to keep Cole out. But they soon learned that the U.S. Supreme
Court had recently ruled that racial covenants were unenforce-
able. Through the Hancock Park Property Owners Association,
the residents therefore offered to buy Cole out. When he refused
to sell, they asked for a meeting. As Maria Cole recalled, ‘‘There
it was patiently explained to my husband that the good people of
Hancock Park simply did not want any undesirables moving in.’’
‘‘Neither do I,’’ the singer replied. ‘‘And if I see anybody undesir-
able coming in here, I’ll be the first to complain.’’ 6
Nor was it clear why otherwise ordinary activities were deemed
undesirable, especially those that were not immoral, illegal, or
criminal—or which, in the words of Olmsted Brothers, were not
‘‘obviously noxious or offensive and liable to become nuisances
actionable at law.’’ 7 Why was it undesirable to operate not just
a slaughterhouse but also a bakery, a grocery, a stable, or a sta-
tionery store? And why was it undesirable to run a saloon, an in-
stitution widely regarded even by many who did not patronize it
as ‘‘the workingman’s club’’? Why was it undesirable to erect an
apartment house (or even a two- or three-family house)? And why
       

was it undesirable to build a single-family house that extended to

the property line, covered more than a third of the lot, stood more
than two or three stories high, cost less than, say, seven thousand
dollars, and had not been approved by an art or architectural jury?
Why was it undesirable not only to drill for oil but also to put up
a billboard, a large ‘‘For Sale’’ or ‘‘For Rent’’ sign, or a fence more
than four or six feet tall? And why was it undesirable to raise do-
mestic animals, even ones as small as chickens and rabbits?
There is a fairly simple answer to these questions. What made
some people and some activities ‘‘undesirable’’ was that they were
the subjects of the restrictions. That is, they were undesirable be-
cause the subdividers branded them undesirable. That was how
they saw them, and that was how they thought their customers
saw them. But what was it about these ‘‘undesirable’’ people and
activities that would set in motion the unwanted changes that
sounded the death knell of even the most fashionable suburbs?
What was it about them that required the imposition of ‘‘protec-
tive restrictions’’? To answer these questions, it is necessary to
look beyond the restrictions to the deep-seated fears that were
embodied in them—fear of others, even of others with whom
the subdividers and prospective purchasers had, in the words of
Olmsted, Sr., ‘‘much in common,’’ fear of change, and fear of the
market.8 A look at these fears reveals much not only about sub-
urbia but also about American society in the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries.

Fear of Others

Like J. C. Nichols, H. S. Kissell believed that it could well

be ruinous to sell to ‘‘undesirable’’ people. A leading subdivider in
Springfield, Ohio, and one of the select few invited to the annual
  

conferences in Kansas City, Baltimore, and Birmingham, Kissell

told a group of developers in  that ‘‘we must have the courage
to lose sales rather than sell the property to undesirable neigh-
bors.’’ We must have the courage not only when the tract goes
on the market and the subdivider has ‘‘a great deal at stake,’’ but
also when most of the lots have been sold and ‘‘the temptation to
clean up becomes very strong.’’ Assuming their prospective pur-
chasers were just as concerned, Kissell and other subdividers as-
sured them that by dint of well-crafted restrictions they need have
no fear of ‘‘undesirable neighbors.’’ Hence one subdivider prom-
ised ‘‘good neighbors,’’ another ‘‘ ,’’ and still
another ‘‘residents of the best material.’’ Others promised con-
genial people, ‘‘substantial people,’’ ‘‘ ,’’ even
‘‘the most desirable people.’’ Residents would be of the ‘‘
’’ in the Country Club District and of the ‘‘highest
grade’’ in Delafield Estates, a subdivision in the northern Bronx.
Whitley Park, a San Fernando Valley subdivision, was for Ameri-
cans who adhered to the Eighteenth Amendment, which prohib-
ited the sale of alcoholic beverages. And Hancock Park was for the
‘‘leaders of the community’’—and only for those of ‘‘good taste
and refinement.’’ Nearby Bel-Air, which required references from
prospective purchasers, assured the public that ‘‘the object will be
not to sell this acreage as rapidly as possible,’’ but rather to sell it
‘‘to the highest class of homeseekers.’’ 9
When Kissell spoke of ‘‘undesirable’’ people, he meant some-
thing quite different from what Olmsted, Sr., meant when he
spoke of them more than half a century earlier. To Olmsted,
people were undesirable because of what they did, because of how
they used (or, more precisely, misused) the land—how, through
‘‘ignorance, incompetence, bad taste, or knavery,’’ they allowed
       

rural buildings and fences to decay, cut down tall trees and pol-
luted sparkling streams, defaced the countryside with shops, fac-
tories, stables, brickyards, beer gardens, and dram shops and
otherwise destroyed the bucolic setting that had drawn them to
suburbia in the first place. But to Kissell, people were undesir-
able because of who they were. And who they were was defined
not by how well they dressed or how nicely they sipped their tea,
but rather by which racial (and, to a lesser degree, religious and
ethnic) group and social class they belonged to. In other words,
it was not what they did, no matter how appropriate, or how they
behaved, no matter how respectable, that made them undesir-
able. It was just who they were. Their presence in the community
was deemed so offensive, threatening, and unsettling that it in-
variably set off what a Chicago real estate man called ‘‘a stampede
among the others to get out.’’ 10
Among the many ‘‘undesirable’’ groups, none was more unde-
sirable than blacks, who were also referred to in racial covenants
as Africans, Negroes, and Ethiopians—which, in light of the long
history of Ethiopian civilization and culture, is ‘‘in no wise to the
discredit of the negro,’’ wrote Justice Hammond Maxwell of the
West Virginia Supreme Court. To most whites—who no more
wanted to live in the same neighborhood as blacks than to ride in
the same railroad car, dine in the same restaurant, or be buried in
the same cemetery—it was so self-evident that blacks were highly
undesirable that they rarely bothered to explain why. But on the
few occasions they did—as, for example, when they attempted to
justify racial zoning—they stressed that blacks would drive out
whites in the same way that ‘‘bad dollars drive out good ones.’’
Their presence would also depress property values, by as much as
 to  percent, according to a Louisville real estate agent, and
  

provoke conflict and violence. Although one lawyer thought it

outrageous, most whites viewed blacks as ‘‘a nuisance, loathsome
and undesirable in [good] neighborhoods.’’ The Olmsted brothers
found Negroes so undesirable that they suggested to one sub-
divider that if it were practical he should not even allow them to
live on the property as servants, a common practice even in highly
restricted tracts. ‘‘The raising of negro children, even those of gar-
deners, coachman and others often provided for,’’ they wrote, ‘‘is
almost certain to result in disagreeable conditions,’’ notably ex-
cessive noise and even ‘‘trespassing, pilfering and other criminal
acts.’’ 11
Almost as undesirable as African-Americans—and, in Los An-
geles and other West Coast cities, as much so—were Asian-
Americans, who were referred to in racial covenants as Chinese,
Japanese, Asiatics, and Mongolians, one of the five major racial
groups, wrote the U.S. Immigration Commission in , that
‘‘school geographies have made most familiar to Americans.’’ To
most whites, Asian-Americans were undesirable for much the
same reason as African-Americans. Although the Japanese keep
their homes up as well as whites, a Hollywood realtor pointed
out, their presence depresses property values. ‘‘They are alright in
their places,’’ he insisted, ‘‘but they should be segregated.’’ He was
especially troubled by the way they ‘‘worm their way into the best
residential districts.’’ In response to the ‘‘invasion’’ of Japanese-
Americans, a phenomenon one California real estate man called
‘‘the Jap menace,’’ Los Angeles property owners not only drafted
racial covenants but also attempted to drive the newcomers out,
even on one occasion resorting to arson. According to historian
John Modell, one Los Angeles suburb even ‘‘refused to accept
new subdivisions’’ without racial covenants, a practice that was
       

probably unconstitutional under Buchanan v. Warley. Also unde-

sirable were Malays and American Indians (a group that included
Mexican-Americans), the brown and red, as opposed to the white,
black, and yellow, races. But few racial covenants singled out
these groups. Most dealt with them by excluding anyone of other
than ‘‘the white or Caucasian race.’’ 12
Racial covenants were only one of the many manifestations
of the racism that permeated American society in the late nine-
teenth and early twentieth centuries—as shameful as the spread
of Jim Crow legislation, if not as horrific as the epidemic of
lynchings in the South, the outbreak of race riots in the North,
and the resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan, especially in the Mid-
west. This widespread racism gave rise to the deep-seated fear
of African- and Asian-Americans that was held by both the sub-
dividers and their prospective purchasers. This fear led most real
estate men to believe that the presence of even one or two African-
or Asian-American families in an otherwise stable residential
neighborhood would drive out the whites—and seal its fate. This
belief, more than anything else, drove many subdividers to im-
pose racial covenants even in cities with very few African- and
Asian-Americans (and hardly any who could afford to buy a lot,
much less build a house, in suburbia). To give two examples,
the Mason-McDuffie Company, subdividers of St. Francis Wood,
banned any person of African descent even though only , of
San Francisco’s , residents (or less than four-tenths of one
percent) were African-American. And the Ottawa Hills Company
excluded ‘‘any Chinaman or person of the Mongolian race’’ even
though fewer than one hundred of Toledo’s roughly two hundred
thousand residents (or less than one-tenth of one percent) were
Asian-American.13
  

The subdividers had no qualms about using racial covenants to

keep out African-Americans, Asian-Americans, and other ‘‘unde-
sirable’’ people, and as a rule that included Jews. During the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a time of rampant anti-
Semitism, some subdividers expressly banned Jews, Hebrews,
‘‘any person of the Semitic race,’’ or anyone of other than the ‘‘Gen-
tile race.’’ At a time when American Jews were at the midpoint
of what historian Matthew Frye Jacobson calls their ‘‘racial odys-
sey’’ from ‘‘white persons’’ to ‘‘Hebrews’’ to ‘‘Caucasians,’’ other
subdividers attempted to exclude Jews simply by banning anyone
other than a Caucasian. Still others kept out Jews by honoring
the ‘‘gentlemen’s agreement’’ whereby developers and real estate
agents refused to show property to Jews and other ‘‘undesirables,’’
a practice that was endorsed by the National Association of Real
Estate Boards. On occasion subdividers took more drastic steps.
E. H. Bouton bought back a lot in the mid-s to prevent a Jew
from buying it. And afraid that a Jew would ‘‘hurt the property
badly,’’ as he later put it, Hugh Potter, one of the developers of
River Oaks, took much the same tack in the mid-s. When he
learned that an owner had sold his property to a Jew, Potter tried
to get the new owner to sell it back to the company, but the man
refused. ‘‘Perhaps,’’ Potter wrote, ‘‘he resents our attitude.’’ What-
ever the reason, the Jew later sold the property to a non-Jew, and
a relieved Potter informed his associates, ‘‘we have gotten rid of
him.’’ 14
By the late s, however, some subdividers who had hitherto
refused to sell to Jews were having second thoughts. As Nichols
explained, a delegation of prominent Jews had complained that
he was keeping them out of many of the best residential neigh-
borhoods, ‘‘making Kansas City a poor place for a Jew to live.’’ The
       

meeting left him uncomfortable. Kansas City had some ‘‘fine Jew-
ish families,’’ he said. Some Jews were ‘‘good friends,’’ with whom
he sat on the boards of the city’s charitable organizations. One
headed the largest such organization in the city. No group had
‘‘served the country more loyally’’ in the recent war. The matter
‘‘is getting very much under my skin, by George,’’ he declared; ‘‘it
is so un-American, and undemocratic, and so unfair to exclude
a man on account of his nationality.’’ Hence he had decided that
if ‘‘a very exceptional’’ Jew, one ‘‘very satisfactory and acceptable
in every [other] way,’’ wanted to buy, ‘‘we would not hesitate to
sell [to] him.’’ A few subdividers agreed with Nichols. Elmer A.
Rowell of Berkeley, California, said that he had sold to two ‘‘very
choice Jews.’’ And Hugh Prather of Dallas added that he too had
sold to two of ‘‘the best Jews in town,’’ whom he referred to as
‘‘pet Jews.’’ ‘‘I would just as soon have them as anybody else.’’ A
case in point, he said, was ‘‘old man Sanger,’’ the head of Sanger
Brothers, a Dallas department store, who was thinking about buy-
ing property in Highland Park. ‘‘Everybody loves Mr. Sanger; he
goes with the very best Gentiles in town,’’ Prather said, ‘‘and the
people in Highland Park will be glad to have Mr. Sanger or that
kind of Jew [as a neighbor].’’ 15
Other subdividers thought Nichols was making, in Bouton’s
words, ‘‘a perfectly ghastly mistake.’’ We would not sell to ‘‘a Jew
of any character whatever,’’ he said. E. W. Chaille would not sell
to Jews either, not ‘‘even to the best Jews in our city.’’ Nor would
King Thompson, who conceded that ‘‘some of the nicest busi-
ness men in town are Jews,’’ and H. S. Kissell, who acknowledged
that he had been under strong pressure to sell to Jews. ‘‘We had
some very narrow escapes,’’ he said. John Demarest, whose For-
est Hills Gardens was located a few miles east of the largest Jew-
  

ish community in the country, if not the world, would not sell
to Jews either. ‘‘We have sold to two or three choice Jews’’ and
ever since had been wondering why. ‘‘We will never do it again,’’
he said, ‘‘because they are absolutely objectionable.’’ Bouton and
other subdividers found Jews, even Jews like ‘‘old man Sanger,’’
objectionable not because they let their property run down or be-
cause they depressed property values, as African-Americans al-
legedly did, but rather because they wanted to live together. Once
one Jew moved in, others followed. Before long, said Bouton, a
‘‘stampede’’ got under way that drove out the Christians. Faced
with a similar problem, worried that the rising number of Jew-
ish students would discourage Christians from applying, Colum-
bia and other Ivy League schools imposed quotas and otherwise
revised the admissions process. But in the absence of such an
option, Bouton and many other subdividers chose to exclude Jews
completely.16
Racial covenants and other exclusionary measures were far
from foolproof. Other Americans had no doubt that African- and
Asian-Americans were not white. Nor were they Caucasian, a
term that even Madison Grant, one of the country’s most out-
spoken racists, called ‘‘at best, a cumbersome and archaic desig-
nation.’’ But what about Indians, Burmese, and Filipinos? Or Syri-
ans, Armenians, Mexicans, and southern Italians, whose racial
identity was a source of considerable uncertainty? Were they ‘‘un-
desirable’’ too? It was hard to say. Also, some unquestionably un-
desirable people found ways to circumvent the exclusionary mea-
sures. A Providence subdivider sold a lot to ‘‘an Irishman or a
Native,’’ unaware that he was acting on behalf of a ‘‘Hebrew.’’ (The
Hebrews, he reported, built some of the nicest houses and ‘‘kept
[them] up the best of any,’’ but his competitors exploited ‘‘the pres-
       

ence of Hebrews’’ on his tract to boost sales on theirs.) And a light-

skinned African-American real estate agent acquired the house
in Hancock Park for Nat King Cole. Most subdividers would not
knowingly sell to anyone undesirable. But what about the new
owners? As Bouton and Potter found out, a few would sell to any-
one if the price was right. Demarest ran into the same problem.
Upon learning that one homeowner had a purchaser who was
Jewish, he ‘‘tried to prevail upon him not to sell.’’ ‘‘I couldn’t do
it,’’ he said.Whereupon the next-door neighbor warned the home-
owner ‘‘if he sold his house to a Jew that he would put a negro in
his house as a tenant,’’ a warning he passed on to the prospective
purchaser.17
Although far from foolproof, racial covenants were relatively
clear-cut. Under ordinary circumstances, African- and Asian-
Americans (and, to a lesser degree, Jews) were easily identifiable.
And since all were undesirable, the covenants did not have to
draw distinctions between members of these groups—between,
say, ‘‘pet Jews’’ and typical Jews. But to the subdividers (and their
prospective purchasers), people were undesirable by virtue of
class as well as race. And to exclude people by class was much
more problematic. Since subdividers aimed at different markets,
what was undesirable to one was not necessarily undesirable to
another. All would agree that the lower class was undesirable,
and most felt the same way about the working class. But only
the developers of the most exclusive tracts regarded the middle
class as undesirable. The only rule was that a class was undesir-
able if it stood below the one at which the subdivision was aimed.
Even if a subdivider knew which class was undesirable, how could
he tell whether a prospective purchaser belonged to it? Was it
a matter of wealth? Or income? Of occupation? Or education?
  

Or was it a function of ‘‘good taste and refinement’’? Short of

holding personal interviews, requiring references, or conducting
background checks, which was done in a few very exclusive sub-
divisions (as well as many very exclusive cooperative apartment
houses), the subdividers were much harder pressed to find a way
to exclude undesirable people by class than by race.18
But find a way they did. While paying lip service to ‘‘good taste
and refinement,’’ they defined class as a function of money. It
was a crude definition, though perhaps the only one possible in
so fluid a society. The subdividers attempted to exclude unde-
sirable people by making it too expensive for them to buy and
build on the property. One approach was to set a price for the lots
well above what these people could afford. (A closely related ap-
proach was to divide the property into large lots. Although there
was always a chance that ‘‘a poor man’’ might use a large lot ‘‘in
such a manner as to make it offensive to neighbors,’’ the Olm-
steds advised Joel Hurt, the subdivider of Druid Hills, in , it
was more likely that the land would be misused if the lots were
small.) This approach had a drawback. As Edward A. Loveley, a
Detroit real estate man, pointed out in , the higher the price,
the smaller the market. ‘‘It is always well to bear in mind,’’ he
said, ‘‘that the highest priced property with the highest restric-
tions necessarily limits the number of available buyers.’’ There
were five to ten times as many people who could afford to buy
a lot for five thousand dollars as there were who could afford to
buy one for ten thousand.19 Despite the drawback, this approach
was an effective way to exclude some people without driving away
others, many of whom would have been reluctant to solicit refer-
ences, much less to undergo personal interviews and background
checks.
       

Another approach was to set minimum cost requirements that

were out of the reach of ‘‘undesirable’’ people. These require-
ments were originally designed to prevent property owners from
erecting cheap and flimsy houses. During the mid and late nine-
teenth century subdividers imposed them for the same reason
they imposed restrictions that banned the construction of houses
of fewer than two or three stories or of materials other than
stone and brick. This practice continued well into the early twen-
tieth century. Writing to the subdividers of The Uplands in ,
John Charles Olmsted recommended that instead of banning
one-story houses they set a minimum cost requirement of five
thousand dollars. ‘‘It seems to us,’’ he explained, ‘‘that the price
limit would sufficiently protect the property from the erection of
a poor class of dwellings, and that there is not likely to be any-
thing essentially objectionable about a -story cottage if it be as
costly as .’’ But in time it became clear that a minimum
cost requirement would also help exclude undesirable people.
As the Olmsted brothers informed Hurt, ‘‘The higher the mini-
mum limit [that] can be placed [on the cost of a house,] the more
certainty there will be of establishing a desirable neighborhood.’’
Hurt should not consider a limit of less than three thousand dol-
lars, the Olmsteds insisted, and in the long run a limit of five to
six thousand dollars was advisable.20
This approach had drawbacks too. It was not just that mini-
mum cost requirements did nothing to prevent what New York
City architect Oswald Herring called ‘‘an ill-mannered, unedu-
cated boor’’ from building an ‘‘eyesore.’’ It was also that, along
with many undesirable people, they excluded some otherwise
desirable ‘‘families of cultivation and refinement,’’ families who,
as John Charles Olmsted noted, would make ‘‘charming and
  

delightful neighbors’’ but, as Herring put it, ‘‘lack a well-filled

purse.’’ The problem of attracting these families concerned Bou-
ton, who imposed minimum cost requirements at Roland Park
but dropped them at Guilford. His solution, he told a Philadel-
phia banker, was to build ‘‘a group of ten small houses, which
we rented at a very low rate to ten young married couples, all
of whom belong to prominent Baltimore families.’’ Even if the
houses made no profit, they would reflect well on the community.
Despite the drawbacks, most subdividers remained wedded to
minimum cost requirements. When Bouton said at the third an-
nual conference that these requirements were ‘‘wholly unneces-
sary’’ in communities that required design review, none of the
other subdividers sided with him. Even if no longer necessary to
prevent the construction of ugly or tacky houses, minimum cost
requirements were still useful as a way to exclude undesirable
people. As Olmsted Brothers put it, they still served as a ‘‘rough
indication’’ of social class.21
For Americans living in the early twenty-first century, when
it costs at least –, to build a modest two-car garage, it
is very hard to appreciate the significance of the Olmsteds’ rec-
ommendation that Hurt set a minimum cost requirement of –
, for an entire house. But –, was a great deal of
money in . Despite the sharp rise in wages and prices during
and immediately after World War I, it was still a substantial sum
as late as , at which time the American family earned on aver-
age only , a year. (The lowest two-fifths earned a mere ,
the third fifth roughly ,, the fourth fifth just over ,,
and the highest fifth around ,.) Given the widely accepted
guideline that a family should spend no more than two and a
half times its annual income on a home, most American families
       

could not go above –,. But as historian Margaret Marsh

has pointed out, it was hard to find even a small suburban house
at that price. The minimum cost requirements ran –, in
some subdivisions and as high as –, in others. Added to
the price of the lots, many of which went for –, (and much
more in the most exclusive subdivisions), they brought the total
cost of a pleasant but not luxurious house to –,, within
reach of the top  percent of American families, who earned on
average about , a year, but very few others. To make things
even harder, aspiring homeowners were normally required to
make a large down payment—and if they were able to obtain a
mortgage, which was much more difficult then than it is now, to
amortize it in five or ten years.22
When Olmsted, Jr., wrote that Palos Verdes Estates was ‘‘pre-
dominantly for fairly prosperous people,’’ he could just as well
have been writing about Roland Park, St. Francis Wood, the
Country Club District, and other highly restricted subdivisions.
These communities were designed for well-to-do merchants and
manufacturers as well as for well-off lawyers and doctors. They
might have been within the reach of the planners and landscape
architects who laid out the subdivisions, but not the laborers who
cleared the woods, paved the roads, and installed the pipes or
the truck drivers who delivered the materials and carted away the
trash. They might also have been within the reach of the archi-
tects who designed the houses, but not the carpenters, plaster-
ers, painters, masons, electricians, and plumbers who built them.
Most of these tradesmen earned only about a dollar an hour. Even
if they worked forty-four hours a week for fifty-two weeks, which
was extremely rare, they were lucky to make , a year. A
survey made in Los Angeles in , near the end of a great real
  

estate boom, revealed that plumbers, the best paid tradesmen,

earned only ,. These communities might have been within
the reach of the fire and police chief and the superintendent of
the schools, but not of the firefighters and police officers who pro-
tected the residents or the teachers who educated their children.23
The subdividers laid out less exclusive and less expensive tracts,
some for the middle class (as opposed to the upper middle class)
and even a few for the working class. But most of these tracts
had racial covenants too. And many had minimum cost require-
ments, albeit much lower ones. These restrictions were imposed
on middle- and working-class tracts for much the same reason
they were imposed on upper-middle-class ones—to exclude ‘‘un-
desirable’’ people and, by so doing, to create a strictly homoge-
neous community. No one spelled this out better than Charles H.
Cheney. Speaking about his efforts at Palos Verdes Estates, he
wrote in :

The type of protective restrictions and the high scheme of layout

which we have provided tends to guide and automatically regulate
the class of citizens who are settling here. The [racial] restrictions
prohibit occupation of land by Negroes or Asiatics. The minimum
cost of house restrictions tends to group the people of more or
less like income together as far as it is reasonable and advisable to
do so.

At the heart of this objective was the assumption that heteroge-

neity was incompatible with permanence, that a mix of races and
classes was incompatible with a ‘‘bourgeois utopia.’’ And under-
lying this assumption was a deep-seated fear of others. (To the
extent there were differences among subdivisions, it was largely
over who the others were. Were they only African- and Asian-
       

Americans? Or were they also the lower class? Or perhaps the

working class? Or, in places like Hycliff and Hancock Park, even
the middle class?) More than anything else, more than the dif-
ference between public space and private space, this fear ac-
counts for the sea change from Olmsted, Sr.’s, inclusive view of
America’s parks to Olmsted, Jr.’s, exclusive view of America’s sub-
urbs.24

Fear of One Another

The racial covenants, minimum cost requirements, and

other exclusionary measures were highly effective. Most residen-
tial suburbs had very few African- or Asian-Americans (or other
people of color). To give a couple of examples, Beverly Hills, an
affluent community west of downtown Los Angeles (where the
median value of a home was about ,), had almost ,
families in , of whom  was African-American and  were of
‘‘other’’ races. And South Gate, a working-class community south
of downtown L.A. (where the median value of a home was less
than ,), had about , families, of whom  was African-
American and  were of ‘‘other’’ races. Of the few suburbs for
which information is available, most had only a handful of Jews
or none at all. As late as  Dallas’s Highland Park had two;
Houston’s River Oaks, which was laid out in the mid-s, had
none. Since Bouton refused to sell to ‘‘a Jew of any character
whatever’’—and most Baltimore real estate agents honored the
‘‘gentlemen’s agreement’’—only a few Jews managed to acquire
property in the Roland Park Company’s four large subdivisions.
And in  a mere  of the more than , families who lived
in Roland Park, Guilford, Homeland, and Northwood were Jew-
  

ish, less than  percent of Baltimore’s large Jewish population.

Although information is sparse, there is reason to believe that the
exclusionary measures segregated the suburbs by class as well
as by race, though not as rigorously, and that journalist Carey
McWilliams’s description of Los Angeles as ‘‘an archipelago of
ethnic, cultural, racial, and socio-economic islands’’ applied as
well to other American cities.25
But if racial covenants, minimum cost requirements, and other
exclusionary measures were so effective, why did subdividers im-
pose so many other restrictions on their tracts? And why did
they impose the most stringent restrictions on the most exclusive
tracts? If the subdividers could ‘‘automatically regulate’’ the racial
and class makeup of a tract—if they could ensure that it would
consist entirely of well-to-do whites, even well-to-do Christians
—why was it necessary to impose so many onerous restrictions
on how the residents could use their property? Perhaps no sub-
division illustrated this paradox better than Pacific Palisades. Set
in the hills of Los Angeles, high above the Pacific, it was devel-
oped in the mid-s under the auspices of the Southern Cali-
fornia Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church (and, like
so many other subdivisions, laid out by Olmsted Brothers). Al-
though the conference envisioned the Palisades as a God-fearing
Christian community—a community that would be home to
none but ‘‘Christian people and institutions of all denomina-
tions’’—it nonetheless felt obliged to impose the customary re-
strictions.26 These restrictions were aimed at people other than
African-Americans, Asian-Americans, Jews, and the lower, work-
ing, and, in a few cases, middle classes for the obvious reason that
these ‘‘undesirables’’ could not buy or build in most restricted
subdivisions.
       

Who were these other people? According to the subdividers,

the restrictions were aimed not so much at the residents as at
their neighbors. They were designed to protect residents against
what an employee of the Van Sweringen brothers called ‘‘acts of
others.’’ As an ad for the Country Club District said, ‘‘The re-
strictions applying to your own lot mean little to you. It is the
restrictions on your neighbor’s lot which count.’’ The residents
had no reason to be afraid of all the neighbors or even most of
them. But they had good reason to be afraid of the few who, in
the words of Olmsted, Jr., ‘‘through carelessness, ignorance, ne-
glect,’’ or sheer numbers, ‘‘destroy or seriously impair . . . the very
qualities which drew them [to the community in the first place].’’
Of the few, Olmsted said, who would put up an apartment house
on a lot designed for a single-family home, who would build right
up to the property line, or who would open a store or a saloon
in a residential neighborhood. Of the few, as Cheney put it, who
would erect a house ‘‘that is ugly, ungainly, or in such bad taste
as to make living near by most uncomfortable and undesirable.’’
And of the few, said Bouton, who would lead the other residents
astray. ‘‘People may not want to burn the soft coal to start with
in your subdivision,’’ he pointed out, ‘‘but if one of the neighbors
does decide to burn it then the other neighbors will say that as
long as they are getting the black smoke in their houses anyway
they might as well take advantage of the economy of burning soft
coal.’’ 27
But why did the residents have reason to be afraid of any of
their neighbors when all of them were white and well-to-do and
virtually all were Christian? What was there to be afraid of in
Cahuenga Park, a tract in the San Fernando Valley, where, its
subdividers assured prospective purchasers, ‘‘You know . . . what
  

type of man [your neighbor] will be’’? In River Oaks, where the
residents would live in ‘‘a neighborhood,’’ said the developers,
‘‘in which the people you like, like to live’’? Or in Brendonwood,
home of ‘‘the very best representatives of Indianapolis citizen-
ship,’’ where, said the subdividers, ‘‘your neighbors will be men
and women of similar taste who, like yourself, will love Brendon-
wood and treasure all that it gives them’’? In other words, why
were the subdividers and their prospective purchasers afraid of
people like themselves—and not just of people of racial groups
other than white and social classes other than middle and upper
middle? What did they know—or, if know is too strong, sense—
that led them to expect the worst of others? If the ‘‘bourgeois
utopia’’ was, as J. C. Nichols said of Sunset Hill, one of the most
exclusive tracts in the Country Club District, ‘‘the result of our
supreme faith in human nature,’’ why was it covered with so
many restrictions besides racial covenants and minimum cost re-
quirements? Were there no informal mechanisms—no measures
less oppressive than restrictive covenants—to prevent the neigh-
bors from using their property in ways that would have under-
mined the community’s long-term well-being? 28
In an attempt to answer these questions a good starting point
is an often-quoted entry from the diary of Philip Hone. A suc-
cessful New York businessman and onetime mayor of the city,
Hone lived on lower Broadway in the s, at which time what
a special New York State Senate commission called ‘‘the inexo-
rable demands of business’’ were transforming Lower Manhattan
from residences into stores, offices, workshops, and warehouses.
By  Hone was afraid he would soon be forced to move up-
town. ‘‘Almost everybody downtown is in the same predicament,’’
he wrote, ‘‘for all the dwelling houses are to be converted into
       

stores.’’ Hone moved; so did many other well-to-do New Yorkers.

But no one forced them to. No public agency condemned their
property to make way for a school, a park, or a street. Why then
did they move? One reason was that they were unwilling to live
amid stores and offices and the traffic, noise, and dirt that fol-
lowed in their wake. Another was that they were aware that once
their property was reassessed on the basis of its potential for
commercial use their taxes would rise. But above all they moved
because, as Hone put it, ‘‘We are tempted with prices so exorbi-
tantly high that none can resist.’’ 29 What they could not resist was
the prospect of a windfall, the chance to capitalize on an antici-
pated change in land use, the opportunity to sell their property
for much more than they paid for it—often so much more that
they could build a new house uptown and still pocket a great deal
of money.
In a country pervaded by what Alexis de Tocqueville, perhaps
the most astute observer of antebellum America, called ‘‘com-
mercial habits and money-conscious spirit,’’ the prospect of a
windfall was irresistible to many others besides Hone and his
neighbors. For all the momentous changes in the late nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries, it was no less irresistible in the
s than in the s. Small wonder, as Thorstein Veblen wrote
in , that wheeling and dealing in real estate was, next to
poker, the ‘‘great American game.’’ It was also the source of many
of America’s great fortunes, one of the greatest of which was
made by John Jacob Astor, who once said, ‘‘Could I begin life
again, knowing what I now know, and had money to invest, I
would buy every foot of land on the island of Manhattan.’’ For
every Astor, there were thousands of others who dabbled in real
estate, often with success. As one journalist wrote about Los
  

Angeles in the s, ‘‘Time and again people have bought land at
prices that were highway robbery at the time, only to sell at an ad-
vance in a few years.’’ Even those who ignored the advice of repu-
table bankers and real estate dealers and bought overpriced lots
in subdivisions for speculative purposes ‘‘have in a few years sold
at a large profit.’’ The profit came from rising land values, which
were driven by population growth, economic development, im-
provements in transportation, and changes in land use, especially
changes from rural to urban and residential to commercial.30
To many Americans, a lot was as much an investment as a
homesite. And to some it was exclusively an investment. Even a
home was more than a residence.Visiting Los Angeles in the mid-
s, journalist Albert W. Atwood ‘‘was struck, not altogether
pleasantly, by the great number of people who had sold, or expect
to sell their homes at a profit.’’ The subdividers were well aware
of this ‘‘money-conscious spirit.’’ And in all but a few highly ex-
clusive developments like Hancock Park, they tailored their ads
accordingly. Beverly Wood was ‘‘Doubly Profitable,’’ said its pro-
moters; it was both a splendid setting for a suburban home and
‘‘the most promising investment today in Los Angeles foothill
property.’’ Brentwood Terrace was not only for home seekers but
also for ‘‘hard headed investors.’’ Lots were ‘‘a top-notch invest-
ment’’ in Belle Mead, ‘‘a splendid investment’’ in Altadena Coun-
try Club Park, and an investment that ‘‘cannot be duplicated’’ in
Hollywood Crescent Rose Tract No. . Other Los Angeles subdivi-
sions promised ‘‘ ,’’ ‘‘tremendous profits,’’ and ‘‘
.’’ Still others assured prospective purchasers that prop-
erty values would rise by  to  percent. The message was
the same in other cities. Make sure your home is ‘‘an investment
as well as a dwelling place,’’ said an ad for Scarsdale Estates in
       

Westchester County. ‘‘Build your home today in a spot where, if

necessity [or presumably opportunity] should arise, you can sell
it quickly at a good profit.’’ 31
The suburbanites were confident that most people would re-
fuse to sell to an African- or Asian-American or other ‘‘undesir-
able’’ person even if offered a very high price. (So were the sub-
dividers. Time and again, Nichols said, residents of the Country
Club District told him, ‘‘I could get more money for my property
from so and so but I certainly would not do it after everything
your company has done to create such fine surroundings.’’)32 But
the suburbanites were far from confident that most people would
turn down a good offer from a desirable person, a well-to-do white
Christian like themselves, who intended to use the property for
an undesirable purpose. They were afraid that most people who
owned a large corner lot would sell to a builder who wanted to
erect an apartment house (or, even worse, open a store, saloon,
or gas station) and was ready to offer five or ten times what the
lot was worth as the site for a single-family home. They were
also afraid that if offered enough money many would give an out-
door advertising company permission to erect a billboard on their
property or an oil company the right to drill for petroleum be-
neath it. They were afraid that if the price was right most people
would move to another (perhaps more fashionable) suburb and
put up another (perhaps more expensive) house. They were afraid
that was what most people would do because they knew that if
they found themselves in the same position that was what they
would do.
That was what they would do because that was what they had
always done. Most Americans moved many times—from Europe
to America, from east to west, from the countryside to the city,
  

from one city to another, from the city to the suburbs, and from
one suburb to the next. Even in colonial times, a British observer
wrote, ‘‘wandering about seems engrafted in their Nature.’’ By the
antebellum period, it was second nature to most Americans. As
Tocqueville remarked:

In the United States a man builds a house in which to spend his

old age, and he sells it before the roof is on; he plants a garden and
lets it just as the trees are coming into bearing; he brings a field
into tillage and leaves other men to gather the crops; he embraces
a profession and gives it up; he settles in a place, which he soon
afterwards leaves to carry his changeable longings elsewhere.

‘‘If God were suddenly to call the world to judgment,’’ wrote an-
other European visitor in the s, ‘‘He would surprise two-
thirds of the American population on the road like ants.’’ Said nov-
elist William Dean Howells in the s, it was un-American for
a man to yearn for ‘‘the homes of his ancestors, or even the scenes
of his own boyhood.’’ Writing in the s, historian George
William Pierson nicely summed up the restlessness of the Ameri-
can people. ‘‘We began as explorers, empire builders, pilgrims
and refugees, and we have been moving, moving ever since.’’ If
‘‘an impressive number of us now own our own homes,’’ he added,
‘‘these are certainly not where our grandfathers lived, and prob-
ably not where we ourselves were born.’’ 33
Over the past few decades a host of studies have confirmed
Pierson’s observations. What two historians call a ‘‘dizzying rate
of population turnover’’—and two others a ‘‘remarkable imper-
manence’’—was characteristic of virtually all cities in the nine-
teenth and twentieth centuries. About one of every four families,
possibly as many as one of every three, moved each year. Some
       

were uprooted when their homes were torn down to make way for
stores and offices, streets and parks, bridges and railroads. Others
chose to move, at times because they could not find a job that
enabled them to make ends meet, at times because they found
a better or cheaper place to live, and at times because they just
wanted to start anew somewhere else. The result, write historians
Howard P. Chudacoff and Judith E. Smith, was that, ‘‘From Bos-
ton to San Francisco, from Minneapolis to San Antonio, no more
than half the families residing in a city at any one time could be
found there ten years later.’’ (Far fewer could be found in the same
neighborhood, and fewer still in the same house.) Or as histori-
ans Stephan Thernstrom and Peter R. Knights point out, ‘‘The
typical city-dweller of nineteenth-century America had not been
born in the city in which he resided, nor was he likely to live out
his entire life there.’’ It did not matter whether he was a home-
owner or tenant, rich or poor, white or black.34
This endemic restlessness troubled many Americans, few
more than John F. W. Ware, the Unitarian minister from Cam-
bridge who decried the ‘‘want of permanence’’ as ‘‘one of the cry-
ing sins of the age.’’ As unsettled as a ‘‘wandering horse of the
desert,’’ we Americans ‘‘strike our tents, and flit at any moment,’’
he wrote in . Some, it seems, aspire just ‘‘to see how many
houses’’ they can live in. ‘‘All this,’’ he said, ‘‘is fatal to the home.
It breaks up any thing like continuity of life. It prevents fixedness
of habit, and so fixedness of purpose.’’ Above all, it weakens ‘‘that
local attachment which is one of the strongest and purest senti-
ments of the human breast.’’ Woe to a people ‘‘who have ceased
to regard permanency of abode as among the cardinal virtues.’’
Ironically, J. C. Nichols, whose success depended on persuading
local residents that they would be much better off moving to the
  

suburbs than staying in the city, voiced many of the same con-
cerns. Pointing out, with some exaggeration, that Kansas City
residents seem to ‘‘move pretty nearly every month,’’ he said in
 that it is deplorable that a man ‘‘will offer his home for
sale’’ after his wife and daughter ‘‘have carefully planned it,’’ he
has built it, and his family had moved in. How sad, Nichols re-
marked, when ‘‘some fellow comes along and says, ‘Will you sell
your home?’ [and the owner replies,] ‘You bet your life; I will sell
anything I have except my wife and children.’ ’’ How sad that he
is ‘‘perfectly willing’’ to uproot his family ‘‘in order to get a little
more money to speculate in oil and other stocks.’’ 35
These concerns did not keep Nichols from encouraging people
to move—though once they moved to the Country Club District,
he spared no effort to persuade them to stay put. Nor did these
concerns stop Americans from moving, especially when a desir-
able person, whatever his intentions, offered to buy or rent their
property for an ‘‘exorbitantly high’’ price. From their viewpoint,
it made little difference if they moved from, say, one part of Palos
Verdes Estates to another. Nor did it make much difference if they
moved from Palos Verdes to Oak Knoll, Beverly Hills, Hancock
Park, Bel-Air or any other highly exclusive suburb with large lots,
winding roads, and expansive views. For residents who were in-
clined to move but could not afford a lot in these communities,
there were a great many less expensive subdivisions that were
well within the reach of the middle class and, in some cases, even
the working class. The residents had so many subdivisions to
choose from because far more land had been subdivided than was
needed. By , at which time the population of Los Angeles was
approaching one million, enough land had been subdivided for
more than seven million.36 Residents had a great many choices in
       

New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Detroit too. And they had
more than a few even in smaller places like Baltimore and Kansas
City.
The result of this endemic restlessness was not only that Amer-
icans were constantly on the move and routinely settling in com-
munities to which they had no ‘‘local attachments,’’ but also that
they invariably lived among strangers, among people who, in Pier-
son’s words, had no ‘‘prior knowledge of each other,’’ much less of
one another’s families, of their fathers and grandfathers, of their
close relatives and old friends, of their past triumphs and tribu-
lations.37 Before Vanderlip, Cheney, Olmsted, Jr., and the other
newcomers moved to Palos Verdes, no one lived there except
the Bixby family and a few dozen truck farmers, many of them
Japanese-Americans who were later barred from buying, renting,
and occupying property there. And virtually no one lived on what
later became Beverly Hills, Oak Knoll, Huntington Palisades, and
the hundreds, if not thousands, of less fashionable subdivisions
that were laid out in the late nineteenth and early twentieth cen-
turies. Moreover, the people who bought lots and built houses
in these subdivisions did not find themselves in a modern ver-
sion of an old New England town with long-settled families and
well-established norms. To put it another way, most suburbanites
would have to create a community before they could join it.
What was true of the suburbs was true of the cities. A case in
point, albeit an extreme one, was Los Angeles. From a town of
only , in , it grew into a city of more than . million
(and a metropolitan area of more than . million) by , a hun-
dredfold increase in half a century. Most of the newcomers came
from elsewhere in the United States, the largest contingent by
far from the Midwest. As one journalist wrote, with more than a
  

little disdain, they were ‘‘ ‘leading citizens’ from Wichita; honor-

ary pallbearers from Emmetsburg; Good Templars from Sedalia;
honest spinsters from Grundy Center—all commonplace people,
many of them with small competencies made from the sale of
farm lands or from the lifelong savings of small mercantile busi-
nesses.’’ After decades of ‘‘hard labor and drudgery,’’ wrote an-
other journalist, some were looking for an easier life, free from
the ‘‘cold winters and blistering summers of the prairies.’’ Others,
including architect Myron Hunt and publisher Harry Chandler,
were attracted by the region’s salubrious climate. Still others were
hoping to find good jobs in the rapidly growing metropolis. At
first most newcomers made the long trip by train. Later many
drove—the well-to-do in comfortable sedans, the less well-off,
wrote one observer, in ‘‘rattletrap automobiles, their fenders tied
with string, and curtains flapping in the breeze.’’ ‘‘As New York is
the melting-pot for the peoples of Europe,’’ said another, ‘‘so Los
Angeles is the melting-pot for the peoples of the United States.’’ 38
What the Chamber of Commerce called a ‘‘great stream of
humanity’’ left in its wake a metropolis in which, wrote one jour-
nalist, ‘‘nearly all are newcomers.’’ Speaking to the Underwriting
Subscribers of the Palos Verdes Project in , E. G. Lewis said,
‘‘They tell me that a man who has been here six years is a native
son, and if he has been here eight years he is an old inhabitant.’’
On a trip to Los Angeles eight years later, a visitor was struck
by ‘‘the singular fact’’ that in a city of a million and a quarter
‘‘every other person you see has been there less than five years’’
and more than nine of every ten less than fifteen years. A few
residents arrived in the mid-nineteenth century. But for every
one of them there were hundreds who arrived in the late nine-
teenth and early twentieth, among whom were some of the city’s
       

most influential and colorful characters. Besides Hunt, Chandler,

and McWilliams, they included Henry E. Huntington, the tran-
sit and real estate magnate, Samuel Goldwyn, the flamboyant
Hollywood producer, Frank Wiggins, secretary of the Los Ange-
les Chamber of Commerce (and the region’s leading booster), and
Aimee Semple McPherson and Reverend Bob Shuler, the city’s
most popular (and, in the case of ‘‘Sister Aimee,’’ most notorious)
evangelists. Whether the expression ‘‘I’m a stranger here myself,’’
with which residents often greeted one another, originated in Los
Angeles is not clear, McWilliams writes. What is clear is that it
reflected one of the quintessential features of the metropolis.39
Were there communities in urban America where the residents
had so strong an attachment to a place and so close a relation-
ship with the neighbors that even if offered a very high price for
their property they would have refused to sell and move else-
where? Were there communities where the neighbors could have
drawn upon family ties, old friendships, and traditional values
to dissuade a resident from using property in an unacceptable
way (or from selling or leasing it to someone who would so use
it)? Perhaps there were, but if so, these communities were few
and far between and highly unlikely to be found in the new sub-
urbs of the big cities. There may also have been something else
about these suburbs that discouraged close relationships. Writ-
ing in  about Rochelle Park, a subdivision in southern West-
chester County, journalist Samuel Swift noted that the developer
had taken pains to ‘‘preserve proper standards’’ and to exclude
anyone ‘‘known to be obnoxious.’’ But he pointed out that ‘‘no
close friendship is necessary because dwellings adjoin. You may,
you must, be civil to the man next door, but you need not invite
him to dinner even once a year unless you like him; you need not
  

even offer to share a seat with him in the train to and from New
York.’’ 40 In such a loose-knit community the residents would have
been hard pressed to find measures less oppressive than restric-
tive covenants to prevent the neighbors from using their property
in undesirable ways.

A World of Nuisances

Of the many activities that were banned by these cove-

nants, some were intrinsically undesirable. By this I mean that
they were undesirable to virtually all Americans and by virtually
any definition. They might well be necessary—and even highly
profitable. They might produce goods for which there was a strong
demand. And they might provide much-sought-after, if not nec-
essarily well-paying, jobs for working people, especially recent
immigrants. But so far as most people were concerned, these ac-
tivities were wholly incompatible with a pleasant residential en-
vironment. Given a choice, no one would raise a family close to
them. In this category were activities that were popularly (and, in
some cases, even legally) deemed nuisances. Among the worst of
them were slaughterhouses, tanneries, foundries, refineries, and
brickyards, one of which was at issue in Hadacheck v. Sebastian,
a case in which the U.S. Supreme Court upheld the constitution-
ality of the pioneering Los Angeles zoning ordinance in . Also
in this category were factories. As Olmsted, Jr., told Joel Hurt, ‘‘It
is obvious that in a first-class residential neighborhood . . . any
form of factory would be extremely objectionable’’—as would ‘‘a
large stable for the livery business or for a contractor’s use.’’ 41
Although they were not nuisances per se, saloons were also
‘‘extremely objectionable.’’ Indeed, to many middle- and upper-
       

middle-class Protestants, they were even more objectionable than

factories and livery stables. What made saloons so objectionable
—what made it ‘‘impossible,’’ said the Chicago Board of Alder-
men’s Licensing Committee in the early s, ‘‘to establish good
neighborhoods in the[ir] midst’’—were two things. One was that
they attracted the wrong sorts of people. At its best, said its de-
fenders, the saloon was ‘‘the poor man’s club’’ and ‘‘the work-
ingman’s club.’’ As a miner wrote, ‘‘It offers a common meeting
place. It dispenses good cheer. It ministers to the craving for fel-
lowship. To the exhausted, worn out body, to the strained nerves
—the relaxation brings rest.’’ For its working-class customers, the
saloon served as a surrogate home, a mailing address, a labor ex-
change, and a place to eat, sleep, cash a check, and use the toi-
let. (It also served as an avenue of social mobility for the saloon-
keeper.) But the middle- and upper-middle-class suburbanites
did not want in their communities an institution that attracted
working people. Even less did they want in their midst an institu-
tion that, in historian Jon M. Kingsdale’s words, offered an alter-
native to ‘‘the traditional American ascetic ethic of work, frugality,
self-control, discipline and sobriety,’’ which were the very values
the suburbanites hoped to preserve in their ‘‘bourgeois utopias.’’ 42
The other thing was that saloons led to what John Marshall
Barker, a professor of sociology at Boston University’s School
of Theology, called ‘‘moral and social degradation.’’ At its worst,
Barker and other critics charged, the saloon fostered ‘‘poverty
and thriftlessness,’’ weakened resistance to ‘‘infectious and conta-
gious diseases,’’ undermined self-esteem, and promoted ‘‘an un-
American spirit among the foreign born.’’ It was ‘‘a menace to
the family,’’ a place where men spent their hard-earned wages,
bringing ‘‘untold suffering and sorrow to many wives, mothers,
  

and children.’’ It was also ‘‘a veritable school and hotbed of crime
[and immorality],’’ one that lured boys into theft and gambling
and girls into prostitution. (It accounted for fully  percent of
criminal activity, critics contended, and, said the Chicago Vice
Commission, it did more than any institution other than the
brothel to encourage ‘‘the social evil.’’) It was ‘‘the chief promoter
of bribery and rascality in politics’’ too. ‘‘Wherever the saloon is
most strongly entrenched,’’ wrote Barker, ‘‘there knavery, plun-
der, graft, and bad government are most rampant.’’ In a country
where successive waves of temperance reform had won millions
of adherents, a country where many cities, states, and in  the
nation itself had adopted prohibition, it is easy to see why sub-
dividers commonly imposed restrictions banning the sale of ‘‘in-
toxicating liquors’’—or, in the quaint phrase from an  Ken-
tucky deed, ‘‘ardent spirits.’’ 43
But it is not easy to see why subdividers commonly imposed
restrictions banning a great many activities that were not intrin-
sically undesirable. It is not obvious why subdividers, many of
whom permitted doctors, dentists, and lawyers to use part of their
houses as offices, barred other owners from using their lots for a
hardware, stationery, or drug store, a grocery, bakery, or butcher’s
shop, an office or small workshop for an electrician, plumber,
or carpenter or a retail shop of any kind. It is easy to point out
that John Charles Olmsted advised Walter H. Leimert, the Oak-
land developer, ‘‘against allowing stores’’ on his tract and that his
brother Frederick recommended to Joel Hurt that ‘‘stores for ordi-
nary household supplies . . . would much better be kept at a dis-
tance of from quarter to half a mile from your property if it can be
managed.’’ But it is not easy to explain why the Olmsted brothers
took it for granted that the proximity of shops and stores dis-
       

qualified a subdivision as a site for ‘‘first-class residences.’’ Nor is

it easy to account for why both Richard M. Hurd, the prominent
real estate economist, and Henry Clarke, the former director of
sales for Palos Verdes Estates, held that in a residential district a
commercial building was a nuisance.44
Why did many Americans, especially middle- and upper-
middle-class Americans, find stores, shops, and offices so objec-
tionable in residential neighborhoods? One reason is that even a
business that was, in Nichols’s words, ‘‘a very great convenience’’
was incompatible with their vision of the ‘‘bourgeois utopia.’’
As Minnesota judge Oscar Hallam put it, ‘‘The man of thrift,
whether of large means or small, looks forward to a home out
from the center of business activities, where he may live upon
a plot of ground more or less ample in space, suitable for the
bringing up of a family.’’ One is willing to put up with a good
deal of inconvenience in a quest for ‘‘better light and air, better
moral surroundings, and better conditions for recreation’’ and in
an effort to avoid the tumult and traffic that accompanied even
the least noxious businesses. Residents of fashionable neighbor-
hoods, wrote H. S. Kissell, wanted nothing that ‘‘savors of com-
mercialism,’’ not even a greenhouse, which, he said, filled the
site not so much with flowers and bushes as with fertilizer and
shipping crates. Given this antipathy to commercial activities,
even the least offensive store, in Hallam’s words, ‘‘annihilates
the value of residences round them.’’ 45 Doctors’, dentists’, and
lawyers’ offices savored of ‘‘commercialism’’ too. But for fear of
driving away some of the most affluent of their prospective pur-
chasers, a good many subdividers excluded in-home professional
offices from the customary restrictions against commercial ac-
tivity.
  

Another reason is that businesses that were far from offensive

were a source of instability. As American Architect and Building
News, a Boston periodical, observed in , ‘‘it is the uneasy re-
tail shopkeeper who forces change in our cities,’’ who ‘‘transforms
one-time agreeable residential districts into business sections. . . .
He pursues his customers, and they flee from him.’’ A blacksmith
shop, store, hotel, and residence could ‘‘dwell peacefully side by
side’’ in a village, wrote George E. Kessler, the landscape archi-
tect who laid out the first tract in Roland Park, but not in a city
and not in its suburbs. There the retailers, in a misguided effort
to get close to their customers, inadvertently drive out the resi-
dents. In much the same way as an African- or Asian-American
family, a single store was a serious threat, said the Country Club
District’s Homes Association.Vigilance, it wrote in , must be
‘‘exercised to snuff out an occasional business that creeps into the
district, whether it be a millinery shop, musical establishment,
etc., preventing the entering wedge of business outside of [the]
business centers.’’ 46 The subdividers and their prospective pur-
chasers favored restrictions against stores, shops, and offices out
of a deep-seated fear that these businesses would set in motion
the forces that would undermine the permanence of the commu-
nity—that, as Olmsted, Sr., warned, they would destroy the fea-
tures that had drawn people to the suburbs in the first place.
Nor is it obvious why many subdividers barred owners from
using their lots for residences other than single-family houses.
What makes this so puzzling is that the restrictions against multi-
family housing barred not only boarding and lodging houses,
wooden ‘‘three-deckers,’’ which, said a spokesman for the Massa-
chusetts Civil League in , were spreading all over eastern New
England ‘‘like the cholera or yellow fever,’’ and squalid tenement
       

houses, which, wrote E. R. L. Gould, a leader of the model tene-

ment movement, in , were ‘‘standing menaces to the family,
to morality, to the public health, and to civic integrity.’’ They
also banned pleasant garden apartments and luxurious apart-
ment houses, many of which were designed for the well-to-do or,
in some cases, the very wealthy. The subdividers were well aware
of what was commonly referred to as ‘‘flat fever’’ or ‘‘flat craze.’’
And they were troubled by the growing demand for apartments—
which they attributed largely to the cost of single-family homes,
the convenience of apartment-house living, and the shortage of
domestic servants. Some subdividers held that a well-designed
apartment house of not more than three or four stories (and not
more than two apartments a floor) was not intrinsically unde-
sirable. But afraid that many suburbanites would strongly object
to an apartment house in their neighborhood, most subdividers
were ordinarily reluctant to sell lots to apartment-house build-
ers—except on occasion if the lots were located on the edge of
the subdivision or the apartments served as a buffer between the
few stores and shops and the many single-family homes.47
The subdividers’ fears were so well grounded that they raise the
following question. Why did many Americans, especially middle-
and upper-middle-class Americans, find multifamily houses of
any kind objectionable in residential neighborhoods? The answer
is that they saw apartment houses as a grave threat to Ameri-
can society. With their common hallways and stairways, they
spread infectious diseases. They also spewed smoke and soot
over the neighborhood. And they were very noisy. Even worse,
they were firetraps and, wrote a North Dakota judge, a major
cause of ‘‘the great increase’’ in crime and delinquency. They
undermined ‘‘civic spirit.’’ And they discouraged homeowner-
  

ship, wrote Lawrence Veiller, the leading tenement house re-

former, who declared, ‘‘A city cannot be a city of home owners
where the multiple-dwelling flourishes.’’ ‘‘The apartment house
of to-day becomes the tenement of to-morrow,’’ said a Minneapo-
lis civic leader. It was just a matter of time, as few as fifteen years,
according to one observer, as many as twenty-five, according to
another. Some Americans did not agree that the apartment house
per se jeopardized public health and public safety or undermined
civic spirit. Too much noise is unhealthy, wrote Judge Florence E.
Allen of Ohio, but there was no evidence that apartment house
residents were noisier than other Americans. Nor was there any
evidence that apartment houses were more susceptible to fire
than single-family houses, especially ones with a wooden frame
and a shingle roof.48 But among middle- and upper-middle-class
Americans, Judge Allen was in the minority.
Although Judge Allen was not convinced, many Americans
also believed that apartment houses were a threat to public mor-
ality. (As Allen wrote, they held that ‘‘the people who live in
apartment houses [are] less moral per se than those who live in
single[-family] dwellings.’’)Underlying this belief was the assump-
tion that morality was contingent upon privacy. As Reverend
Ware pointed out, privacy was possible only in a single-family
house, a house that ‘‘stand[s] apart, neither subject to overlooking
or overhearing,’’ a house ‘‘within an enclosure sacred to it.’’ How,
asked Ware, could a family maintain its privacy in a building
where ‘‘through a thin partition comes the thrumming of a piano,
the scolding of a mother, the crying of the child, the entrance
and exit of every guest?’’ Where privacy is lost, wrote Bernard J.
Newman, director of the Pennsylvania School for Social Services,
morality declines. Men indulge in drinking, gambling, and pro-
       

miscuity. Families stop going to church. Couples file for divorce

in alarming numbers. And the birth rate falls, a sign of what one
critic of the apartment house called ‘‘race suicide.’’ (Ironically,
some of the same critics who decried the absence of privacy in
apartment houses complained that by virtue of their anonymity
they encouraged prostitution, providing ‘‘a shield to the lewd man
and woman [seeking] to carry on their immoral practices.’’) As
historian Gwendolyn Wright points out, the apartment house be-
came a scapegoat for many of the most pressing social problems
in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.49
Many Americans also found apartment houses objectionable
on still other grounds. Apartment houses, critics charged, were
ugly, with as much appeal as factories and barracks. Instead of
creating values, said city planner Harland Bartholomew, the typi-
cal apartment absorbs values, values based on the peace, quiet,
and fresh air found only in neighborhoods of one- and two-family
homes. Worst of all, apartment houses attracted the wrong sort
of people. As Judge Francis P. Finch of the New York State Court
of Appeals put it, apartments ‘‘bring together a changing and
floating population under one roof, having no ownership of their
own, and caring little for anything beyond their personal comfort
and immediate needs.’’ They were filled with tenants, ‘‘a class of
nomads,’’ said Harvard president Charles W. Eliot, ‘‘families that
are here to-day and gone to-morrow, that have no stable footing
in the town and no interest in its affairs.’’ (From the fifteenth floor
of an apartment house, a Philadelphian noted, it did not mat-
ter whether the streets and sidewalks were properly cleaned or
the ashes and garbage promptly disposed of, much less whether
the city was well governed.) By virtue of their nomadic quality,
apartment house dwellers were unwelcome in residential neigh-
  

borhoods. When they move in, said J. C. Nichols, the residents

assume the neighborhood is on the way down.50
Many Americans ‘‘find apartment, flat, or hotel life necessary
or preferable,’’ wrote Judge Thomas J. Lennon of the California
Supreme Court in . Many families enjoy an ‘‘ideal home
life in apartments, flats, and hotels.’’ And many single-family
homes are racked by ‘‘dissension and discord.’’ But that being
said, Lennon declared, multifamily housing has so many serious
drawbacks that ‘‘a sentiment practically universal’’ has developed
among Americans that ‘‘a single family home [is] more desir-
able for the promotion and perpetuation of family life than an
apartment, hotel, or flat.’’ And ‘‘few persons, if given their choice,
would, we think, deliberately prefer to establish their homes and
to rear their children in an apartment house neighborhood rather
than in a single home neighborhood.’’ Others made the point
more sharply. ‘‘It is hard to think of a real home stored in [these]
diminutive pigeon holes [where] the natural, free intercourse of
the family is crowded out,’’ wrote one. In even ‘‘the better class
tenements’’ everyone is out all the time, said another. ‘‘There is
little or no home life. The bond between the members of the
family is gone.’’ Taking this position to its logical, though far-
fetched, conclusion, many Americans held that an apartment, no
matter how well designed and well built, was not a home and
should not be mistaken for one. A ‘‘ ‘home’’’ said one, ‘‘is either a
detached house or two-family house’’—nothing else.51
The erection of even one apartment house in a residential
neighborhood was a source of great concern because it was widely
believed that the building of one led to the building of others. And
once that happened the neighborhood was doomed. As Charles
H. Cheney pointed out:
       

Once a block of homes is invaded by flats and apartments, few

new single family dwellings ever go in afterwards. It is marked
for change, and the land adjoining it is forever after held on a
speculative basis in the hope that it may all become commercially
remunerative, generally without thought of the great majority of
adjoining owners who have invested for a home and home neigh-
borhood only.

Judge Lennon agreed. An apartment house, he declared, might

enhance the value of adjacent property for other apartment
houses, but it ‘‘detracts from the value of neighboring property
for home building.’’ Olmsted Brothers agreed, too, and advised
Walter H. Leimert to refrain from setting aside any lots for apart-
ment houses on the grounds that they ‘‘would have a most delete-
rious effect on the value of the private residence district beyond.’’
The firm told another client that if he set aside some of his land
for apartment houses he ‘‘should make up [his] mind to develop
the rest of the property in a similar manner.’’ Summing up the
conventional wisdom, the U.S. Supreme Court declared in 
that ‘‘apartment houses, which in a different environment would
be not only entirely unobjectionable but highly desirable, come
very near to being nuisances [in a community of single-family
homes].’’ 52

Setback Lines, Architectural Controls, and Fences

Some subdividers were content just to ban the erection of

residences other than single-family houses. But many also im-
posed a host of other restrictions, some of them highly onerous,
on the siting, design, and landscaping of these houses. These re-
strictions raise interesting questions, the answers to which re-
  

veal a good deal about the fears that permeated suburbia in the
late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Why, for example,
did many subdividers require that the houses be set back not
only from the front line of the lot—a practice, wrote Olmsted
Brothers, ‘‘which is universally recognized to be desirable in any
suburb’’—but from the rear and side lines as well? 53 Why did a
few go so far as to put a limit on how much of the lot the house
could cover? Why did many provide that no house—and, in some
cases, no garage and other outbuilding—could be constructed
until they (or an art or architectural jury) approved the plans?
Why did some specify the style of architecture, the type of build-
ing material, the color of the exterior walls, and even the pitch
of the roofs? Why, too, did many subdividers also impose restric-
tions on the grounds, among the most noteworthy of which were
ones regulating the height, character, and design of fences—and,
in a few cases, even banning fences outright?
The least onerous and least controversial of these restrictions,
setback requirements, were designed to serve two closely related
purposes. As a well-informed observer wrote, the ‘‘natural ten-
dency’’ of the typical suburbanite was to build his home closer to
the road than the neighbors’, thereby commanding ‘‘a little better
view up and down the street.’’ This created an uneven (and unat-
tractive) building line. It also left little room in front of the house
for trees, shrubs, and what one authority on landscape garden-
ing called ‘‘an unbroken ornamental lawn,’’ a ‘‘well-manicured,’’
if not particularly useful, front yard. Only by ‘‘keeping all build-
ings back a certain distance from the street’’—at least twenty-
five feet and preferably forty to fifty, the Olmsteds advised Joel
Hurt—could the subdividers restrain the homeowners. As Dun-
can McDuffie, developer of St. Francis Wood, put it, setback re-
       

quirements, in conjunction with wide lots, gave ‘‘the entire prop-

erty the appearance of a park or private estate,’’ no small thing in
subdivisions named Lawrence Park and Highland Park as well as
Scarsdale Estates and Palos Verdes Estates. As historian Robert
Fishman points out, the setback requirements gave middle- and
upper-middle-class residents the illusion of living in a parklike
setting that was ordinarily well beyond their means.54
Setback requirements, McDuffie wrote, also enhanced ‘‘the
sense of privacy.’’ As Reverend Ware stressed, nothing was as vital
to a wholesome domestic life as what the Olmsted brothers called
‘‘a desirable degree of privacy.’’ The problem, as they saw it, was
that left to their own devices the typical suburbanites, especially
those who owned a narrow and shallow lot, were likely to build
right up to the side or rear lines. (For example, a homeowner was
likely to build as far north as possible in order ‘‘to have as much of
the agreeable southern exposure on his own land,’’ a practice that
did ‘‘a decided injury to the neighboring lot north of it.’’) With-
out side and rear setbacks—at least five feet and preferably ten at
Druid Hills, advised the Olmsteds, and even more at The Uplands
and other subdivisions on which they worked—suburban houses
would be built cheek-by-jowl. Before long they would have only
a little more open space around them than rowhouses in Boston,
New York, and Philadelphia. Living right next to their neighbors,
whose windows, in the Olmsteds’ words, ‘‘directly overlooked’’
their homes and yards, suburbanites would have as little privacy
as city dwellers.55 Small wonder most suburbanites went along
with setback requirements.
Far more onerous and controversial than setback requirements
were architectural controls, which did not catch on until the s
and s, long after most other restrictions were well estab-
  

lished. In the face of widespread opposition, what drove the sub-

dividers to impose architectural controls? What led them to
conclude that minimum cost requirements were not enough to
ensure architectural quality and architectural harmony? One rea-
son is that the subdividers were afraid some lot owners would
build houses that were, in architect Oswald C. Herring’s words,
‘‘of commonplace or freakish design’’—awkwardly proportioned,
vulgar in outline and glaring in color, an eyesore to the neigh-
borhood.’’ If even a few owners built what journalist F. A. Cush-
ing Smith called architectural ‘‘gimcrack[s]’’ or ‘‘monstrosities’’—
or even, said J. C. Nichols, if they ‘‘unthinkingly’’ erected a badly
designed house—the results would be disastrous. Subdividers
would be hard pressed to sell the remaining lots or forced to sell
them at a reduced price. And property values would fall on the
nearby lots. As the Palos Verdes Bulletin said, ugly houses, ‘‘care-
less or stupid in their use of color or line,’’ are ‘‘literally as great
a menace to realty values in their neighborhoods as a firetrap or
a noxious industry.’’ 56
Another reason is that the subdividers were afraid some lot
owners would build houses that were well designed but out of
harmony with other houses in the neighborhood. As Frank L.
Meline, a prominent Los Angeles real estate man, pointed out,
even a minimum cost requirement would do nothing to stop a
‘‘well-intentioned owner [from] laying the foundation for a
pseudo-Italian villa,’’ even if ‘‘on the lot right next to him and
within twenty feet perhaps, another enterprising homebuilder is
erecting a Colonial cottage of the Georgian period; and perhaps
within a stone’s-throw a deep chocolate-hued Spanish type home
is nearing completion.’’ (Or as journalist Chester S. Chase noted,
‘‘a huge palace would be as unwelcome [in Springfield’s Colony
       

Hills] as a bungalow built of cement blocks and clapboards.’’)

Such an architectural hodgepodge would ‘‘spoil the entire layout’’
of the best planned subdivision, wrote Richard W. Marchant, Jr.,
secretary-treasurer of the Roland Park Company. John Charles
Olmsted agreed. In the interest of the long-term well-being of the
Palos Verdes project, he advised Jay Lawyer not only to require
design review, but also to restrict all homes to ‘‘a single style of
architecture and a limited choice of exterior building materials.’’
‘‘Tiresome monotony should be avoided,’’ he explained to W. H.
Kiernan, one of Frank A. Vanderlip’s right-hand men, ‘‘yet the ex-
cessive variety and especially the conspicuous lack of harmony
and absence of beauty[,] which results [sic] from the usual prac-
tice of permitting each owner to build without regard to what his
neighbor has done or is likely to do, have made our cities a shame
and reproach to all intelligent and patriotic Americans.’’ 57
Why were the subdividers afraid some lot owners, most of
whom were well-to-do Americans like themselves, would build
homes that were badly designed or, even if well designed, out of
harmony with the other homes? The answer, said Herring, was
that money and taste did not necessarily go together—that there
were a good many ‘‘ill-mannered, uneducated boor[s]’’ who had
plenty of one and little of the other. John Charles Olmsted, who
was also troubled by the poor taste of his fellow Americans, at-
tributed the problem to a serious defect in national character.
‘‘We regret to say,’’ he wrote Lawyer, ‘‘that experience has shown
that Americans very generally have failed to exhibit in the choice
of architectural styles that intelligence which distinguishes them
in other directions.’’ Meline agreed. Most Americans ‘‘are not
blessed with a keen sense of architectural discrimination,’’ he
said at a national conference of real estate men. Compounding
  

the problem was what some viewed as the excessive individual-

ism of American life, which drove people in a host of different
directions. As the editors of Scientific American’s Building Edition
wrote in the mid-s, ‘‘Where the size and style of suburban
buildings and their location are left entirely to the caprice of the
speculative builder or the individual owner, the general architec-
tural effect is liable to be inharmonious, if not, at times, abso-
lutely grotesque.’’ 58
More puzzling than the setback requirements and architec-
tural controls were the restrictions on fences (and, in many cases,
walls and hedges as well). These restrictions were an outgrowth
of a radical change in American sensibilities. Through the first
half of the nineteenth century Americans viewed what a Boston
magazine called ‘‘good fences of durable material’’ as an integral
feature of the rural landscape, ‘‘unmistakably indicative of thrift
and good order.’’ They helped to control wandering animals and
errant children, to preserve privacy and domesticity, and to de-
marcate the line between private and public space. But as early
as the s Andrew Jackson Downing, the foremost authority
on landscape gardening, took strong exception to the traditional
view. The typical fence, he wrote, was an abomination. ‘‘The close
proximity of fences to the home gives the whole place a confined
and mean character.’’ Frank J. Scott, the next generation’s arbiter
of taste in suburban landscaping, held the same view. Instead of
putting up a fence, he wrote in , suburbanites should trust
that their neighbors were ‘‘kindly gentlemen and women, with
well-bred families who can enjoy the views across each others’
grounds without trespassing upon them.’’ If they put up a fence
anyway, they should bear in mind ‘‘that kind of fence which is best is
least seen and best seen through.’’ Even hedges, Scott said, were ‘‘one
       

of the barbarisms of old gardening, as absurd and unchristian in

our day as the walled courts and barred windows of a Spanish
cloister.’’ A ‘‘smooth, closely shaven surface of grass’’—by which
he meant a well-tended lawn free of fences, walls, and hedges—
‘‘is by far the most essential element of beauty on the grounds of
a suburban home.’’ 59
No one spoke out against fences more forcefully than Nathaniel
H. Egleston, a Connecticut native who became a Congregational
minister, ardent conservationist, and leader of the village im-
provement movement that swept through the United States in
the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Writing in The
Home and Its Surroundings, a highly influential book that was first
published in , Egleston argued that fences disfigure not only
the home and its grounds but the whole neighborhood. ‘‘Noth-
ing,’’ he declared, ‘‘can be less tasteful than our common picket
fence, for instance, with its stiff array of pickets set up as a barri-
cade around the dwellings, as though every passing man or beast
were accounted an enemy against whom we must entrench our-
selves.’’ At a time when cattle and swine were no longer allowed to
run free, fences were also ‘‘a needless expense.’’ Americans were
accustomed to fences, Egleston conceded; and at first they feel
lost without them. But once the fences are replaced by ‘‘a beau-
tiful sweep of lawn,’’ they realize the lot is more spacious (and
more attractive). ‘‘The eye of each [resident], as he looks out from
his windows, sweeps along a ground surface far beyond what he
owns. He has, it may be, a legal title to a plot only fifty or a hun-
dred feet in width. Yet he seems to be living on one of many
times that extent. To look upon, his neighbor’s trees and turf and
flowers are as much his own as they are his neighbor’s.’’ The re-
sult, Egleston wrote, ‘‘is a practical enlargement of heart and feel-
  

ing, a closer and kinder fellowship, a deepening interest in one

another.’’ 60
‘‘Sweep away those picket fences,’’ Egleston urged his fellow
Americans. (While they were at it, they should move the garden
to another spot, put the woodpile out of sight, lay down a lawn,
and plant a few trees and a flower bed.) And sweep them away
they did. Everywhere in America, wrote one observer in , the
fence ‘‘has been done away with’’—and ‘‘there is nothing about
our places, large or small, that the world cannot see.’’ (How dif-
ferent things were in England and other European countries, he
pointed out, where visitors ‘‘can see nothing [of the houses] but
stone walls.’’) So many fences had been removed of late, another
writer said, that many now wonder ‘‘why the owners [once] clung
to them so tenaciously.’’ ‘‘It is not at all uncommon,’’ said yet an-
other observer, ‘‘to see whole communities without a line of any
kind to denote where one property begins and another ends.’’ The
result of a nationwide campaign led by local garden clubs and vil-
lage improvement societies, the removal of fences did more than
create what the chair of the village improvement committee of
the Massachusetts Civic League called ‘‘unobstructed stretches
of attractive grounds.’’ It also turned the front yards and adjacent
streets into ‘‘a new kind of space.’’ As one scholar wrote in ,
‘‘they became the open, flowing, parklike spaces we now associate
with upper-middle-class suburban life.’’ 61
Some Americans were far from enthusiastic about what a con-
temporary called the ‘‘recent American craze’’ to get rid of fences.
Fences, the skeptics held, protect the garden from chickens, dogs,
and ‘‘other people’s children.’’ (To prevent the ‘‘short-legged little
scamps in blue rompers’’ from destroying his nasturtiums, an
Atlantic Monthly editor said, tongue-in-cheek, he was going to
       

build ‘‘a red brick wall ten feet high all round our little plot’’
and on top of it put ‘‘broken bottles and a row of spikes.’’) Be-
sides heading off problems between neighbors, a handsome and
well-located fence ‘‘dignifies and completes’’ the home, much like
‘‘the little metal latchet on an old book, suggesting the precious-
ness of what lies within.’’ Above all, the skeptics stressed, fences
enhance privacy, which, wrote one, is ‘‘the most precious jewel
of home life.’’ And not only privacy, said another, but also the
sense of seclusion, ‘‘so dear to the Anglo-Saxon heart.’’ To pre-
serve ‘‘the finer features of home life,’’ the skeptics insisted, ‘‘a
certain amount of privacy out-of-doors is absolutely essential.’’
‘‘No greater calamity could befall our national character than to
become indifferent to it,’’ they claimed.62
Under the circumstances, it is small wonder the subdividers
were ambivalent about fences. Much like Olmsted, Sr., they ob-
jected to ‘‘useless’’ fences, especially ones that precluded, in John
Charles Olmsted’s words, ‘‘a continuous, unbroken lawn’’—and
sometimes, when a few property owners put up fences and others
did not, created what Olmsted Brothers called an aesthetic
‘‘hodge-podge.’’ (Olmsted, Jr., who told one subdivider that he
had reservations about the ‘‘no fence’’ campaign, advised another
that most fences, no matter how ‘‘neat and costly and well de-
signed,’’ are ‘‘more or less conspicuous and ugly unless masked
by foliage.’’) But again like Olmsted, Sr., the subdividers were far
from sure all fences were useless. Fences, they were aware, en-
sured privacy, toward which, E. H. Bouton pointed out, most sub-
urbanites have ‘‘a very decided inclination.’’ (By building fences or
hedges, Bouton added, suburbanites could obtain a degree of pri-
vacy that would ordinarily be possible only by purchasing a lot of
several acres, ‘‘the price [of which] would be prohibitive.’’) Fences,
  

Bouton noted, also helped keep the peace between neighbors by

preventing ‘‘the children of one from intruding upon the prop-
erty of the other.’’ So did hedges, he added, even hedges as low as
two feet, which were not objectionable even on small lots.63
Despite this ambivalence, some subdividers banned fences.
But in an effort to reconcile the preference for open space with the
passion for privacy, most opted instead to regulate them. They im-
posed restrictions on type, style, and location. (In a few cases the
restrictions also subjected fences to design review and mandated
that they be masked by foliage or covered by vines.) Even more
noteworthy, the subdividers put limits on height. There was, how-
ever, one conspicuous exception to this practice. Where fences
were used to conceal a clothesline, the Olmsted firm, which as a
rule favored a maximum height of four feet, was willing to go as
high as six or seven feet. (As it explained to the subdividers of The
Uplands, ‘‘It is primitive and uncivilized to dry clothes in full view
of the public or neighbors or of persons in ones [sic] own house
or lawn or garden. There is an old saying giving warning of the
undesirability of exhibiting ones soiled linen in public, but it ap-
plies with hardly less force to linen that has been washed.’’) But
even these fences, the firm advised another subdivider, should be
‘‘proper lattice fences,’’ covered with vines ‘‘or by thick evergreen
hedges of adequate height.’’ 64 To the Olmsteds—and to most sub-
dividers—an exposed clothesline was more objectionable than a
six- or seven-foot fence masked by foliage.

No Chickens, Rabbits, and Other Domestic Animals

Of all the restrictions, none gave the subdividers as much

pause as the ban on domestic animals, and especially on chick-
ens (and other fowl) and rabbits. As the Olmsteds, who were
       

very much in favor of a ban on domestic animals, acknowledged,

‘‘many intending purchasers will strongly object to this restric-
tion.’’ A case in point, of which the Olmsteds were well aware,
was W. S. Kies, a New York City banker who was thinking about
buying a lot in Frank A. Vanderlip’s subdivision in Scarborough-
on-the-Hudson. After reviewing the Olmsteds’ proposed restric-
tions, he complained that the ban on domestic animals was too
stringent. ‘‘There ought not to be any objection to the keep-
ing of poultry,’’ he told H. J. Slaker, Vanderlip’s agent, ‘‘provided
it did not run at large and hen-houses were so placed as not
to interfere with adjoining property.’’ (One subdivider was re-
luctant to impose a ban on domestic animals not so much be-
cause of the market as because of his wife. ‘‘Poultry are espe-
cially objectionable to me and have been for fifteen or twenty
years,’’ Joel Hurt wrote the Olmsteds, ‘‘but on the other hand,
Mrs. Hurt has a very decided preference for them.’’) Despite these
concerns, most subdividers of upper-middle-class tracts, among
them Duncan McDuffie, who regarded chickens as ‘‘an infernal
nuisance,’’ decided to include in the deeds a ban on domestic ani-
mals, everything from cows and pigs to goats, sheep, and even
chickens and rabbits. ‘‘If we have lost any purchaser [because of ]
this restriction,’’ another subdivider said, ‘‘we have gained tenfold
[from it].’’ 65
Their decision is more than a little puzzling. By the end of the
second third of the nineteenth century there was a consensus that
raising domestic animals in cities was a bad thing, if not ‘‘an al-
most unbearable nuisance,’’ that should be regulated and, if need
be, prohibited by the authorities. But there was also a consensus
that in suburbs it was a good thing, a view that was shared by the
subdividers, almost all of whom were thus far hesitant to impose
restrictions on domestic animals. (In one of the rare cases where
  

they did, the restrictions were aimed exclusively at swine.) As one

observer wrote in , a man who moves to the suburbs soon
starts to think about acquiring a pig, a cow, and some chickens—
the pig to consume ‘‘the waste growth of his garden,’’ the cow
to provide ‘‘tender food for his growing ones,’’ and the chickens
to supply ‘‘a fresh egg every day [for] breakfast.’’ Raising domes-
tic animals, historian John R. Stilgoe points out, was also widely
viewed as morally uplifting. As Andrew Jackson Downing wrote,
‘‘he who will educate a boy in the country without a ‘chicken’
is already a semi-barbarian.’’ Catharine E. Beecher, a leading au-
thority on domestic life, and her sister, Harriet Beecher Stowe,
best known as the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, agreed. There was
no better way for children to learn responsibility, they argued,
than to tend to horses, cows, and other domestic animals, to pro-
vide ‘‘for their sustenance and for their protection from injury
and disease.’’ 66
This consensus retained much of its strength through the late
nineteenth century—and, to a lesser degree, into the early twen-
tieth. By then, it was widely acknowledged, few suburbanites had
space for cows or other livestock, but as Francis E. Clark, a Prot-
estant minister, wrote in , ‘‘there is room for a couple of rab-
bits and a few bantams’’ on the ‘‘tiniest’’ of lots. Even on a small
scale, poultry farming was worthwhile, its advocates insisted. If
a family consumed the eggs and meat, it reduced its expenses;
if it sold them to neighbors or local grocers, it generated income
to help with the costs of commuting (and possibly with the pay-
ments on the lot). Poultry farming was educational too, Clark
claimed. ‘‘What a vast education a boy can find in a flock of these
feathered bipeds!’’ he wrote. ‘‘They teach him mathematics, eco-
nomics, hygienics, and rudiments of I do not know how many
       

other sciences.’’ Poultry farming, its champions pointed out, gave

the family ‘‘a common object of interest.’’ At once ‘‘sufficiently
manual to divert the overtaxed brain of a business or professional
man, and sufficiently intellectual to refresh the mind,’’ it provided
relief for ‘‘nerve-wracked commuters.’’ It gave housewives a way
to earn some extra money and children ‘‘a chance,’’ in Stilgoe’s
words, ‘‘to experience something of farm-life responsibility.’’ Dur-
ing World War I it was also deemed as patriotic to raise chickens
and rabbits on a suburban lot as to grow vegetables in a Victory
Garden.67
Along with rising food prices, these views gave rise to what
Stilgoe calls ‘‘the great suburban poultry-raising fad.’’ Before long
suburbia had hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of chicken
coops, henhouses, and rabbit hutches. The fad caught on in every
region and among every social class. At one extreme were the
very wealthy—among them Henry Howard Houston, whose fifty-
two-acre estate in Philadelphia’s Chestnut Hill contained a deer
park, vegetable gardens, and a small farm with cows, pigs, horses,
chickens, and other fowl. At the other extreme were working
people, many of them first- and second-generation immigrants,
who raised chickens, rabbits, pigeons, and even goats, cows, and
mules in such Los Angeles suburbs as South Gate and Home Gar-
dens. In between were middle- and upper-middle-class families
who lived in suburbs like Chevy Chase, where in its early years,
one resident later recalled, ‘‘nearly everyone kept chickens.’’ Well
aware of this fad, more than a few subdividers of low- and middle-
income tracts stressed that their lots were large enough not only
to grow vegetables and fruit but also to raise chickens and rab-
bits. As one ad said, ‘‘All of the fruit, vegetables, rabbits, poultry,
etc., which can be consumed by the average family of six people,
  

can be produced [on your lot].’’ And as another put it, ‘‘the income
from poultry, fruits and vegetables can easily be made to pay for
the property and add  to  a year to your earnings.’’ 68
Why then did Duncan McDuffie believe poultry farming was
not ‘‘appropriate for the kind of subdivisions that we are engaged
in building’’? Why did he, Walter H. Leimert, and John North
Willys put a chicken coop, a rabbit hutch, a pigpen, and a cattle
yard in the same category as a slaughterhouse, quarry, foundry,
and crematory? Why, in other words, did so many subdividers
of upper-middle-class tracts prohibit homeowners from keeping
livestock, poultry, rabbits, and, in some cases, pigeons and ‘‘rau-
cous’’ parrots? (There were, it is true, some conspicuous excep-
tions. Joel Hurt and Robert Jemison did not ban domestic ani-
mals. And Edward H. Bouton did not ban animals other than
pigs at Roland Park; not until he subdivided Guilford did he ex-
tend the ban to all livestock and poultry. But many subdividers
who did not ban domestic animals imposed other restrictions on
them. At The Uplands, for example, residents could keep cattle—
though not swine or poultry—but only if they owned at least five
acres, which meant at least two or more lots, and made sure the
animals were ‘‘well screened.’’ At Avalon, a posh subdivision in
Great Neck on Long Island, domestic animals could be kept, but
only with the consent of the property owners’ association, and
fowl yards and the like were permitted only if they were ‘‘in good
taste in a high class residence neighborhood’’ and in no way ‘‘un-
sightly or repulsive’’ to the neighbors.)69
According to the Olmsteds and other Americans, domestic ani-
mals should be kept out of suburbia because they attracted ver-
min, did a lot of damage, and made a good deal of noise. Cows,
said the Olmsteds, leave droppings in which flies breed, and flies
       

carry ‘‘germs to food and other things by means of which they may
enter the human system.’’ (Cowsheds and stables were ‘‘breeding
places for rats’’ too, added a resident of Roland Park.) People who
lived in a ‘‘first-class suburb’’ should be protected from ‘‘such a
disgusting and unsanitary nuisance.’’ Chickens and other poul-
try get loose from time to time, wrote the Olmsteds, and trespass
on the neighbor’s land, where, said another resident of Roland
Park, they scratch up the vegetable and flower seeds and other-
wise make ‘‘a nuisance of themselves.’’ Above all, domestic ani-
mals make noise at the worst possible time. How annoying, wrote
the Olmsteds, ‘‘to be awakened early in the morning by the crow-
ing of a healthy rooster.’’ How indeed, a resident wrote to the Los
Angeles Record in the late s. On one side of his lot, he com-
plained, were goats, rabbits, chickens, roosters, dogs, and guinea
hens, on the other chickens and roosters. ‘‘These roosters and
goats crow and blat all night, making it impossible to sleep at all
after : ..’’ Under the law, the livestock had to be kept twenty
feet from his home. ‘‘But that is nothing [for] the roosters [who]
can be heard a block [away].’’ ‘‘Oh,’’ he lamented, ‘‘if there was only
a law to prevent crowing roosters and blatting goats.’’ 70
As the Olmsteds advised the subdividers, there were two other
reasons to impose a ban on domestic animals. One was to make
the subdivision more attractive to prospective buyers.While some
might be driven away if they could not raise animals, the Olm-
steds believed, more might be driven away if their neighbors
could. How prospective purchasers felt was revealed by Arthur D.
Foster, a lawyer who lived in Roland Park.Writing in , he said,
‘‘while I might like to have chickens—and there is plenty of space
for a chicken run on my lots—I can see that my neighbors might
prefer to keep ducks or guinea hens, and so I am perfectly will-
  

ing, in the interest of securing a quiet, peaceful neighborhood,

to forgo the pleasure it might give me to raise my own chick-
ens.’’ The other reason to impose a ban was to prevent conflict
among residents. As John Charles Olmsted told the subdividers
of The Uplands in , ‘‘the keeping of poultry and swine on
comparatively small residence lots is a prolific source of dissatis-
faction and quarreling among neighbors.’’ ‘‘Only a few days ago,’’
he wrote, ‘‘I read an account of a lawyer who had shot a neigh-
bor’s rooster.’’ The rooster’s owner was furious, and what started
out as a quarrel among neighbors ended up as a nasty lawsuit.71
The Olmsteds were aware that many well-to-do Americans
wanted fresh eggs for breakfast (and maybe freshly killed meat
for dinner). They were also aware that many of them took plea-
sure in raising domestic animals (or, more likely, in watching
their wives and children raise them). But if subdividers imposed
a ban on animals, the Olmsteds contended, these Americans had
other options. As John Charles Olmsted advised H. J. Slaker, any-
one who wants to reside at Scarborough-on-the-Hudson, which
banned domestic animals, ‘‘can buy some land on the other side of
the street or a little distance off where he can keep poultry without
annoying [the residents of ] this particular community.’’ Perhaps
nowhere did the Olmsteds spell out their position more clearly
than in a letter to the subdividers of The Uplands in . After
stressing that in the long run a ban on domestic animals will ‘‘add
perceptibly to the value of the remaining land,’’ they went on to
say: ‘‘Persons desiring to keep poultry have two courses open to
them: either they can buy an area of five acres or more, in which
case the poultry will be very much less likely to be objectionable to
persons living on adjoining lots as designed: or they can buy unre-
stricted land in the vicinity of The Uplands to be occupied by their
       

gardener or man-of-all-work, who would take care of the poultry

and thus supply the family with chickens and fresh eggs.’’ 72
There is no doubt that many Americans considered domes-
tic animals a nuisance. But neither is there any doubt that many
found household pets objectionable. Dogs, declared a Baltimore
doctor, are a public health menace, as out of place in a city or sub-
urb as pigs. They root through garbage cans, scattering refuse to
the winds. Even worse, ‘‘You can never tell when a dog is going
to bite you,’’ possibly transmitting rabies (and even diphtheria
and scarlet fever). Much like chickens, dogs dig holes in nearby
gardens, remarked a Roland Park resident, destroying the neigh-
bor’s rows of ‘‘succulent beets and tomatoes’’ and ‘‘delicate lettuce
and parsely,’’ not to mention his shrubs and flowers. As another
Roland Park resident complained, one dog recently came to his
house, ‘‘amused himself by chasing my pullets, incidentally kill-
ing two; chased every young child coming down our lane to go
to school, and remained half a day to terrorize the community.’’
Many a resident feels ‘‘a warm sense of sympathy and compas-
sion’’ for well-behaved and affectionate dogs, wrote the Roland
Park Review, a community newsletter. But anyone who is awak-
ened in the ‘‘wee’’ hours of the morning ‘‘by a prolonged howl
on the other side of the way, followed by an answering snarl and
thereafter by a chorus of discordant yelps,’’ is likely to wish that
‘‘the breed might be removed by violent means from the face of
the earth.’’ 73
Cats are even more objectionable than dogs, said another Ro-
land Park resident. They kill so many birds each year that ‘‘very
soon I fear Roland Park will be without any of the beautiful birds
that have been one of the great attractions here in the spring and
summer.’’ (Dogs, which he also disliked, have ‘‘one thing in their
  

favor—they occasionally kill a cat, thus saving the lives of a lot

of birds, and occasionally a few pullets, thus saving some one’s
beautiful flower garden.’’) According to one expert cited by the
Roland Park Review, cats ‘‘not only destroy birds but [also] break
the peace.’’ What he called their ‘‘caterwauling at night’’ should
not be permitted in ‘‘a well governed’’ community. ‘‘A person,’’ he
added, ‘‘has no more right to inflict a cat on the neighborhood
than to inflict a goat or rabbits or any other nuisance.’’ The Roland
Park Review agreed. Saying that it was time to get rid of cats, it
declared, ‘‘These animals are members of a fierce and merciless
tribe. Despite hundreds of years of domestication, their preda-
tory instincts assert themselves whenever a smaller or weaker
creature comes within their reach.’’ Besides birds, they kill chip-
munks, rabbits, and other ‘‘charming reminders of the free and
untrammeled pathways of nature.’’ ‘‘We are quite willing to ac-
knowledge that ‘pussy has her place,’ and is, in it, a useful and
valuable animal,’’ wrote the Review; ‘‘but we do not believe that
Roland Park should be allotted as one of her places.’’ 74
One Roland Park resident made fun of the crusade against
household pets, saying that it was time to move from dogs and
cats to squirrels. Pointing out that these ‘‘little pests’’ scatter ‘‘frag-
ments of nuts and hulls over the smooth pavements that are our
just pride,’’ he wrote that they had no place ‘‘in our high-class sub-
urb.’’ They were dangerous too. ‘‘Only last fall a dear, worthy old
maiden lady was scared nearly into hysterics by being pelted on
her bonnet by a hickorynut that one of these irresponsible squir-
rels let fall from his careless grasp.’’ ‘‘Next month, if The Review
will be so kind as to grant sufficient space, I hope to take up the
subject of pigeons and human infants, both of which seem un-
necessarily prevalent in our exclusive suburb.’’ But the animosity
       

to household pets was no laughing matter. To the dismay of pet

owners, another resident of Roland Park suggested that the way
to deal with barking dogs was to put out ‘‘a liberal portion of
‘juicy meat salted with effective poison.’ ’’ (Indeed, several years
later someone used strychnine to kill six dogs, all of them house-
hold pets, not strays.) At the same time the Roland Park Review
instructed its readers how to trap cats and where to bring un-
claimed ones for asphyxiation. Before long the Maryland Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals charged that residents of
Roland Park were putting stray cats in bags and drowning them,
a practice that its general secretary branded ‘‘wholesale and un-
lawful slaughter.’’ 75
The controversy grew so heated that the Roland Park Civic
League felt compelled to set up a special committee to look into
the matter. In an attempt to find a middle ground between the pet
owners and their antagonists, it stressed that it was not planning
to wage war against household pets. ‘‘There may be a decided dif-
ference of opinion as to the advisability of keeping [them]; but the
committee recognizes that their owners have rights which must
be respected.’’ It also drew a distinction between the household
pet, which should be treated kindly, and ‘‘the homeless tramp,
the prowling vagrant, the unattached tramp, be he cat or canine,’’
which should not. To solve the problem, it urged pet owners to
hang a bell around their cat’s neck. ‘‘The [bell] would serve a
double purpose,’’ it wrote. ‘‘It would protect the cats from the
cat-catcher and the birds from the cats.’’ Other residents favored
more draconian measures. Some—even some who thought it was
‘‘little short of sacrilege’’ to put dogs, ‘‘the friend of man, whose
fidelity has been tried and proven in a hundred instances,’’ in the
same category as pigs—were willing to permit pets in Roland
  

Park, but only if they were barred from roaming at will. Others
wanted them to be taken to the pound or perhaps sent to the coun-
try. And still others preferred to dispose of them—humanely, if
possible, by whatever means necessary, if not.76
Joel Hurt, one of the many subdividers who turned to the Olm-
sted brothers for advice about restrictions, knew that while some
dogs were well behaved, others were, in the Olmsteds’ words,
‘‘an incessant nuisance,’’ barking loudly, often at ‘‘inopportune’’
times, and ‘‘running round and digging up flower beds, chasing
other people’s pet cats and the like.’’ So did other subdividers. But
with very few exceptions—among them one who allowed ‘‘non-
vicious dogs’’ and another, wrote the Olmsteds, who placed ‘‘a
general prohibition against keeping dogs, to which exceptions are
made so long as the dogs are not objectionable’’—the subdividers
did not impose restrictions on dogs. Or, for that matter, on cats.
A case in point was H. S. Kissell, one of the leading subdividers
in the Midwest. Although he was aware that ‘‘people like cats,’’ he
believed most of them ‘‘like birds even better.’’ And so each year
he sent a notice to the residents of Ridgewood, his fashionable
subdivision in Springfield, Ohio, about ‘‘  .’’ ‘‘If
a cat is kept in the neighborhood,’’ the notice warned, ‘‘it will be
next to impossible to get birds to make their nests in your shrub-
bery.’’ But that was as far as Kissell went. He did not forbid resi-
dents to keep cats, much less impose a restriction banning them.
(Apparently the notice was enough. ‘‘There are  homes in the
subdivision,’’ he reported, ‘‘and not a single cat.’’)77
Why then did many of the leading subdividers impose restric-
tions on domestic animals but not on household pets? Why, for
example, did A. D. Halliwell, head of the company that developed
Hycliff, an exclusive subdivision in Stamford, Connecticut, ban
       

poultry, fowl, and livestock, but not cats and only vicious dogs?
Why did these subdividers believe the restrictions should deal,
in the Olmsteds’ words, ‘‘more gently’’ with household pets than
with domestic animals? 78 Part of the answer is that by the early
twentieth century affluent Americans were more likely to have
dogs and cats than chickens and rabbits. And to most of them,
the Olmsteds pointed out, neighbors’ household pets were ordi-
narily less objectionable than their domestic animals. Pet owners
were also likely to have a stronger attachment to their dogs and
cats than poultry farmers had to their chickens and ducks, which
would sooner or later be served for dinner anyway. Moreover, it
was one thing for would-be poultry farmers to buy a lot know-
ing that they could not raise chickens and rabbits there, and quite
another for pet owners to do so knowing that they would have
to get rid of the family dog or cat. As the subdividers saw it,
a ban on domestic animals would drive away some prospective
purchasers, but a ban on household pets would drive away many
more. When dealing with this issue, the subdividers always had
to bear in mind that the more stringent the restrictions the more
limited the market.
The other part of the answer is that by the early twentieth
century most Americans had come to believe that while poultry
farming and other forms of animal husbandry were appropriate
in some places, Roland Park, St. Francis Wood, and Devonshire
Downs were not among them. These activities, it was widely held,
were not objectionable in working-class suburbs, to which many
first- and second-generation immigrants were driven to move,
not by ‘‘an aesthetic of romantic pastoralism,’’ to quote historian
Becky Nicolaides, but by the day-to-day struggle for economic
survival. By raising chickens, rabbits, goats, and pigeons—and
  

by selling backyard produce, taking in boarders, and running

small businesses out of their homes—the newcomers generated
a steady stream of income that helped protect their families
against the hazards of the market economy. But the upper-
middle-class suburbanites did not need the extra income, nor did
they want to live next door to anyone who did. Hence prospec-
tive purchasers who had to raise domestic animals to make ends
meet were not welcome in Roland Park and other fashionable
suburbs. In August , for example, E. C. Shriver sent a hand-
written (and barely legible) postcard to the Roland Park Company
asking if it had any houses ‘‘with a lot large enough for chickens
and our Vegetable Garden’’ for less than eighteen dollars a month.
On behalf of the company, James E. Green replied, politely but
brusquely, ‘‘We have no property for sale or rent that would ful-
fill those requirements.’’ 79
Poultry farming and other forms of animal husbandry, it was
also widely held, were not objectionable in the country either.
There was much to be said in favor of raising domestic animals,
said a resident of Roland Park, but a suburbanite who wanted to
‘‘should go clear out into the country and get him a little farm.’’
(John Charles Olmsted agreed. Suburbanites who wanted what
he called ‘‘the luxury’’ of raising domestic animals and produc-
ing their own eggs, milk, and butter should buy ‘‘a small ranch’’
somewhere else.) To the residents of places like Roland Park, the
suburb was an alternative not only to the city but also to the coun-
try. Just as these well-to-do suburbanites did not want saloons,
gas stations, and apartment houses going up, so they did not want
‘‘pigs, cows and chickens running around,’’ to quote another resi-
dent of Roland Park. Suburbia appealed to them because it was
natural, as opposed to agricultural. And domestic animals were
       

out of place in a natural setting, albeit a man-made one. They

were as out of place in Palos Verdes Estates, which was designed
by the Olmsted brothers, as in Central Park, which was designed
by their father. Indeed, during his term as superintendent of the
park, its Board of Commissioners banned not only cows, horses,
pigs, goats, sheep, and geese, but also dogs, ‘‘unless led by a
chain or proper dog-string [or leash], not exceeding five feet in
length.’’ 80

Oil Wells, Billboards, and Fear of the Market

At the heart of many of the restrictions was something

the subdividers and their prospective purchasers were afraid of
more than chickens and rabbits. By this I mean they were afraid
that in the absence of restrictions even the best laid out tracts
would be subject to the fundamental law of the real estate mar-
ket, according to which land would always be put to its highest
and best use. And highest and best meant most profitable.81 Sup-
pose, for example, someone bought a lot in an unrestricted tract
for five thousand dollars. And suppose a few years later, before
or even after a home was built there, someone else who thought
the lot a good site for an apartment house, grocery store, or gas
station offered twenty-five thousand dollars for it. According to
real estate economists, the owner would sell, no matter what the
impact on the nearby property. To prevent people from putting
their lots to the highest and best use, the subdividers barred them
from using the lots in all sorts of potentially profitable but al-
legedly objectionable ways. And among those ways that have not
yet been discussed were drilling for oil (and other minerals) and
putting up billboards (and other signs).
  

As late as the s, when the United States was producing

more than half the world’s petroleum, few cities (and even fewer
suburbs) had oil wells. There were, however, exceptions, the most
conspicuous of which was Los Angeles. Prospectors had been
drilling for ‘‘black gold’’ in and around Los Angeles since the
s. By the late s about one hundred wells were operating
outside the city. In the early s Edward L. Doheny, best known
today for his role in the Teapot Dome scandal, and his partner
Charles A. Canfield struck oil in one of the many tar pits in Los
Angeles. Soon afterward Doheny and others found oil in nearby
Whittier and Fullerton. By  greater Los Angeles was produc-
ing . million barrels a year. Several years later Standard, Shell,
Union, and other major oil companies, convinced that only a
small fraction of the region’s oil had yet been tapped, began sink-
ing wells. Early in the s they made the spectacular strikes
at Huntington Beach, Signal Hill, and Santa Fe Springs that one
petroleum geologist hailed as ‘‘the greatest outpouring of min-
eral wealth the world has ever known.’’ By the mid-s a small
section twenty to thirty miles south-southeast of downtown Los
Angeles was producing hundreds of millions of barrels a year,
roughly one-fifth of all the oil produced in the country, and petro-
leum had replaced agriculture as California’s leading industry.82
As oil poured out, wrote journalist Albert W. Atwood, investors
poured in, ‘‘by the tens, the scores[,] perhaps even the hundreds of
thousands,’’ most of whom had ‘‘money to spend.’’ Some spent it
on ‘‘units’’ (or shares) in what they hoped would be the next great
strike. Their profits would come from sales. The promoters to
whom they entrusted their money ranged from out-and-out swin-
dlers, who were netting one hundred thousand dollars a week in
southern California, according to U.S. Department of Justice in-
       

vestigators, to legitimate prospectors. By far the most flamboyant

was C. C. Julian, who, writes his biographer, was ‘‘the prince of
oil promoters.’’ In an effort to raise money, he told prospective in-
vestors that he held a lease on four acres ‘‘in the very heart [of ] the
greatest oil field in America.’’ Once he struck oil, they could count
on ‘‘a return of not less than % each month.’’ Other investors
preferred to buy lots on what they hoped would be the site of the
next great strike. Their profits would come from royalties. These
investors were inspired by stories not only of a few large land-
owners in places like Signal Hill, but also of the many ordinary
folks like themselves—barbers, streetcar conductors, and, said
Atwood, ‘‘widows living off the proceeds of diminutive chicken
yards’’—who happened to own property in the right place at the
right time. Of the many people, wrote another journalist, ‘‘who,
by years of effort, had managed to get legal title to a bungalow and
a twenty-five-foot lot [and then] found on Tuesday that their in-
come [from oil royalties], beginning Monday, was a hundred dol-
lars a day—or three thousand, or any other incredible figure.’’ 83
A good many subdividers were eager to capitalize on the de-
mand for oil lots. Hearing news that a wildcatter was about to
begin drilling, they swung into action. Setting up shop near the
future oil field, they acquired tracts that had languished for years,
subdivided fields of cabbages and sugar beets, and then hung
signs reading ‘‘Oil Lots for Sale.’’ To get potential investors to the
site, they chartered buses, which left from downtown Los Ange-
les (as well as Long Beach and other nearby cities). Along with
free rides, they provided free lunches, usually sandwiches, cof-
fee, and cookies. At the site some subdividers set up tents, which,
writes historian Jules Tygiel, resembled ‘‘the tabernacles of trav-
eling evangelists.’’ ‘‘Sucker tents,’’ local residents called them.
  

Others operated from automobiles parked along the roadside.

Most salesmen made the same pitch. ‘‘Why don’t you play safe,
boys,’’ one said to Atwood and his companions, ‘‘and buy one of
these nice lots, eighty by twenty feet, instead of oil stock or units?
You get all the oil there is under the lot and own the land besides,
all for .’’ The subdividers hammered away at the same point
in their ads. West-Man Heights, a tract several miles southwest
of downtown L.A., was under lease to a major oil company, said
Potter & Smith, a firm that specialized in oil property. If oil was
found, investors would share in the royalties; if not, they had a
homesite that was bound to rise in value. Sunset Heights, not far
from Santa Monica, offered ‘‘Choice Ocean-View Lots With Big
Possibilities of !’’ said Taft Realty.84
As cabbage fields gave way to oil fields—or to put it another
way, as the owners put the land to its highest and best use—prop-
erty values soared. For many landowners the result was a wind-
fall, the size of which boggled the mind. But those who lived near
the oil fields paid a high price for the strikes (and the speculative
mania that swept through Los Angeles in their wake). As visitors
observed, the oil fields were as bleak, noisy, noxious, and danger-
ous as any place on earth. The derricks, which sometimes stood
only thirty or forty feet apart, devastated the landscape, stripping
it of homes, trees, and grass. They also made a fearful din. As
novelist Upton Sinclair wrote in , ‘‘All day and all night the
engine labored, and the great chain pulled, and the rotary-table
went round and round, and the bit ate into the rock.’’ As bad as
the noise was what a group of residents called the ‘‘noxious va-
pors, smoke, noisome smells, fumes, [and] stench,’’ which were
extremely disagreeable (and possibly toxic). The oil fields were
very dangerous too, especially when, as a result of the high pres-
       

sure to which the machinery was subjected, a well had a blowout,

gasser, explosion, or geyser. These accidents often set the fields
on fire, tore up telegraph poles, and, in Atwood’s words, spewed
‘‘a sea of mud over large portions of the landscape.’’ At few times
were the fields more dangerous than when a drill struck oil. Sud-
denly, wrote Sinclair, ‘‘the inside of the earth seemed to burst
through that hole; a roaring and rushing, as Niagara, and a black
column shot into the air, two hundred feet, two hundred and
fifty—no one could say for sure—and came thundering down to
earth as a mass of thick, black, slimy, slippery fluid.’’ 85
According to observers, conditions were only slightly less dis-
mal on the outskirts of the oil fields. The roads were jammed,
not only with trucks full of lumber and drilling equipment, but
with buses full of sightseers. Bombarded by newspaper ads to
‘‘      ,’’ thousands made what
Tygiel calls ‘‘the sightseeing tour to the oil fields.’’ They came,
wrote Sinclair, to look at the derricks and listen to ‘‘the monoto-
nous grinding of the heavy drill.’’ If lucky, they might see a gusher.
Besides the oil fields, the visitors saw the tent cities, the oil fields’
version of a western boom town. In the jerry-built structures that
catered to the needs of the roughnecks were saloons, creating,
Tygiel writes, ‘‘a free-flowing oasis’’ in the desert of Prohibition;
bordellos, in which, said one observer, the girls were ‘‘as bare
as the walls’’; and gambling dens, full of slot machines, roulette
wheels, and poker and blackjack tables. In a place, wrote Atwood,
where speculators ‘‘buy an acre of land . . . one day for ,
and sell it the next day for ,,’’ everything was up for grabs.
‘‘Why should anybody put up a decent building [near the fields]
yet?’’ asked a character in The Boosters, a novel about Los Angeles
in the s. ‘‘There might be oil underneath.’’ 86
  

Unlike Potter & Smith and Taft Realty, a good many other sub-
dividers, some of the region’s most prominent among them, were
mindful of the downside of oil exploration. Although they knew
the discovery of oil could be a gold mine for some landowners,
they also knew it could be a death knell for upper-middle-class
residential suburbs. A case in point is E. G. Lewis. Before he pur-
chased Palos Verdes from Frank A. Vanderlip, Lewis had gone
wildcatting in Montana, Wyoming, and California. And after he
launched the Palos Verdes Project, he reserved a portion of the
peninsula, located near Long Beach and known as the Panhandle,
for oil exploration. Under it, he told investors, was ‘‘one of the
great oil fields of California,’’ even greater than Signal Hill. But
at the same time Lewis was looking for oil in the Panhandle,
he was banning drilling at Palos Verdes Estates. There was no
place for derricks, no matter how much oil they might produce,
at ‘‘the Reviera [sic] of the Pacific Coast.’’ Another case in point
is Henry E. Huntington, a real estate and transit magnate and
one of the largest subdividers in greater Los Angeles. Huntington
was especially active in and around San Marino, where he banned
drilling on many of his upper-middle-class tracts. He was also a
member of a syndicate that formed the Amalgamated Oil Com-
pany in . It bought the thirty-three-hundred-acre Hamel
and Denker ranch northwest of downtown L.A. and began pros-
pecting for oil. When not enough was found, the Amalgamated
was reorganized in  as the Rodeo Land and Water Com-
pany, which subdivided the property and named it Beverly Hills.
Among the affluent subdivision’s many stringent restrictions was
one that barred the lot owners, one of whom was Edward L.
Doheny, from drilling for oil and other hydrocarbons.87
Few Los Angeles subdividers had as much firsthand experience
with oil as Alphonzo E. Bell. Born in East Los Angeles in ,
       

Bell was the son of one large landowner and the nephew of an-
other. In  he inherited from his uncle  acres south of the
city that he later subdivided into -acre (or smaller) lots. With the
profits from this and other ventures Bell bought more than 
acres in nearby Santa Fe Springs in . For a while he was con-
tent to plant alfalfa, cabbage, and orange and lemon trees. But
in time he began to suspect his property might be sitting on an
oil field, and so he signed leases with Standard Oil in  and
Union Oil in . On October , , Union made one of the
greatest strikes in history, making Bell rich beyond his dreams.
By year’s end he was getting royalties of , to , a
month, a vast sum at the time, and one experienced oilman esti-
mated that he would eventually receive at least  million and as
much as – million. When a blowout set off a raging fire, Bell
was forced to leave his home—which was subsequently moved
to another site and turned into a saloon. He moved his family
into the posh Beverly Hills Hotel, and with his newfound wealth
he bought , acres in the Los Angeles hills from Daisy Can-
field, the daughter of Charles A. Canfield and wife of Jake Dan-
ziger, another associate of Edward L. Doheny. Bell then set out to
make what he named Bel-Air into one of the most exclusive sub-
urbs in the country. He spared no expense on landscaping, even
putting the utilities underground, which was rarely done. He also
imposed a host of stringent restrictions, among which was a ban
on drilling. By imposing this ban, Bell was making sure that no
one could do at Bel-Air what he had done at Santa Fe Springs—
to wit, put his land to its highest and best use. Prospective pur-
chasers, Bell was saying, need have no fear that a derrick would
spoil this ‘‘Community of Gentlemen’s Estates,’’ no fear that the
market would ruin ‘‘The Suburb Supreme.’’ 88
For every oil well, there were perhaps a thousand billboards, a
  

manifestation of the phenomenal growth of the outdoor advertis-

ing industry in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
Once found in only a few places, they were now found just about
everywhere—on country roads as well as city streets. They were
so common that in  N. W. Ayer, one of the country’s leading
advertising agencies, estimated that  million Americans saw
its billboards every day. By , the nation’s billboards stretched
. million linear feet, or , miles, half again the distance from
New York to Chicago. The Windy City alone had , linear
feet, or close to a hundred miles. Once used mainly to promote
freak shows and patent medicines, billboards were now used to
advertise everything from motorcars to men’s underwear, from
cereal and soap to tobacco and liquor, from Wrigley’s Spearmint
Gum to Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments. Once small
(and fairly unobtrusive), many were now enormous. Lea & Per-
rins promoted its Worcestershire Sauce on a sign that ran more
than four-tenths of a mile along a breakwater facing New York
harbor. And Schlitz plastered its beer signs, the largest of which
covered roughly half an acre, on eight grain elevators in Chicago.
Not as large, though more spectacular, were the electric (and later
neon) signs that lit up Times Square and urban America’s other
‘‘Great White Ways’’ at night.89
There was no escaping the billboard, said painter Emory Al-
bright. It ‘‘follows us to the right and left as we go from our homes
in the morning, . . . dances along our pathways on every side, . . .
nags and goads us every time we look from a street car window,
. . . follows us to the country in our automobile rides.’’ Harry F.
Lake, a New Hampshire lawyer, agreed. ‘‘You have an option as to
whether you will attend [an indecent] play,’’ he wrote, but unless
you walk with your eyes closed . . . you cannot exercise an option
       

as to whether you will see the advertisements.’’ (How unpleasant,

he added, ‘‘to behold all these suggestions and commands about
the clothes we should wear, the tobacco we smoke or chew, the
whiskey and beer that is the best to drink, or the worst, the kind
of codfish we should eat because boneless, the kind of soap that
is . percent pure and floats, the particular sort of breakfast
food that will increase our efficiency by half, and the places we
must go to if we would be happy.’’) Crying out, said Olmsted, Jr.,
‘‘as loud as color and form and size can be made out to cry, ‘Here
we are! You can’t get away from us! Look here! Look here! Look
here!’ ’’ billboards were ‘‘one more unnecessary and undesirable
pin prick in the great series which makes life so nervously ex-
hausting.’’ 90
The proliferation of billboards appalled a good many Ameri-
cans, most of them middle- and upper-middle-class professionals
and businessmen who thought of themselves as Progressives. On
their own—or through the American Civic Association (ACA),
the American Park and Outdoor Art Association (APOAA), and
local civic art associations—they issued a scathing indictment.
According to historian William H. Wilson, the indictment
charged that billboards did more than hinder the ongoing efforts
to beautify the city and to preserve what was left of the natural
landscape. They also undermined the morals of the young, tempt-
ing them to drink, smoke, and attend lurid plays and movies
featuring sex and violence. Billboards, the indictment charged,
despoiled the parks, boulevards, churches, and public buildings
that were supposed to provide Americans a ‘‘haven,’’ in Wilson’s
words, from the secular and highly materialistic world around
them. They jeopardized public safety as well. If made of wood,
they were likely to go up in flames and spread the fire to nearby
  

buildings; if made of iron they would probably collapse on the

sidewalks and injure passers-by. Billboards even provided a per-
fect place behind which lowlifes could carry out what a contem-
porary called ‘‘their dissolute and immoral practices.’’ To critics,
billboards were more than an eyesore. They were a nuisance. If
possible, they should be banned; if not, they should be strictly
regulated.91
Spokesmen for the outdoor advertising industry vigorously de-
fended the billboard against these charges—whose authors they
derided as ‘‘a little band of art enthusiasts,’’ ‘‘a few long-haired
professors and short-haired women,’’ and ‘‘a few mentally lop-
sided aesthetes.’’ Billboards, they argued, were not eyesores. At
best they were attractive, stylish, and colorful, ‘‘a wonderful art
[form],’’ said one of their supporters, ‘‘a poor man’s gallery of art,’’
said another. At worst they were more attractive than the other-
wise vacant lots, ‘‘strewn,’’ in Wilson’s words, ‘‘with rubbish and
rusting cans.’’ Some billboards are ‘‘inartistic,’’ conceded one ad-
vertising man, but so are many houses. ‘‘Shall we wipe out miles
and miles of these houses, simply because they are inartistic?’’
The outdoor advertising industry had done much to foster public
morals, argued Albert de Montluzin, manager of the U.S. Litho-
graph Company. It had refused to post ads for anything lewd or
obscene. It had also offered free posters to civic and religious
groups, some of which, wrote the manager of the Gospel Pub-
licity League, found billboards ‘‘to be their best pullers.’’ The Bill-
poster, a trade journal, was happy to report that even the sponsors
of a lecture by J. Horace McFarland, president of the ACA, were
not above using billboards to attract a large audience. Billboards,
their defenders claimed, had never been much of a threat to pub-
lic safety. Now that they were made of steel and fireproof materi-
       

als, they were not a threat at all. And they could hardly be held
responsible for vicious activities that took place in their vicinity.
By no reasonable criteria was the billboard a nuisance.92
Spokesmen for the outdoor advertising industry did more than
defend the billboard. They celebrated it. They hammered away
at the point that billboards, in Wilson’s words, were ‘‘the hand-
maidens of commerce,’’ one of the few ways by which businesses
could reach consumers who did not read newspapers and maga-
zines. As de Montluzin put it, billboards ‘‘are an indication of
business; they mean business; they make business.’’ Firms need
the billboard because ‘‘it brings more business per dollar spent
than any other method of advertising—two to one, three to one,
five to one.’’ The advertisers and advertising agencies were not
the only beneficiaries of the billboard, its defenders pointed out.
As Frank Warren, a member of the Bill Posters’ Union, noted,
upward of a million men were employed in the outdoor advertis-
ing industry. If billboards were banned, he asked, ‘‘what would
become of the artists who are making the posters; what would
become of the bill posters, the printers, the stereotypers, and the
other workmen employed in the business?’’ A ban would also
have a severe impact on lumberyards, paper mills, ink manufac-
turers, and a host of other businesses and their employees. Bill-
boards are here to stay, declared their supporters. They were as
much a part of modern life as streetcars, telephones, and auto-
mobiles. They were better today than ten years earlier. And they
would be better still ten years hence. What made them better
were the efforts of industry leaders, not the attacks of municipal
art leagues and the threats of local and state officials.93
The debate over the billboard raged in newspapers, periodicals,
city halls, state capitols, and state and federal courts for roughly
  

thirty years. But gradually a consensus emerged on a few points,

not the least of which was that billboards were a nuisance when
they were, in the words of the National Real Estate Journal, ‘‘out of
place.’’ And other than on the parkways—which, as Olmsted, Jr.,
wrote, provided ‘‘a region of quiet rural sylvan scenery to which
people can escape [from] the ceaseless turmoil of city life’’—no-
where were billboards as out of place as in residential districts,
and especially in fashionable residential suburbs. They were out
of place there in a way that they were not in commercial and
industrial districts precisely because, as de Montluvin said, they
‘‘mean business.’’ And business, it was widely held, had no place
in residential neighborhoods. As San Jose City Attorney Jackson
Hatch explained, a ‘‘glaring billboard’’ is as offensive to the neigh-
bors as ‘‘a pig-sty,’’ ‘‘a stone-breaking machine,’’ or ‘‘the chime
of hoarse bells.’’ Speaking of billboards in much the same way
other people spoke of African- and Asian-Americans, Edward T.
Hartman, a member of the Massachusetts Civic League, wrote
that when they ‘‘invade a residence district people desire to get
away.’’ And when people move, property values fall. Before long
the whole neighborhood deteriorates.94
Many subdividers agreed that billboards and other signs were
out of place in the suburbs. As Bouton said, ‘‘a sign in itself
is a disfigurement.’’ ‘‘If you are going to have signs,’’ even ones
that read ‘‘Save the flowers,’’ he told his fellow subdividers, ‘‘you
should make them as inoffensive as possible.’’ To the Olmsteds,
the issue was clear-cut. ‘‘It would be decidedly objectionable to
residents in the suburbs to have any portion of it disfigured by
advertising signs or posters,’’ they told the developers of The Up-
lands. Homeowners would probably refuse to give anyone per-
mission to put up a billboard on their property. But what about
       

the owners of a vacant lot? Revealing their fear that even the
well-to-do might be swayed by the market, they pointed out that
one might well give permission if offered enough money. For
the benefit of others, ‘‘such practices should be prohibited.’’ The
Olmsteds were confident that few prospective purchasers would
be driven away by restrictions against billboards and other signs.
So were many subdividers. Hence many forbade lot owners to
post anything other than a doctor’s or dentist’s doorplate and ‘‘For
Sale’’ or ‘‘For Rent’’ signs. Some also regulated their size, color,
and design. And a few required that lot owners obtain prior ap-
proval before erecting one.95
The subdividers who imposed restrictions on drilling for oil
and putting up billboards were sending two messages to prospec-
tive purchasers. One was that the community would not in time
be covered with derricks and, in the words of Hugh E. Prather, de-
veloper of Highland Park, ‘‘plastered with signs.’’ The other was
that they could not one day lease their property to an oil com-
pany or outdoor advertiser even if, in their judgment, that was its
highest and best use. Given that the subdividers were among the
principal players in the market, it is paradoxical that they imposed
these restrictions. (The ambivalence toward the market explains
why some of the subdividers who banned billboards used signs
to advertise their property. Without them, ‘‘We couldn’t do busi-
ness,’’ said Paul A. Harsch, a member of the firm that developed
Ottawa Hills, a subdivision whose owner retained the right to pro-
hibit signs and even to ‘‘summarily remove and destroy’’ unautho-
rized ones.) Given that the prospective purchasers were among
the principal beneficiaries of the market, it is also paradoxical that
they went along with these restrictions. After all, it was with the
proceeds from oil exploration that Edward L. Doheny bought a lot
  

in Beverly Hills on which no one could drill for oil or other min-
erals. And, wrote de Montluzin, it was with the profits from out-
door advertising that industry leaders built ‘‘the splendid homes
in the suburbs in which they are living today,’’ alongside many of
which no one could put up billboards or other signs.96

Seeking ‘‘A Safe Middle Course’’

By now it should be clear why so many subdividers im-

posed stringent restrictions on how prospective purchasers could
use their property (and, to a lesser degree, dispose of it). It should
also be clear why so many prospective purchasers—for most of
whom private property was close to sacrosanct, wheeling and
dealing in real estate was second nature, and a man’s home was
‘‘his castle’’—were willing to buy highly restricted property. It
should be clear too why the subdividers and their prospective
purchasers viewed restrictions as a means of protection. And
it should be clear who the restrictions were meant to protect,
what they were meant to protect them against, and how a be-
lief that protection was needed arose out of a host of deep-seated
fears that permeated much of American society in the late nine-
teenth and early twentieth centuries. What is unclear is why the
subdividers did not impose more stringent restrictions—why, in
other words, they did not do more to keep ‘‘undesirable’’ people
and activities out of their ‘‘bourgeois utopias.’’
To give a few examples, if most subdividers banned African-
and Asian-Americans, what kept all but a few from banning Ital-
ians, Russians, Slavs, Poles, Romanians, Greeks, Armenians, Per-
sians, Syrians, Mexicans, and Puerto Ricans? If some kept out
Jews, why did they let in Catholics? If, as the Olmsteds told Joel
       

Hurt, the higher the minimum cost requirement, the more de-
sirable the neighborhood, why did many subdividers set it at only
five thousand or ten thousand dollars? 97 What kept them from
raising it to twenty thousand, as the developers of Hycliff did, to
twenty-five thousand, as the subdividers of Berkley, a subdivision
in Scarsdale, did, or to fifty thousand dollars as J. C. Nichols did
on some of the choicest lots in the Country Club District? Why
did some subdividers impose setbacks of ten or fifteen feet while
others fixed them at thirty-five or fifty feet? Why did a few re-
frain from putting limits on how high a house could rise or how
much of the lot it could cover? Why did some impose loose ar-
chitectural controls, or none at all, while others imposed tight
ones? If fences were out of place in a residential park, why did
some subdividers allow them? If signs were, as Bouton said, ‘‘a
disfigurement,’’ what stopped some subdividers from regulating
or banning them? And why did some subdividers who kept out
domestic animals let in household pets?
The subdividers also refrained from taking less obvious steps
to keep ‘‘undesirable’’ people and activities out of their tracts.
To most of them, few things were as inimical to permanence as
speculation, the buying and selling of lots by people who had no
intention of building houses, much less of living in them and
handing them down to their children. Speculators were ‘‘a posi-
tive detriment to any development,’’ declared King G. Thomp-
son. ‘‘Speculators  Desired,’’ said an ad for Lankershim Park,
a San Fernando Valley subdivision. Why then did so few sub-
dividers include in the restrictions a provision that lot owners had
to start and finish construction within a year or two of closing, a
provision that Olmsted, Sr., and others believed would do much
to drive away speculators? To most subdividers, moreover, few
  

things were as crucial to permanence as homeownership. They

fully subscribed to the conventional wisdom that homeowners
contributed to neighborhood stability in a way that tenants did
not. Unlike what a Palos Verdes Estates promotional pamphlet
called the ‘‘transient element,’’ homeowners had ‘‘an interest in
society,’’ claimed the Detroit News. It made them better citizens
—more responsible, more law-abiding, more public spirited. A
homeowner was ‘‘a patriot,’’ said a Wilmington subdivider, ‘‘a
true man,’’ wrote a popular author.98 Why then did none of the
subdividers include in the restrictions a provision that residents
could not rent their homes, a provision that would have barred
tenants?
The subdividers were aware that even in suburbs where lots
were sold only to people ‘‘of the very best material,’’ a few were
likely to behave in offensive ways. In Roland Park, for example,
some dumped ashes on the street instead of putting them in cans.
Often they blew all over the place. Others left buckets outdoors
reeking of old rags and garbage. Still others dumped bottles, tin
cans, wire, nails, and even oyster shells on the roads, turning
them into a dump and making them a menace to motorcars. Chil-
dren were also a source of trouble, wrote a Roland Park resident.
They built dams in gutters, creating ‘‘a breeding place’’ for mos-
quitoes and washing out the roads. Worst of all, some residents
made a lot of noise. As the Olmsteds observed, restrictions pro-
tected suburbanites against such ‘‘nerve racking noises’’ as ‘‘fac-
tory whistles,’’ ‘‘crowing poultry,’’ and ‘‘peddlers[’] cries.’’ But what
about phonographs, whose ‘‘shriek,’’ said another Roland Park
resident, was among the most ‘‘exquisite’’ of ‘‘miseries?’’ (‘‘There
are doubtless many people who would prefer to live next to a
store than next to a private dwelling occupied by lovers of music,’’
       

wrote a New Jersey judge.) And what about the wagons, most with
iron bottoms and few with rubber tires, that the children ride
up and down the streets? ‘‘[A] steam engine would not make any
more noise than they do,’’ said one suburbanite, who declared,
‘‘there is no reason why the property owners should have to sub-
mit to such a nuisance.’’ 99 Given that the subdividers could have
anticipated such complaints, what kept them from including in
the restrictions provisions about offensive behavior as well as
about objectionable land use?
To put it another way, why were the subdividers reluctant to
broaden the definitions of ‘‘undesirable’’ people and activities and
impose whatever restrictions were necessary to bar them? The
answer is that, much as the subdividers were afraid of the market,
much as they were willing to go to great lengths to prevent the lot
owners from putting their property to its highest and best use,
they were well aware that they were deeply enmeshed in the mar-
ket. And a fiercely competitive market too. As J. C. Nichols, whose
Country Club District dominated the suburban real estate market
in Kansas City to a degree that subdividers in other cities could
only dream about, said in , ‘‘we have miles of good compet-
ing residence property in our city.’’ If Nichols felt that the Kansas
City real estate market was competitive, imagine how R. C. Gillis,
head of the Santa Monica Land and Water Company, must have
felt about the Los Angeles real estate market. During the early
and mid-s, at the peak of the second great real estate boom
in the city’s history, more than a thousand subdivisions came on
the market each year. (The market was so frenetic, one historian
has written, that all over southern California white-collar clerks
gave up ‘‘good office jobs to become real estate salesmen.’’) So
much land was subdivided before the boom collapsed that by the
  

late s more than half of the roughly one million lots in Los
Angeles County were vacant.100
The market put the subdividers in a bind. In order to attract
what Olmsted, Jr., called the discriminating buyer, the buyer who
would not close on a lot unless it was protected from undesirable
people and activities, the subdividers had to impose stringent re-
strictions. But as Nichols put it, ‘‘the more carefully you restrict
your property, the more you lessen the number of people that
can buy.’’ Edward A. Loveley, a Detroit developer, made the same
point. So did H. A. Lafler, who worked for Walter H. Leimert on
Sather Park, a restricted subdivision in Oakland. Leimert, Laf-
ler wrote, stood a better chance of selling the lots if he imposed
minimum cost requirements no higher than , to , for
‘‘the choicest sites’’ and as low as , or even , for ‘‘the
poorer lots.’’ Nichols was sad to say that he could point to a good
many subdividers of ‘‘high class’’ tracts who failed because their
‘‘courage and vision’’ led them to impose restrictions that were
too stringent for the market. To Nichols, few things were worse
than setting prices so high or imposing restrictions so tough that
the subdividers were left with what he called ‘‘those straggling
unsold lots,’’ the carrying charges on which might well wipe out
the profits from previous sales.101
Olmsted, Jr., was as well aware of this bind as anyone. Writing
in  to William H. Grafflin, president of the Guilford Land
Company, which later joined with the Roland Park Company to
develop Guilford, he pointed out:

As a general proposition one of the difficulties in handling this

matter of restrictions is to make them sufficiently broad and ex-
plicit to prevent objectionable developments, without at the same
time seeming to tie up and hamper the possible use of the prop-
       

erty in such a way as to scare off timid purchasers. If the restric-

tions are numerous and sweeping a great many people hesitate to
buy the land, not because they want to use it for anything which
the restrictions forbid but because they do not know what changes
may come about in the course of  or  or  years which might
make some of the elaborate restrictions a serious encumbrance
on the land.

‘‘The problem in drawing up restrictions,’’ Olmsted went on, ‘‘is

always that of hitting a safe middle course which will assure the
purchaser that his neighbors will not be likely to do anything to
injure or depreciate the character of the neighborhood and yet
will not frighten him by the number and rigidity of the restric-
tions placed upon his freedom.’’ 102 This safe middle course would
have to do more than just prevent a lot owner from putting up, in
the words of Olmsted, Sr., ‘‘a dram-shop on [the] right, or a beer-
garden on [the] left.’’ It would also have to allay two deep-seated
fears—the purchasers’ fears that things would change, that unde-
sirable people and activities would move in, and the subdividers’
fears that things would not change, that no one would move in,
that no one would buy the lots.
As Olmsted, Jr., knew, it was hard to find a safe middle course.
It was hard to tell when the restrictions were so stringent that
they were likely to drive away not only undesirable people but vir-
tually everyone else. Also, what might be a safe middle course
in one subdivision might be anything but in another. Over time,
however, a consensus emerged among the subdividers, accord-
ing to which a ban on African-Americans and other racial minori-
ties fell into a safe middle course, but a ban on Italian-Americans
did not. A ban on Jews was somewhat problematic; a ban on
Catholics was much more so. A minimum cost requirement was
  

not too stringent unless it was set above fifteen to twenty thou-
sand dollars. Also falling into a safe middle course were setback
regulations—though, outside the most expensive subdivisions,
not height limits and architectural controls. Given that investors
made up a sizable portion of the market—about  to  percent
in Chicago, according to a local subdivider, and much more in
Los Angeles, where wheeling and dealing in real estate was a way
of life—it was too risky to discourage speculating and prohibit
renting. It was also too risky to impose restrictions on offensive
behavior. J. C. Nichols urged residents of the Country Club Dis-
trict, ‘‘Please don’t! . . . burn your trash in a place offensive to your
neighbors . . . place your garbage cans in a place conspicuous from
your neighbor’s lawn . . . leave your garage doors open toward
the street.’’ He even asked them, ‘‘Won’t you prevent your dog
from becoming a neighborhood nuisance?’’ 103 But afraid he might
‘‘scare off timid purchasers,’’ Nichols did not incorporate these
norms into his restrictions. Still, that he and other subdividers
imposed so many other sweeping and stringent restrictions on
their tracts was striking evidence of how much many Americans
were willing to put up with to solve the problem of unwanted
change spelled out by Olmsted, Sr., two generations earlier.
 Epilogue

On March , , Mindy Felinton, a resident of Charles-

ton Place, a posh subdivision in Boca Raton, Florida, brought
her five-year-old dog Lucky to the North Boca Animal Hospital.
Lucky was not sick, just big—so big that the Charleston Place
homeowners’ association filed a lawsuit accusing Felinton of vio-
lating a restriction that banned dogs weighing more than thirty
pounds. With Felinton, her lawyer, two representatives of the as-
sociation, and a court reporter looking on, Lucky was put on a
scale. In the balance was whether Felinton would have to choose
between giving up her dog and moving out of her home. For-
tunately for her, the results of the weigh-in were inconclusive,
largely, wrote a reporter, because ‘‘Lucky kept moving around.’’ A
few days later the association withdrew its suit and allowed Lucky
to stay. A decade later and three thousand miles away, Melinda
and Joe Bula found themselves in a similar bind. Six years after
moving into El Dorado Hills, a rapidly growing suburb of Sacra-
mento, California, they decided to repaint their home yellow.
Even though the house was yellow when they bought it, the De-
sign Review Committee, a group of residents that, in another re-
porter’s words, dealt with ‘‘all things aesthetic,’’ denied the Bulas
permission. As John Loveless, the head of the committee, pointed
out, the El Dorado Hills restrictions stipulated that ‘‘no primary
colors—yellow, red, or blue—are allowed.’’ Unlike another resi-
dent, who agreed to repaint her yellow house in an ‘‘earth tone’’
if the committee would permit her to replace her roof, the Bulas


 

appealed the decision to the El Dorado Hills board and threat-

ened to go to court. In the meantime the committee flagged the
Bulas’ white picket fence as a violation because it was made of
plastic.1
As Felinton and the Bulas learned (and millions of Americans
already knew), restrictive covenants have not gone the way of the
streetcars and interurban railways that opened up the suburbs in
the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Three-quarters
of a century after Charles E. Clark observed that they were be-
coming ‘‘the rule, rather than the exception,’’ nearly a century and
a half after Frederick Law Olmsted, Sr., spelled out the problem
they were designed to solve, these covenants are still around. Al-
though they caught on at a time when private land-use controls
were virtually nonexistent, they proliferated even after the pas-
sage of local zoning ordinances that regulated what landowners
could do with their property. And though they took hold in the
age of the subdivider, they retained their grip when subdividers
gave way to builders after World War II. The postwar builders
not only laid out the lots but also put up the houses, leaving
the buyers little say about the siting and design of their homes.
Thus during the third quarter of the twentieth century restric-
tions were found just about everywhere in suburbia, even in the
large-scale planned communities that were among the hallmarks
of the postwar landscape. A case in point was Levittown, Long
Island, the first of William J. Levitt’s huge middle-class suburbs
on the East Coast, which imposed racial covenants and more than
a dozen other restrictions. They were also found in Bear Creek,
Washington, and the many other gated communities that went
up in the late s and s. Known as CC&Rs (for Covenants,
Conditions, and Restrictions), the restrictions are as integral a
  

feature of these communities today as the gates that are supposed

to protect residents from outsiders.2
Restrictions nowadays seldom include minimum cost require-
ments. Some real estate developers began to question the value
of these restrictions in the aftermath of World War I, during
which time the cost of single-family houses more than doubled.
(It was obvious, they believed, that a requirement of, say, five
thousand dollars that was imposed in the early s would not
prevent the erection of a shoddy house in the early s.) And
even before World War II, which set off another round of in-
flation, many real estate professionals considered these require-
ments obsolete. Starting in the s, a few subdividers there-
fore decided to impose minimum-square-footage requirements,
which served the same purpose as minimum cost requirements
but were not affected by inflation. This approach was recom-
mended by the National Association of Home Builders in the
early s and adopted by many developers soon after. Most
developers were also forced to abandon racial and ethnic cove-
nants after . In , after a long drawn out campaign by
the NAACP, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Shelley v. Kraemer
that these covenants were unenforceable. Without explicitly re-
pudiating Corrigan v. Buckley, it held that a subdivider could in-
clude a racial covenant in a deed, but that the courts could not
order a buyer to abide by it without violating the Fourteenth
Amendment. Shelley v. Kraemer did not end residential segrega-
tion, as Gunnar Myrdal thought it would. But it did force devel-
opers to find other ways to keep African-Americans and other
minority groups out of the suburbs. Levitt, for example, did not
impose a racial covenant in Levittown II, which was started in
Bucks County, Pennsylvania, in the early s. But his sales-
 

men assured prospective purchasers that houses would be sold

‘‘to whites only.’’ 3
The passing of minimum cost requirements and racial cove-
nants notwithstanding, restrictions nowadays are more or less
what they were three-quarters of a century ago. In some ways they
are even more sweeping and more stringent. They are still de-
signed to exclude ‘‘undesirable’’ people—a category that includes
anyone under fifty-five (or even forty-eight) in some retirement
communities—and ‘‘undesirable’’ activities. Ordinarily they pro-
hibit nuisances of all sorts and, if they do not ban them altogether,
keep workshops and stores out of residential neighborhoods and
apartment houses away from single-family homes. They impose
setback regulations and architectural guidelines too. Fences are
regulated, if not prohibited. So are billboards and other signs.
Many restrictions include a ban on domestic animals. Some also
set a limit on the number and size of household pets, and a few
prohibit them. Unlike Nichols and other subdividers, some de-
velopers nowadays impose restrictions on offensive behavior as
well as objectionable land use. Many restrictions forbid residents
to leave garage doors open, park vehicles other than automobiles
on the street, hang laundry on exposed clotheslines, and leave
trash cans and garbage bags in the front yard. Others bar resi-
dents from letting children play on a swing set, even in the back
yard, planting cherry trees, strawberry bushes, and anything else
that produces soft fruit, and, in one case, flying the American flag
on Flag Day. A few even prohibit bothersome noise. To enforce
these restrictions, nearly all developers set up a homeowners’ (or
property owners’) association.4
Restrictive covenants are still around largely because the fears
of unwanted change that gave rise to them in the late nineteenth
  

and early twentieth centuries continued to plague Americans in

the mid and late twentieth. Among the many who voiced these
fears was F. Emerson Andrews, director of publications at the
Russell Sage Foundation. Writing in House Beautiful in , he
urged prospective purchasers of suburban property to ‘‘look all
around your proposed building site and consider what might hap-
pen ten or twenty years after you move into that dream house.’’
Unless the lots next door and across the street are restricted to
single-family homes, they may be used ‘‘some sorry day’’ to store
a contractor’s dump trucks or house ‘‘a small but self-advertising
sauerkraut factory!’’ A gas station, store, or tavern may spring up
on the corner. The home ‘‘across from you’’ may be converted into
a boarding house or torn down and replaced by ‘‘a bustling apart-
ment house.’’ In ‘‘a huff ’’ or out of ‘‘pure selfishness,’’ the next-
door neighbor may erect ‘‘a blank garage wall’’ along the prop-
erty line ‘‘clear out to the pavement,’’ blocking ‘‘that lovely view
of yours.’’ Or the house may be turned into a funeral home, ‘‘its
long and lugubrious processions’’ passing by your home every day
and leaving you nowhere to park much of the time. ‘‘Things like
these have happened,’’ Andrews warned, ‘‘and will continue to.’’ It
did not matter whether the prospective purchasers were thinking
about moving to River Oaks, Levittown, or Bear Creek. As long
as many of them were plagued by fears of unwanted change—
as long as they were afraid, a resident of Phoenix said in ,
‘‘that you can’t trust your own neighbor’’—subdividers and build-
ers would be under pressure to provide some sort of protection
against undesirable people and activities.5
Other than to employ restrictive covenants, they had few op-
tions. Zoning, where it existed, offered homeowners some pro-
tection, especially against the encroachment of factories, stores,
 

apartment houses, and, in some places, even two- and three-

family homes. It had the added advantages that the regulations
were imposed on the whole community and enforced by pub-
lic officials. But zoning had severe drawbacks as well. Under Bu-
chanan v. Warley it could not be used to exclude African-Ameri-
cans and other racial minorities. Based as it was on the police
power, the state’s power to promote public health, safety, and wel-
fare, it could not include minimum cost requirements. Nor, as
Olmsted, Jr., pointed out, could it incorporate ‘‘aesthetic ideals.’’ 6
Zoning might have been more elastic than covenants, as one of
its advocates claimed, but it was not more permanent. The offi-
cials who wrote the ordinances could revise them. Under pres-
sure from unhappy property owners, they could grant variances
and exceptions as well. Building, as opposed to subdividing, also
offered homeowners some protection. By putting up the houses
as well as laying out the lots, Levitt and others could prevent the
initial buyers from building anything but a single-family home,
putting up something cheap, tacky, or ugly, and placing it up
against the property line. But in the absence of restrictions, they
could not stop them from raising chickens and rabbits or putting
up a tall fence or a large sign. In communities without zoning,
they could not keep them from turning their homes into stores,
saloons, or gas stations, much less from building additions that
went beyond the setback lines. As little control as builders like
Levitt had over the initial buyers, they had even less over the sub-
sequent owners.
Subdividers and builders were also under pressure to employ
restrictive covenants from several influential organizations. The
President’s Conference on Home Building and Home Ownership
endorsed them in the early s, as did the National Association
  

of Real Estate Boards. Only through these covenants was it pos-

sible to maintain the ‘‘quality of homes and stability of values,’’
wrote two of the conference’s consultants. Even more influen-
tial was the Federal Housing Administration, a New Deal agency
that was empowered by the National Housing Act of  to in-
sure residential mortgages. The FHA strongly supported racial
covenants and other restrictions (as well as, in the words of its
Underwriting Manual, ‘‘effective provisions for the enforcement
thereof ’’). To qualify for mortgage insurance, wrote the Wilming-
ton Morning Star, a house had to be located in a neighborhood
‘‘protected against the encroachment of undesirable elements
[meaning people of different racial groups and social classes] and
improper use of property by deed restrictions and zoning ordi-
nances.’’ In the wake of Shelley v. Kraemer, the FHA stopped re-
quiring racial covenants, but not other restrictions. After World
War II the National Association of Home Builders joined the fold,
arguing that ‘‘well drawn’’ restrictions were necessary even in
low-cost neighborhoods. Even in zoned communities, residential
stability and property values could not be preserved without ‘‘ade-
quate protective restrictions,’’ it declared. Not long after, the De-
partment of Housing and Urban Development, which was estab-
lished in , gave its blessings to restrictive covenants.7
Subdividers and builders might have withstood these pressures
if the restrictive covenants did not work. But they did. By and
large, they prevented unwanted change. During a century in
which other features of the built environment have changed al-
most beyond recognition—a century in which department stores
have moved from the central business district to outlying shop-
ping centers, expressways and freeways have replaced electric
railways, and cities have razed ‘‘blighted areas’’ in the name of
 

urban redevelopment—even the oldest of the highly restricted

suburbs have remained much the same. Described by a journalist
as ‘‘neighborhoods that can’t be spoiled,’’ these suburbs have long
been regarded as models of the ‘‘bourgeois utopia.’’ Late in the
s Good Housekeeping awarded its Shield (later known as its
Seal of Approval) for ‘‘all that is best in building practice’’ to J. C.
Nichols’s Country Club District. The Shield was also displayed at
Roland Park and a dozen other highly restricted communities.
Shortly after, the Urbanism Committee of the National Resources
Council praised the Country Club District and Roland Park, in-
cluding Guilford and Homeland, as ‘‘perhaps the finest examples
of integrated large-scale real estate development to be found in
the United States’’ and hailed Palos Verdes Estates as ‘‘one of the
[country’s] best planned and carefully restricted real estate devel-
opments.’’ 8 Nearly seventy years later Roland Park and the Coun-
try Club District are still considered the most attractive suburbs
in their metropolitan areas. And along with Bel-Air, Oak Knoll,
and Beverly Hills, Palos Verdes Estates still stands, in the words
of Olmsted, Jr., ‘‘head and shoulders’’ above other residential sub-
divisions in greater Los Angeles.
I spent a day in Palos Verdes Estates in November , a few
months after starting work on this book. It was the first time I
had been there since the early s, when I spent a year in Los
Angeles doing research for my doctoral dissertation. More than
anything else, I was struck by how little it had changed (or, to
be more precise, how little it seemed to have changed). If not, in
E. G. Lewis’s words, ‘‘a great Acropolis,’’ it was still, as Charles H.
Cheney wrote, ‘‘a model residential suburb.’’ Its spectacular site
—high in the hills, overlooking the Pacific on three sides—was
much as I remembered it. So was its picturesque landscape—the
  

winding streets that fit into the contour of the hilly site, the spa-
cious lots that preserved the breathtaking views, and the string of
parks and open spaces that enhanced the natural setting. I saw no
refineries or other noxious industries, no factories, no strip malls,
indeed no malls of any kind—only a few small and tasteful shop-
ping centers, with pharmacies, bookstores, and real estate offices.
Nor did I see any saloons, oil wells, billboards, domestic animals,
or apartment houses—only a few clusters of garden apartments,
which served as a buffer between the shopping centers and the
single-family homes. As far as I could tell, the homes were large
and well designed, the grounds covered by shade trees and, even
in the midst of one of southern California’s long droughts, well-
tended lawns. Palos Verdes Estates was designed for ‘‘stability and
permanence,’’ wrote Olmsted, Jr. And if, as he believed, the ab-
sence of undesirable activities is a sign of these traits, it is an un-
qualified success.
From the viewpoint of Olmsted, Cheney, and Lewis, I later
learned, Palos Verdes Estates was almost as successful in its ef-
forts to bar undesirable people as undesirable activities. From the
start the developers attempted to exclude all but Caucasians, all
but members of what Lewis called ‘‘the greatest race that has ever
lived.’’ And through World War II virtually all the residents were
white. In the aftermath of Shelley v. Kraemer, the civil rights move-
ment, and the emergence of a small but growing number of well-
to-do African-Americans, Hispanics, and Asian-Americans, it be-
came harder to segregate racial and ethnic minorities. Still, for
reasons that go beyond the scope of this book, as late as , by
which time African-Americans, Hispanics, and Asian-Americans
outnumbered Caucasians in Los Angeles County, only  percent
of the residents in Palos Verdes Estates was African-American.
 

And though one of every seven residents was Asian-American,

only  percent were Hispanic. From the start the developers
also attempted to exclude all but the well-to-do and, in Cheney’s
words, ‘‘to group the people of more or less income together.’’ If
anything, things worked out better than expected. As of  the
median household income in Palos Verdes was almost ,,
about three times the median household income in Los Ange-
les County. More than six of every ten households earned over
,, nearly three of every ten over ,. And the me-
dian value of the homes was close to ,, about four times
the median value in the county. Nearly nine of every ten were
worth more than ,, nearly three of every ten more than
 million.9
Palos Verdes Estates has succeeded so well ‘‘in shutting out all
din and confusion of modern metropolitan life,’’ as one of its pro-
motional brochures put it, that on my brief visit it was hard to
remember that I was in Los Angeles, that on the other side of the
hills, up and down the coast, lies the second largest metropolis in
the nation. A metropolis with oil refineries, assembly plants, and
sweatshops, a port whose size boggles the mind, and a network
of freeways that has to be seen to be believed. A metropolis with
a huge African-American ghetto, the site of two of the worst riots
in American history, and whole communities in which English is
the second language, and Spanish not necessarily the first. On the
day I spent in Palos Verdes—a balmy, sunny, and dry day, the sort
Lewis assured prospective investors and purchasers they could
count on all year long—it was also hard to remember that the
community was inspired not only by dreams, but also by night-
mares, not only by hopes, but also by fears. Fears of people of dif-
ferent races and classes. Fears of people like themselves, people
  

who, in the words of Olmsted, Sr, might be moved, by ‘‘igno-

rance, incompetence, bad taste, or knavery,’’ to sell their property
to objectionable people or to use it in objectionable ways. Fears
of change, fears of the market, fears of much of what had been
going on in American society for a century and a half.
Even so, I saw some signs of these fears. I saw them in the
Palos Verdes Public Library, which keeps the restrictions, and in
the Palos Verdes Homes Association, which enforces them. Had
I been making a longer visit, had I been paying less attention
to the spectacular site, I might have seen other signs, the sort
a New York Times reporter glimpsed in the mid-s. A family
that had just moved to Palos Verdes Estates was watching the
movers unload their belongings, he wrote, ‘‘when a well-dressed,
middle-aged woman arrived and silently attached a red cardboard
tag to the[ir] home.’’ Asked what it meant, she answered that the
design for a railing around the front porch had not yet been ap-
proved by the Art Jury. Nor did the house have a ‘‘drying yard,’’ a
‘‘screened-off area’’ that was required because the restrictions for-
bade residents to hang laundry ‘‘outside the home that was visible
to others.’’ 10 Such incidents are common not only in Palos Verdes
Estates but also in other highly restricted suburbs all over the
country. As Felinton and the Bulas found, they sometimes lead
to protracted conflicts and expensive lawsuits. Some suburban-
ites have complained that the restrictions are unreasonable and
intrusive in some cases, picayune in others. But as Larry Horner,
then president of a league of homeowners’ associations in West-
lake Village, a planned community about forty miles north of Los
Angeles, said, if the residents were not willing to abide by the re-
strictions they should not have moved there. But move there they
did—and not only to Westlake Village, but also to Roland Park
 

and St. Francis Wood, to Levittown, and to Charleston Place and

El Dorado Hills. That so many people have been willing to submit
to so many restrictions for so many years is the most telling sign
of the deep-seated fears of unwanted change that have plagued
Americans since the mid-nineteenth century, the most telling
sign of the persistence of the dark side of the ‘‘bourgeois utopia.’’
 Notes

Introduction

. Delane Morgan, The Palos Verdes Story (Palos Verdes, ), pages
–; Hallock F. Raup, ‘‘Rancho Los Palos Verdes,’’ Historical Society of
Southern California Quarterly, March , pages –; U.S. Bureau of
the Census, Abstract of the Fourteenth Census of the United States: 
(Washington, D.C., ), pages , . See also Frank A. Vanderlip,
From Farm Boy to Financier (New York, ).
. Vanderlip, From Farm Boy to Financier, pages –; Ralph Jester,
‘‘Interview with F. A. Vanderlip, Jr.,’’ March , , Local History
Collection, Palos Verdes Library District, Palos Verdes Estates, Cali-
fornia; Boston Evening Transcript, July , ; Augusta Fink, Time
and the Terraced Land (Berkeley, ), pages –.
. James Sturgis Pray, ‘‘John Charles Olmsted,’’ Landscape Architecture,
April , page ; Frank A. Vanderlip to Olmsted Brothers, Janu-
ary , , Records of the Olmsted Associates (hereinafter cited as
Olmsted Records), Job File , Manuscript Division, Library of Con-
gress; Boston Evening Transcript, July , ; Samuel Swift, ‘‘Com-
munity Life in Tuxedo,’’ House and Garden, August , pages –
; Olmsted Brothers to W. H. Kiernan, October , , Olmsted
Records, Job File .
. Boston Evening Transcript, July , ; Fink, Time and the Terraced
Land, page ; Donald K. Lawyer, ‘‘Resume of Work Done by Olm-
sted Brothers,’’ a memo dated February , , page , Olmsted
Records, Job File ; Vanderlip, From Farm Boy to Financier, pages
–; Pray, ‘‘Olmsted,’’ pages –; Edward Clark Whiting
and William Lyman Phillips, ‘‘Frederick Law Olmsted—–,’’
Landscape Architecture, April , page .
. Walter V. Woehlke, ‘‘The Champion Borrower of Them All,’’ Sunset
Magazine, September , pages , , November , pages –


     –

, –, . See also Susan Waugh McDonald, ‘‘Edward Gardner
Lewis: Entrepreneur, Publisher, American of the Gilded Age,’’ Mis-
souri Historical Society Bulletin, April , pages –.
. E. G. Lewis, Palos Verdes (Atascadero, ), page ; A Report of Pro-
ceedings and Addresses [at the] Meetings of Underwriting Subscribers of
Palos Verdes Project (Los Angeles, ), pages , ; Fink, Time and
the Terraced Land, pages –.
. Fink, Time and the Terraced Land, pages –; Atascadero News, June
, , unidentified newspaper, June , , Los Angeles Express,
June , , Los Angeles Times, June , , Local History Collec-
tion, Palos Verdes Library District.
. Judging Palos Verdes as a Place to Live, undated promotional brochure,
page . See also Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., ‘‘Palos Verdes Estates,’’
Landscape Architecture, July , pages –; Charles H. Cheney,
‘‘A Great City-Planning Project on the Pacific Coast,’’ American City,
July , page ; Charles H. Cheney, ‘‘Palos Verdes Estates—A
Model Residential Suburb,’’ Pacific Coast Architect, April , page
; Los Angeles Times, November , , January , March , ;
Frederick Law Olmsted to Charles H. Cheney, undated letter, Palos
Verdes Homes Association, Palos Verdes Estates, California.
. Los Angeles Times, February , , and , March , June , July ,
, January , , and , February  and , March , . See
also Judging Palos Verdes, pages –.
. Los Angeles Times, March , June , July , December  and ,
, January  and , March , , and , . See also Judging
Palos Verdes, pages , .
. Olmsted Brothers, ‘‘Restrictions for Real Estate in Deed Form,’’ a
memo dated Fall , Olmsted Records, Job File ; H.V.H., ‘‘Land
Subdivision Restrictions,’’ Landscape Architecture, October , table
following page ; Lewis, Palos Verdes, page ; Meetings of Underwrit-
ing Subscribers, pages –, –; Olmsted Brothers, ‘‘Restrictions for
Residential Subdivisions and Related Matters,’’ a report dated January
, Appendix, Loeb Library, Harvard University; Fukuo Akimoto,
‘‘California’s Garden Suburbs: St. Francis Wood and Palos Verdes,’’ a
    –  

paper delivered at the th International Conference on Planning His-

tory, Espoo-Helsinki, Finland, August , , pages –.
. Protective Restrictions, Palos Verdes Estates, Los Angeles, California
(), pages , , ; Meetings of Underwriting Subscribers, page ;
Trust Indenture, Palos Verdes Project, Between E. G. Lewis and Title
Insurance and Trust Company Trustees (Los Angeles, ), page ;
Robert M. Fogelson, The Fragmented Metropolis: Los Angeles, –
(Cambridge, ), pages –.
. Protective Restrictions, Palos Verdes Estates, pages –, –, –, –
, –; Meetings of Underwriting Subscribers, page ; Palos Verdes
Bulletin, December , page ; Myron Hunt, ‘‘The Art Jury of Palos
Verdes Estates,’’ California Southland, May , page . On the need
for architectural review at Palos Verdes, see John Charles Olmsted to
Jay Lawyer, March , , Olmsted Records, Job File .
. Protective Restrictions, Palos Verdes Estates, pages –, , –.
. Protective Restrictions, Palos Verdes Estates, pages –, –.
. Protective Restrictions, Palos Verdes Estates, pages –, –, –, –
.
. Robert V. Hines, California’s Utopian Colonies (Berkeley, ); Ian S.
Haberman, The Van Sweringens of Cleveland: The Biography of an Em-
pire (Cleveland, ), pages –; Susan L. Klaus, A Modern Arcadia:
Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., and the Plan for Forest Hills Gardens (Am-
herst, Massachusetts, ); Eugenie Ladner Birch and Deborah S.
Gardner, ‘‘The Seven Percent Solution: A Review of Philanthropic
Housing, –,’’ Journal of Urban History, August , pages
–; Los Angeles Times, April , .
. Meetings of Underwriting Subscribers, pages , –; Los Angeles Times,
March , June , October , November , December , ,
January , February , ; James Clifford Findley, ‘‘The Eco-
nomic Boom of the ’Twenties in Los Angeles’’ (Doctoral dissertation,
Claremont Graduate School, ), chapter ; Judging Palos Verdes,
page .
. Ignaciunas v. Risley,  A. , quote on page ; Marc A. Weiss,
The Rise of Community Builders: The American Real Estate Industry and
    –

Urban Land Planning (New York, ), pages –; Jules Tygiel,
The Great Los Angeles Swindle: Oil, Stocks, and Scandal During the Roar-
ing Twenties (New York, ), page ; Mark Lee Luther, The Boosters
(Indianapolis, ), page ; Olmsted, Jr., ‘‘Palos Verdes Estates,’’
pages –; Nathan William MacChesney, The Principles of Real
Estate Law (New York, ), pages –, –, ; Lawrence J.
Vale, From the Puritans to the Projects: Public Housing and Public Neigh-
bors (Cambridge, ), page .
. Los Angeles Times, November  and , December , , February ,
April  and , May , October , November , December  and
, , January  and , . See also Jean Strouse, Morgan:
American Financier (New York, ), page .
. Willard Huntington Wright, ‘‘Los Angeles—The Chemically Pure,’’ in
The Smart Set Anthology, ed. Burton Rascoe and Graff Conklin (New
York, ), page ; Bruce Bliven, ‘‘Los Angeles: The City that Is Bac-
chanalian in a Nice Way,’’ New Republic, July , , page ; H.V.H.,
‘‘Land Subdivision Restrictions,’’ table following page ; Meetings of
Underwriting Subscribers, pages –; Palos Verdes Homes Association,
The Palos Verdes Protective Restrictions (Palos Verdes Estates, ca. ),
page ; Country Life in America, November , , page , August
, page ; Kansas City Star, October , , March , ; Hous-
ton Post, April , .
. A novel form of multifamily housing in which each resident owned
his or her apartment (or, more precisely, a corresponding block of
shares in the building), cooperative apartment houses first appeared
in the late nineteenth century, but they did not catch on until after
World War I, when a severe housing shortage sent rents skyrocketing.
In an effort to escape from ‘‘profiteering’’ landlords, many well-to-do
tenants moved to the suburbs. Some, however, preferred to stay in the
city, even if it meant living in an apartment. For them a cooperative
provided, as a New York real estate agent said, ‘‘a home, not simply an
apartment,’’ a home that needed fewer servants and less upkeep than a
single-family house. To ensure exclusivity, stability, and permanence,
the by-laws gave current residents what the New York Times called
    – 

a ‘‘controlling voice’’ in the management of the building, especially

in the selection of future residents. Although the prices excluded all
but the very rich, the coop boards required business and social refer-
ences from prospective purchasers, and these references, wrote one
journalist, ‘‘are followed up and run down, at least in the more ex-
pensive cooperative developments, until every fact which has a bear-
ing on the desirability of the applicant as a neighbor is revealed.’’ As
well as congenial neighbors, a cooperative gave city-dwellers a home
of their own. ‘‘His home is ,’’ read an ad for several Manhattan co-
operative apartments: ‘‘to do with as he likes; to live in, to hand down
to his children and grand children; to alter; to sell or to lease, sub-
ject only to restrictions agreed upon by the co-owners to maintain the
high character and value of the common property.’’ New York Times,
June , , February , March , April , May , October ,
, January , ; Elmer A. Claar, ‘‘Why the Cooperative Plan of
Home-Ownership Is Popular,’’ National Real Estate Journal, May ,
, pages –; Howard MacDougall, ‘‘Cooperative Apartments,’’
Buildings and Building Management, July , , page ; Annals of
Real Estate Practice: , volume , page .
. Robert Fishman, Bourgeois Utopias: The Rise and Fall of Suburbia (New
York, ), page .

Part : Suburbia, –

. Olmsted worked in California in the s and again in the s, but
as far as I can tell he never spent time in Los Angeles. See Charles E.
Beveridge and Paul Rocheleau, Frederick Law Olmsted: Designing the
American Landscape (New York, ), pages –, –. See also
Los Angeles Times, March , .
. Robert Fishman, Bourgeois Utopias: The Rise and Fall of Suburbia (New
York, ), pages –; Olmsted, Vaux & Co., ‘‘Preliminary Re-
port Upon the Proposed Suburban Village at Riverside, Near Chicago
(),’’ Landscape Architecture, July , pages –; Beveridge
and Rocheleau, Olmsted, page .
     –

. Olmsted, Vaux & Co., ‘‘Riverside,’’ page , –; Frederick Law
Olmsted to B. L. Ramsey, November , Frederick Law Olmsted
Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress (hereinafter cited
as Olmsted Papers).
. ‘‘Prospectus for the New Suburban District of Tarrytown Heights,’’ in
The Papers of Frederick Law Olmsted, volume , The Years of Olmsted,
Vaux & Company, –, ed. David Schuyler and Jane Turner Cen-
ser (Baltimore, ), pages –; Frederick Law Olmsted et al.,
‘‘Report to the Staten Island Improvement Commission of a Prelimi-
nary Scheme of Improvements,’’ in Landscape Into Cityscape: Frederick
Law Olmsted’s Plans for a Greater New York, ed. Albert Fein (New York,
), pages , –.
. Olmsted et al., ‘‘Report to the Staten Island Improvement Commis-
sion,’’ pages –.
. Frederick Law Olmsted to Henry H. Elliott, August , , in The
Papers of Frederick Law Olmsted, volume , Creating Central Park, –
, ed. Charles E. Beveridge and David Schuyler (Baltimore, ),
page ; Walter Firey, Land Use in Central Boston (Cambridge, ),
pages –, –, –, ; Margaret Supplee Smith, ‘‘Be-
tween City and Suburb: Architecture and Planning in Boston’s South
End’’ (Doctoral dissertation, Brown University, ), pages –, –
; Lyle W. Dorsett, The Pendergast Machine (New York, ), pages
–; F. A. Cushing Smith, ‘‘The Glory of Shaker Village,’’ American
Landscape Architect, July , page .
. Ronald Dale Karr, ‘‘The Evolution of an Elite Suburb: Community
Structure and Control in Brookline, Massachusetts, –’’
(Doctoral dissertation, Boston University, ), pages –; Re-
port of the Board of Park and Boulevard Commissioners of Kansas City,
Missouri (Kansas City, ), pages –; Jesse Clyde Nichols, ‘‘When
You Buy a Home Site,’’ Good Housekeeping, February , page .
. Olmsted et al., ‘‘Report to the Staten Island Improvement Commis-
sion,’’ pages –. See also John Archer, ‘‘Country and City in the
American Romantic Suburb,’’ Journal of the Society of Architectural His-
torians, May , pages –.
    – 

. Alexander von Hoffman, Local Attachments: The Making of an Ameri-

can Urban Neighborhood, – (Baltimore, ), page ; David
R. Contosta, Suburb in the City: Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, –
(Columbus, Ohio, ), pages –; Dennis P. Sobin, Dynamics of
Community Change: The Case of Long Island’s Declining ‘‘Gold Coast’’
(Port Washington, New York, ), pages –; E. J. Kahn, Jock: The
Life and Times of John Hay Whitney (Garden City, New York, ),
pages , –; Stephen Richard Higley, ‘‘The Geography of the So-
cial Register’’ (Doctoral dissertation, University of Illinois at Urbana-
Champaign, ), page ; Hugh J. McCauley, ‘‘Visions of Kykuit:
John D. Rockefeller’s House at Pocantico Hills, Tarrytown, New York,’’
Hudson Valley Regional Review (), pages , –, –.
. Frank J. Scott, The Art of Beautifying Suburban Home Grounds of Small
Extent (New York, ), pages –. See also Fred. Law Olmsted,
‘‘Report Upon a Projected Improvement of the Estate of the College
of California, at Berkeley, Near Oakland,’’ in The Papers of Frederick
Law Olmsted, volume , The California Frontier, –, ed. Victo-
ria Post Ranney (Baltimore, ), page .
. Samuel Swift, ‘‘Community Life in Tuxedo,’’ Home and Garden, Au-
gust , pages –; Samuel Swift, ‘‘Llewellyn Park West Orange,
Essex Co., New Jersey,’’ Home and Garden, July , pages –;
Sticks, Shingles, and Stones: The History and Architecture of Stewart
Hartshorn’s Ideal Community at Short Hills, New Jersey, –
(Millburn, N.J., ), pages –; Mary Corbin Sies, ‘‘American Coun-
try House Architecture in Context: The Suburban Ideal in the East
and Midwest, –’’ (Doctoral dissertation, University of Michi-
gan, ), pages , .
. Scott, Suburban Home Grounds, pages –.
. H. G. Wood, A Practical Treatise on the Law of Nuisances in Their Vari-
ous Forms: Including Remedies Therefor at Law and in Equity (Albany,
), pages –, –. See also Andrew J. King, Law and Land Use
in Chicago: A Prehistory of Modern Zoning (New York, ), page .
. Richard M. Hurd, Principles of City Land Values (New York, ), page
; Stanley L. McMichael and Robert F. Bingham, City Growth and
     – 

Values (Cleveland, ), page ; King, Law and Land Use, pages
–; Wood, Law of Nuisances, pages , –, , , .
. R.E.H., ‘‘Annotation,’’  A.L.R. , quotes on pages , ; Flood
v. Consumers Company,  Ill. App. , quotes on page ; Olm-
sted et al., ‘‘Report to the Staten Island Improvement Commission,’’
page . See also King, Law and Land Use, pages –.
. Mulligan v. Nelson,  Ill. App. , quotes on page ; King, Law
and Land Use, pages –, –; Oehler v. Levy,  Ill. App. ,
quote on page ; Wood, Law of Nuisances, page .
. ‘‘Prospectus for the Suburban District of Tarrytown Heights,’’ page
; Olmsted to Elliott, August , , pages –; Olmsted,
Vaux & Co., ‘‘Riverside,’’ pages –.
. Olmsted to Elliott, August , , pages –; Olmsted, Vaux &
Co., ‘‘Riverside,’’ pages –; Frederick Law Olmsted to Francis G.
Newlands, November , , Olmsted Papers; Charles Mulford Rob-
inson, ‘‘Platting of Minor Residence Streets in High-Class Districts,’’
Real Estate Magazine, December , pages –; Olmsted Broth-
ers, ‘‘St. Francis Wood San Francisco, California,’’ Home & Grounds,
April , page . See also King, Law and Land Use, pages –.
. Olmsted, Vaux & Co., ‘‘Riverside,’’ pages , , –; Olmsted
Brothers, ‘‘St. Francis Wood,’’ page ; Swift, ‘‘Llewellyn Park,’’ page
; Olmsted, ‘‘College of California,’’ page .
. National Real Estate Journal, August , , page . See also Fred-
erick Law Olmsted to Henry M. Whitney, February , , Olmsted
Papers.
. Donald J. Olsen, Town Planning in London (New Haven, ), pages
, , –; Stefan Muthesius, The English Terraced House (New
Haven, ), pages –; H. J. Dyos, Victorian Suburb: A Study of the
Growth of Camberwell (Leicester, England, ), pages , . See
also William Ashworth, The Genesis of Modern British Town Planning:
A Study of Economic and Social History of the Nineteenth and Twentieth
Century (London, ), page .
. Parker v. Nightingale,  Mass. ; Barrow v. Richard,  Paige ,
quotes on pages –; Tobey v. Moore,  Mass. , quote on
    –  

page ; Jeffries v. Jeffries,  Mass. . See also Elizabeth Black-
mar, Mahattan for Rent, – (Ithaca, ), pages –, , ,
–; Michael Holleran, Boston’s ‘‘Changeful Times’’: Origins of Pres-
ervation and Planning in America (Baltimore, ), pages –.
. Barrow v. Richards,  Paige ; Agreements and Deeds Relating Chiefly to
the Back-Bay District of the City of Boston (Boston, ), pages , ;
Annual Report of the [Boston] Public Land Commissioners: , pages
–, –; Allen v. Massachusetts Bonding & Ins. Co.,  Mass. ,
quotes on pages . See also Lawrence W. Kennedy, Planning the City
Upon a Hill: Boston Since  (Amherst, ), pages –.
. Holleran, Boston’s ‘‘Changeful Times,’’ pages –. See also Swift,
‘‘Llewellyn Park,’’ pages –; Witold Rybczynski, ‘‘How to Build a
Suburb,’’ Wilson Quarterly, Summer , pages –.
. See the annotation to De Peyster v. Michael,  Am. Dec. , quotes
on page ; Mandelbaum v. McDonnel,  Mich. , quotes on pages
, ; Cowell v. Springs Company,  U.S. , quote on page ;
Real Estate Company v. Serio,  Md. , quotes on page .
. Holleran, Boston’s ‘‘Changeful Times,’’ pages –; Whitney v. Union
Railway Company,  Gray , quotes on pages , ; Cowell v.
Springs Company,  U.S. , quotes on page . See also William H.
Hamilton, ‘‘Restrictive Covenants in a Conveyance of Real Estate,’’
Albany Law Journal, July , , page ; Robert T. Devlin, A Treatise
on the Law of Deeds (San Francisco, ), volume , pages , ,
–, , , –.
. Peabody Heights Co. v. Willson,  Md. , especially page ; Brou-
wer v. Jones,  Barbour , quote on page ; Barrow v. Richard, 
Paige , especially page ; Whitney v. Union Railway Co.,  Gray
, especially pages –; Trustees v. Lynch,  N.Y. , espe-
cially pages –.
. Brouwer v. Jones,  Barbour , quote on page ; Whitney v. Union
Railway Company,  Gray , quotes on pages , . Brouwer
v. Jones was foreshadowed by Barrow v. Richard, an  decision in
which William T. McCoun, vice chancellor of the New York Court of
Chancery, wrote that a restrictive covenant ‘‘follows the land, and be-
    – 

comes obligatory upon those who succeed to the same land, whether
by descent or purchase.’’ (See Barrow v. Richard,  Paige , quote on
page .)
. Barrow v. Richard,  Paige ; Parker v. Nightingale,  Mass. ,
quotes on pages , , . See also Holleran, Boston’s ‘‘Changeful
Times,’’ pages –.
. Charles I. Giddings, ‘‘Restrictions upon the Use of Land,’’ Harvard
Law Review, January , , page ; annotation to Korn v. Camp-
bell,  L.R.A. (N.S.) , especially pages –; Peabody Heights Co. v.
Willson,  Md. ; Robinson v. Edgell,  W. Va. , quote on page
; Boyden v. Roberts,  Wis. ; King, Law and Land Use, pages
–; Hutchinson v. Ulrich,  Ill. , quotes on page ; Eckhart
v. Irons,  Ill. App. , quote on page .
. Dana v. Wentworth,  Mass. ; DeGray v. Monmouth Beach Club-
house Co.,  A. , quote on page ; Giddings, ‘‘Restrictions,’’
pages –; Whitney v. Union Railway Company,  Gray ,
quote on page ; Trustees of Columbia College v. Thacher,  N.Y. ,
quotes on pages –; Jackson v. Stevenson,  Mass. , quote
on page .
. Kitchen v. Hawley,  Mo. App. , quote on page ; Hutchinson v.
Ulrich,  Ill. , quotes on pages , ; Jones v. Real Estate Co.,
 Md. , quote on page .
. Nichols, ‘‘When You Buy a Home Site,’’ page ; Proceedings of the
Seventh National Conference on City Planning: , page ; Steno-
graphic Report of the Third Annual Conference of Developers of High-Class
Residence Property (), page , Department of Manuscripts and
University Archives, Olin Library, Cornell University; Proceedings of
[the] First Annual Conference of Developers [of ] High Class Residence Prop-
erty (), pages –, Department of Manuscripts and University
Archives, Olin Library; Edward H. Bouton to S. M. Jarvis, October ,
, Box , Roland Park Company Records, Collection , De-
partment of Manuscripts and University Archives, Olin Library.
. John McC. Mowbray, ‘‘After Fifty Years,’’ Gardens, Houses, and People,
June , page ; Fletcher Steele, compiler, ‘‘Restrictions on Land
    –  

to Be Used for Suburban Residential Purposes,’’ a memo prepared for

W. H. Manning and dated February , , Loeb Library; Thomas
Adams, ‘‘The British Point of View,’’ Proceedings of the Third National
Conference on City Planning: , page .
. Ignaciunas v. Risley,  A. , quote on page ; Robert M. Fogel-
son, Downtown: Its Rise and Fall, – (New Haven, ), page
; Sies, ‘‘American Country House Architecture,’’ page ; Becky M.
Nicolaides, My Blue Heaven: Life and Politics in the Working-Class Sub-
urbs of Los Angeles, – (Chicago, ), page ; Lawrence J.
Vale, From the Puritans to the Projects: Public Housing and Public Neigh-
bors (Cambridge, ), page ; ‘‘Why Is a Suburb: By a Woman
Who Lives in One,’’ Countryside Magazine and Suburban Life, July ,
page .
. McMichael and Bingham, City Growth and Values, page ; Thor-
stein Veblen, Absentee Ownership and Business Enterprise in Recent
Times: The Case of America (New York, ), page ; Fogelson,
Downtown, page ; Hurd, City Land Values, page . See also Hol-
leran, Boston’s ‘‘Changeful Times,’’ chapter .
. John F. W. Ware, Home Life: What It Is, and What It Needs (Boston,
), page . See also Holleran, Boston’s ‘‘Changeful Times,’’ chap-
ter ; First Annual Conference, pages , ; Third Annual Confer-
ence, pages , –; The Palos Verdes Protective Restrictions (Palos
Verdes Estates, ca. ), pages –.
. Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., to Karl B. Lohman, April , , Olm-
sted Records, Job File ; Robert Pearson and Brad Pearson, The
J. C. Nichols Chronicle (Kansas City, ), page ; Francis K. Carey
to Edward H. Bouton, November , , Box , Roland Park Com-
pany Records.
. ‘‘Portrait of a Salesman: Jesse Clyde Nichols,’’ National Real Estate Jour-
nal, February , page ; Barrow v. Richard,  Paige , quote on
page ; Charles H. Cheney, ‘‘Progress in Architectural Control,’’ in
National Conference on City Planning, Architectural Control of Private
Property (), page .
. Wm. Seton Gordon, ‘‘Building Restrictions—Right to Enforce,’’ Al-
     – 

bany Law Journal, May , , page ; Olmsted, Vaux & Co., ‘‘River-
side,’’ page ; Frederick Law Olmsted to Henry M. Whitney, Febru-
ary , , Olmsted Papers; Steele, Semmes & Carey to Roland Park
Company, December , , Box , Roland Park Company Records.
. William S. Worley, J. C. Nichols and the Shaping of Kansas City (Co-
lumbia, Missouri, ), pages –; Rebecca Moudry, ‘‘Gardens,
Houses, and People: The Planning of Roland Park, Baltimore’’ (Mas-
ter’s thesis, Cornell University, ), pages –.
. Edward H. Bouton to S. M. Jarvis, October , , Box , Roland
Park Company Records; Worley, Nichols, pages –; Moudry, ‘‘Ro-
land Park,’’ pages –, –, –, ; James W. Waesche,
Crowning the Gravelly Hill: A History of the Roland Park-Guilford-Home-
land District (Baltimore, ), pages –.
. Proceedings of the General Sessions of the National Association of Real
Estate Boards at the Seventeenth Annual Conference: , page ; Mow-
bray, ‘‘After Fifty Years,’’ page ; Waesche, Crowning the Gravelly Hill,
pages –; Worley, Nichols, pages –; Baltimore News, July ,
, June , , Box ; Schmucker & Whitelock to Edward H.
Bouton, October , , Box ; Edward H. Bouton to Roland R. Conk-
lin, January , , Box , Roland Park Company Records.
. Baltimore News, July , , June , ; Baltimore American, June
, , Box ; unidentified ad, probably from the Baltimore Sun,
September , Box ; Richard W. Marchant, Jr., to William R. Ab-
bott, March , , Box ; F.H.P. to A. N. Martin, June , ,
Box , Roland Park Company Records.
. Edward H. Bouton, ‘‘Development of Roland Park, Baltimore,’’ Pro-
ceedings of the General Sessions of the National Association of Real Estate
Boards at the Seventeenth Annual Conference: , page ; Moudry,
‘‘Roland Park,’’ pages –, –; unidentified newspaper dated
January , , Box ; J. C. Nichols to Edward H. Bouton, Decem-
ber , , Box , Roland Park Company Records.
. Thomas Adams, ‘‘An American Garden Suburb: Roland Park, Balti-
more,’’ Architectural Review, November , pages –; Balti-
more American, April , , Box , Roland Park Company
    –  

Records; Arthur Tomalin, ‘‘Houses that Blend in with Their Sur-

roundings,’’ Suburban Life, April , page ; Baltimore Sun, May
, ; Roland Park Review, April , page ; Mowbray, ‘‘After
Fifty Years,’’ page ; Arthur B. Cranford, ‘‘A Suburb Conforming to
Architectural Standards, Roland Park, Baltimore, Maryland,’’ Brick-
builder, August , pages –; Steele, Semmes, Carey & Bond
to Edward H. Bouton, March , , Box , Roland Park Company
Records; Worley, Nichols, page ; Adams, ‘‘The British Point of View,’’
page ; Baltimore Herald, October , .
. Waesche, Crowning the Gravelly Hill, chapter ; Deed and Agreement
Between the Roland Park Company and Edward H. Bouton Containing
Restrictions, Conditions, Charges, Etc. Relating to Guilford (), pages
–; Third Annual Conference, page ; Bouton, ‘‘Development of
Roland Park,’’ page ; First Annual Conference, page b.
. Baltimore Sun, May , , July , , April , May , , , and
, . For other ads, see Box , Roland Park Company Records.
. J. C. Nichols Investment Company, Country Club District[:]  Acres
Restricted (Kansas City, ), pages –, , , J. C. Nichols Col-
lection, Western Historical Manuscript Collection, University of Mis-
souri–Kansas City Archives; Nichols, ‘‘When You Buy a Home Site,’’
page ; J. C. Nichols, Real Estate Subdivisions: The Best Manner of
Handling Them (Washington, D.C., ), page ; J. C. Nichols, ‘‘Hous-
ing and the Real Estate Problem,’’ Annals of the American Academy
of Political and Social Science, January , page ; J. C. Nichols
to Edward H. Bouton, July , , Box , Roland Park Company
Records; Worley, Nichols, page .
. Pleasants v. Wilson,  Md. , quote on page ; Samuel S. Thorpe,
‘‘The More Restrictions the More Buyers,’’ National Real Estate Jour-
nal, July , , pages –; Nichols, ‘‘Housing and the Real Estate
Problem,’’ page ; Frederick Law Olmsted, ‘‘Deed Restrictions that
Affect Houses in Planned Neighborhoods,’’ Architectural Record, No-
vember , page ; Charles E. Clark, Real Covenants and Other
Interests Which ‘‘Run with Land’’ (Chicago, ), page . See also
Susan Mulcahey Chase, ‘‘The Process of Suburbanization and the
     –  

Use of Restrictive Deed Covenants as Private Zoning, Wilmington,

Delaware, –’’ (Doctoral dissertation, University of Delaware,
), page .
. Alexander S. Taylor, ‘‘Districting Through Private Effort,’’ Proceedings
of the Eighth National Conference on City Planning: , page ;
Iranaeus Shuler, ‘‘Subdivision Control and Standards,’’ Annals of Real
Estate Practice: , volume , page ; Hugh E. Prather, ‘‘Planning,
Platting, and Improving the Subdivision,’’ ibid., page ; Chester S.
Chase, ‘‘A Well Planned and Well Planted Community,’’ House Beau-
tiful, September , page .
. Charles K. Farrington, ‘‘When You Buy Your Building-lot,’’ Suburban
Life, February , page .
. Kansas City Star, October , ; Baltimore Sun, May , ; Hous-
ton Post-Dispatch, February , ; Chase, ‘‘Restrictive Deed Cove-
nants,’’ page ; St[.] Francis Wood: A Great Civic Achievement, Loeb
Library; Olmsted, ‘‘Deed Restrictions,’’ pages , ; Thorpe, ‘‘The
More Restrictions the More Buyers,’’ page ; Henry Clarke, ‘‘Pro-
tective Deed Restrictions,’’ National Real Estate Journal, June ,
page .
. Gasoline Stations or Brendonwood (ca. ), Loeb Library; Holleran,
Boston’s ‘‘Changeful Times,’’ chapter ; ‘‘Raymond Village Tract,’’ Eph-
emera Collection, Henry E. Huntington Library, San Marino, Califor-
nia; Los Angeles Times, December , .
. Gasoline Stations or Brendonwood; Kansas City Star, October , ;
River Oaks: A Pictorial Presentation of Houston’s Residential Park, Loeb
Library; A Summer’s Reverie and Dream of a Brendonwood Owner, Loeb
Library; St[.] Francis Wood and Home, Loeb Library; Holleran, Boston’s
‘‘Changeful Times,’’ page .
. Eloise L. Morgan, ed., Building a Suburban Village: Bronxville, New
York, – (), page ; Why You Should Choose the Location
for Your Next Home in Brendonwood (), Loeb Library; Los Angeles
Times, March  and , December , , February , ; Coun-
try Life in America, March , page , June , , page . See also
James A. Mayo, The American Country Club: Its Origins and Develop-
              –   

ment (New Brunswick, ), and Peter W. Cookson, Jr., and Caroline
Hodges Persell, Preparing for Power: America’s Elite Boarding Schools
(New York, ).
. ‘‘A Boston Subdivision,’’ National Real Estate Journal, November ,
, pages –. See also Waesche, Crowning the Gravelly Hill, page
.
. J. C. Nichols Investment Company, Country Club District, pages
–, ; Smith, ‘‘The Glory of Shaker Village,’’ pages –; Paul A.
Harsch, ‘‘Ottawa Hills,’’ Wildwood Magazine, Summer , pages
–, ; William Pitkin, Jr., and Frederick L. Trautman, ‘‘The Great-
est Suburban Development Ever Undertaken,’’ Real Estate Magazine,
October , pages –; Michael H. Ebner, Creating Chicago’s
North Shore: A Suburban History (Chicago, ).
. W. H. Gardner to Olmsted Brothers, March , ; Cornelius Van-
derbilt, Jr., ‘‘Uplands, Victoria’s Residential Park,’’ The Spur, June ,
, page , Olmsted Brothers, Job File ; L. D. McCann, ‘‘Plan-
ning and Building the Corporate Suburb of Mount Royal, –,’’
Planning Perspectives, July , page ; Duncan McDuffie to Olm-
sted Brothers, September , , Olmsted Records, Job File ;
St[.] Francis Wood: A Great Civic Achievement; Robert M. Fogelson,
The Fragmented Metropolis: Los Angeles, – (Cambridge, ),
chapter .
. Don Riddle, ‘‘ ‘Homes to Last for All Time’: The Story of Houston’s
River Oaks,’’ National Real Estate Journal, March , , page . See
also Suburban Life, November , page .
. William B. Friedricks, Henry E. Huntington and the Creation of South-
ern California (Columbus, Ohio, ), pages –; Patricia Burgess,
Planning for the Private Interest: Land Use Controls and Residential Pat-
terns in Columbus, Ohio, – (Columbus, Ohio, ), pages
–; Los Angeles Times, December , , January , February ,
April  and , September , October , November , , Febru-
ary , .
. Pearson and Pearson, The J. C. Nichols Chronicle, page ; Nichols,
‘‘Housing and the Real Estate Problem,’’ pages –; Annals of Real
     – 

Estate Practice: , volume , pages , ; Baltimore Sun, May ,
.
. Robert Phelps, ‘‘The Search for a Modern Industrial City: Urban Plan-
ning, the Open Shop, and the Founding of Torrance, California,’’ Pa-
cific Historical Review, November , pages –.
. Dana W. Bartlett, ‘‘Torrance,’’ American City, October , pages –
; Nicolaides, My Blue Heaven, pages –; Nancy Quan-Wickham,
‘‘ ‘Another World’: Work, Home, and Autonomy in Blue-Collar Sub-
urbs,’’ in Metropolis in the Making: Los Angeles in the s, ed. Tom
Sitton and William Deverell (Berkeley, ), pages –; Richard
Harris, Unplanned Suburbs: Toronto’s American Tragedy,  to 
(Baltimore, ), chapter ; Johanna von Wagner to Frederick Law
Olmsted, Jr., January , , Olmsted Records, Job File .
. Protective Restrictions for Devonshire Downs (), ‘‘Explanatory Note’’
and pages –, Loeb Library.
. First Annual Conference, page b; Hutchinson v. Ulrich,  Ill. ;
Deutsch v. Mortgage Securities Co.,  S.E. ; Saratoga Building Co.
v. Stables Co.,  Md. ; Kitchen v. Hawley,  Mo. App. , quote
on page .
. Tobey v. Moore,  Mass. , quotes on pages , ; Kitchen v.
Hawley,  Mo. App. , quote on page ; Hutchinson v. Ulrich,
 Ill. , quotes on pages , , .
.  A.L.R. , especially pages –; Restrictions Relating to
Guilford, page ; Protective Restrictions for Devonshire Downs, page ;
Warranty Deed, Country Club District, Fairway Section, Loeb Library;
Protective Restrictions, Palos Verdes Estates, page ; Munsey Park[:] A
Restricted Community of Homes at Manhasset, L.I. (), pages –,
Loeb Library; William A. Woodbury, ‘‘Restrictions: Good in Youth—
Dangerous in Age,’’ Real Estate Magazine, December , page .
. Barrow v. Richard,  Paige , quote on page ; Agreement for Sale
[Between] The Uplands, Limited, and H. R. Ferriss, July , , Loeb
Library; Declaration of Restrictions and Covenants Affecting the Property
Known as St[.] Francis Wood, San Francisco, California (), page ,
Bancroft Library, University of California at Berkeley. See also Helen
     –  

Monchow, The Use of Deed Restrictions in Subdivision Development (Chi-

cago, ), pages –.
. Third Annual Conference, pages –, –, ; Hycliff Stan-
dards[:] A Declaration of Protections and Restrictions for Hycliff, Section
Two (), page , Loeb Library; Worley, Nichols, pages –,
–, –.
. Devlin, Law of Deeds, volume , page ; Sharp v. Ropes,  Mass.
; Hycliff Standards, page . See also Monchow, Deed Restrictions,
pages –.
. Sharp v. Ropes,  Mass. ; Jackson v. Stevenson,  Mass. ;
Protective Restrictions, Palos Verdes Estates, pages –. See also Mon-
chow, Deed Restrictions, pages –, .
. Devlin, Law of Deeds, volume , pages –; Pearson and Pear-
son, The J. C. Nichols Chronicle, page ; Jones v. Northwest Real Estate
Company,  Md. , quote on page ; Worley, Nichols, page ;
Chase, ‘‘Restrictive Deed Covenants,’’ pages –; Steele, com-
piler, ‘‘Restrictions on Land,’’ page . The figures for Wilmington are
based on deeds that had at least one restriction.
. H.V.H., ‘‘Land Subdivision Restrictions,’’ table following page ; Ba-
con v. Sandberg,  Mass. ; Monchow, Deed Restrictions, pages –
, ; Burgess, Planning for the Private Interest, pages , ; Chase,
‘‘Restrictive Deed Covenants,’’ pages , ; Carol A. O’Connor,
A Sort of Utopia: Scarsdale, – (Albany, ), pages –;
Building Restrictions and Regulations [ for] Chelmsleigh Addition to the
Country Club Estates (), Loeb Library. See also Proceedings of
the General Sessions of the National Association of Real Estate Boards at
the Seventeenth Annual Convention: , page .
. Baltimore News, July , , Box , Roland Park Company Records.
See also Frank L. Meline, ‘‘Advantages of Architectural Harmony in
Subdivisions,’’ Annals of Real Estate Practice: , volume , page ;
Olmsted Brothers to W. H. Kiernan, October , ; John Charles
Olmsted to Jay Lawyer, March , , Olmsted Records, Job File
.
. J. C. Nichols to E. H. Bouton, July , , Box , Roland Park Com-
    – 

pany Records. See also Peabody Heights Co. v. Willson,  Md. ,
quote on page ; Olmsted, Vaux & Co., ‘‘Riverside,’’ page ; Mon-
chow, Deed Restrictions, pages –; Proceedings of the General Ses-
sions of the National Association of Real Estate Boards at the Seventeenth
Annual Convention: , page ; Steele, compiler, ‘‘Restrictions on
Land,’’ page –.
. Monchow, Deed Restrictions, pages –, –; Chase, ‘‘Restrictive
Deed Covenants,’’ pages –; Olmsted Brothers, ‘‘Restrictions for
Residential Subdivisions and Related Matters,’’ a report dated January
, pages –, Loeb Library; Shaker Village Standards, pages –,
Loeb Library; Olmsted, ‘‘Deed Restrictions,’’ pages –; Proceedings
of the General Sessions of the National Association of Real Estate Boards
at the Seventeenth Annual Convention: , page ; Bouton, ‘‘Devel-
opment of Roland Park,’’ pages –; Third Annual Conference, pages
, .
. Beveridge and Rocheleau, Olmsted, page ; H.V.H., ‘‘Land Sub-
division Restrictions,’’ table following page ; undated Great Neck
Improvement Company deed, Loeb Library; undated Andrews Land
Company Declaration of Restrictions, Loeb Library; Declaration of
Conditions, Covenants, and Charges Affecting St[.] Francis Wood Exten-
sion No. , San Francisco, California (), page , Bancroft Library.
. H.V.H., ‘‘Land Subdivision Restrictions,’’ table following page ;
Sharp v. Ropes,  Mass. ; Chase, ‘‘Restrictive Deed Covenants,’’
pages , –; Warranty Deed, Country Club District, Fairway
Section; Hycliff Standards, page ; Protective Restrictions for Devonshire
Downs, page .
. Chase, ‘‘A Well Planned and Well Planted Community,’’ page .
See also H.V.H., ‘‘Land Subdivision Restrictions,’’ table following page
; Monchow, Deed Restrictions, pages –, –; Beveridge and
Rocheleau, Olmsted, page ; undated Great Neck Improvement
Company deed.
. Karr, ‘‘Evolution of an Elite Suburb,’’ page ; Ringgold v. Denhardt,
 Md. , quote on page ; Sam B. Warner, Jr., Streetcar Sub-
urbs: The Process of Growth in Boston, – (Cambridge, ),
page ; Arthur B. Darling, ed., The Public Papers of Francis G. New-
     – 

lands (Boston, ), volume , pages –; William R. Rowley,

Reclaiming the Arid West: The Career of Francis G. Newlands (Bloom-
ington, ), pages –, –; Elizabeth Jo Lampl and Kim-
berly Prothro Williams, Chevy Chase: A Home Suburb for the Nation’s
Capital (Crownsville, Maryland, ), page .
. Worley, Nichols, pages –; Chase, ‘‘Restrictive Deed Covenants,’’
page ; Third Annual Conference, page ; Schmucker & White-
lock to Edward H. Bouton, October , , Box , Roland Park Com-
pany Records; L. S. Knight, ‘‘Restrictions for the Subdivision,’’ Proceed-
ings of the First Annual Convention Conferences of the Homebuilders’ and
Subdividers’ Division of the National Association of Real Estate Boards:
, page ; McMichael and Bingham, City Growth and Values, page
.
. Kenneth Fox Graham, ‘‘Urban Space, Racial Covenants, and the Ori-
gins of Racial Residential Segregation in a U.S. City, –,’’ Jour-
nal of Urban and Regional Research, September , page . See
also U.S. Bureau of the Census, Fourteenth Census of the United States
Taken in the Year , volume , Population:  (Washington, D.C.,
), pages –; Garrett Power, ‘‘Apartheid Baltimore Style: The
Residential Segregation Ordinances of –,’’ Maryland Law Re-
view, , pages –; Ronald M. Johnson, ‘‘From Romantic Sub-
urb to Racial Enclave: LeDroit Park, Washington, D.C., –,’’
Phylon, December, , pages –.
. Buchanan v. Warley,  U.S. , quotes on page ; Michael Jones-
Correa, ‘‘The Origins and Diffusion of Restrictive Covenants,’’ Po-
litical Science Quarterly, Winter –, pages –; Power,
‘‘Apartheid Baltimore Style,’’ pages –; David Delaney, Race,
Place, and the Law, – (Austin, ), pages –, –;
Chase, ‘‘Restrictive Deed Covenants,’’ page .
. Gandolfo v. Hartmann,  Fed. , quote on page ; Queensborough
Land Co. v. Cazeaux,  So. , quote on page ; Koehler v. Row-
land,  Mo. , quote on page ; Corrigan v. Buckley,  U.S.
, quotes on pages , ; Appellants’ Points, a brief submitted to
the U.S. Supreme Court in the case of Corrigan v. Buckley, page ,
Harvard Law Library; Clement E. Vose, Caucasians Only: The Supreme
    –

Court, the NAACP, and the Restrictive Covenant Cases (Berkeley, ),
pages –.
. Title Insurance & Trust Co. v. Garrott,  P. , quotes on page ;
Los Angeles Inv. Co. v. Gary,  P. ; Knight, ‘‘Restrictions for the
Subdivision,’’ page ; Parmalee v. Morris,  Mich. ; Porter v. Bar-
rett,  N.W. ; White v. White,  S.E. ; Vose, Caucasians Only,
pages –.
. Worley, Nichols, page ; Garrett Power, ‘‘The Covenants of Roland
Park’’ (), an unpublished paper made available to me by Profes-
sor Power; Washington Post, February , ; Lampl and Williams,
Chevy Chase, page ; Monchow, Deed Restrictions, page ; Burgess,
Planning for the Private Interest, page ; Charles Orson Cook and
Barry J. Kaplan, ‘‘Civic Elites and Urban Planning: Houston’s River
Oaks,’’ East Texas Historical Journal, , page ; Chase, ‘‘Restric-
tive Deed Covenants,’’ pages –; Protective Restrictions for Devon-
shire Downs, page ; Los Angeles Times, May , November , ;
Kevin Starr, Material Dreams: Southern California Through the s
(New York, ), page ; Bouton, ‘‘Development of Roland Park,’’
page .
. U.S. Immigration Commission, Report of the Immigration Commission,
volume , Dictionary of Races and Peoples (Washington, D.C., ),
page ; Matthew Frye Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color: Euro-
pean Immigrants and the Alchemy of Race (Cambridge, ), page ;
White v. White,  S.E. ; Olmsted Brothers to Walter H. Leimert,
September , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; William C.
Miller, ‘‘Modern Trends in Subdividing,’’ Annals of Real Estate Prac-
tice: , page ; Shelley v. Kraemer,  U.S. ; Burgess, Planning
for the Private Interest, page ; Ross Peterson, ‘‘Creating the Pack-
aged Suburb: The Evolution of Planning and Business Practices in
the Early Land Development Industry, –,’’ in Suburbia Re-
examined, ed. Barbara M. Kelly (Westport, Connecticut, ), page
; undated Land Purchase Contract, Lake Shore Club District, Loeb
Library.
. J. C. Nichols, ‘‘A Developer’s View of Deed Restrictions,’’ Journal of
     – 

Land & Public Utility Economics, May , pages –; Charles S.
Ascher, ‘‘Reflections on the Art of Administering Deed Restrictions,’’
ibid., November , pages , ; Roland Park Review, February
, page ; Pearson and Pearson, The J. C. Nichols Chronicle, page
; Richard Longstreth to Robert M. Fogelson, March , , au-
thor’s files; Edward H. Bouton to James A. Burgess, November ,
, Box , Roland Park Company Records.
. Nichols, ‘‘A Developer’s View,’’ page ; Paul Kinkead, ‘‘This Is the
House that Jesse Built,’’ Liberty, October , , page ; Palos
Verdes Bulletin, December , pages –.
. Nichols, ‘‘When You Buy a Home Site,’’ page ; Steele, compiler,
‘‘Restrictions on Land,’’ page ; Roland Park Review, February ,
page ; Charles E. Merriam, Building Districts and Restrictions (Chi-
cago, ), pages –; Ascher, ‘‘Administering Deed Restrictions,’’
pages –.
. Roland Park Review, February , pages –; Nichols, ‘‘When You
Buy a Home Site,’’ page ; Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., to F. P. Smith,
February , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; John Charles
Olmsted to J. H. Oldfield, May , , Olmsted Records, Job File
; Worley, Nichols, page ; First Annual Conference, pages b–
b; Pearson and Pearson, The J. C. Nichols Chronicle, page ; Palos
Verdes Bulletin, December , pages –; Monchow, Deed Restric-
tions, pages –, –. Since it included tenants as well as home-
owners, the Roland Park Roads and Maintenance Association was,
strictly speaking, a residents’ rather than a property owners’ associa-
tion. On Bouton’s decision to include tenants in the association, see
Stenographic Report of the Second Annual Conference of Developers of
High Class Residence Property (), pages –, Department of
Manuscripts and University Archives, Olin Library.
. Sharp v. Ropes,  Mass. ; Jackson v. Stevenson,  Mass. ;
Olmsted Brothers to Joel Hurt, May , , Olmsted Records, Job
File ; ‘‘Restrictions Create Values in the Country Club District,’’ Na-
tional Real Estate Journal, February , page ; Joel Hurt to Olm-
sted Brothers, May , , Olmsted Records, Job File .
     –

. Monchow, Deed Restrictions, page ; Pearson and Pearson, The J. C.
Nichols Chronicle, page ; J. C. Nichols, ‘‘Financial Effects of Good
Planning in Land Subdivision,’’ Proceedings of the Eighth National Con-
ference on City Planning: , pages –; John Charles Olmsted
to J. H. Oldfield, May , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; Zinn v.
Sidler,  Mo. , especially page ; Proceedings of the General Ses-
sions of the National Association of Real Estate Boards at the Seventeenth
Annual Convention: , page ; Nichols, ‘‘A Developer’s View,’’ page
; Proceedings of the First Annual Convention Conferences of the Home-
builders’ and Subdividers’ Division of the National Association of Real
Estate Boards: , page .
. Nichols, ‘‘A Developer’s View,’’ page ; H.V.H., ‘‘Land Subdivision
Restrictions,’’ table following page ; Monchow, Deed Restrictions,
pages –; Worley, Nichols, pages –; John Charles Olmsted
to J. H. Oldfield, May , , Olmsted Records, Job File .
. ‘‘Restrictions Create Values,’’ page ; Pearson and Pearson, The J. C.
Nichols Chronicle, pages –; Worley, Nichols, page ; Nichols,
‘‘Good Planning in Land Subdivision,’’ pages –; Proceedings of
the Annual Convention Conferences of the Homebuilders’ and Subdividers’
Division of the National Association of Real Estate Boards: , pages
–; Monchow, Deed Restrictions, pages –.
. Monchow, Deed Restrictions, page ii; Marc A. Weiss, ‘‘Richard T. Ely
and the Contribution of Economic Research to Home Ownership and
Housing Policy,’’ MIT Center for Real Estate Development Working
Paper No.  (February ), pages –; Olmsted Brothers, ‘‘St. Fran-
cis Wood, Westgate Park, San Francisco, California,’’ a memo dated
March , Olmsted Records, Job File .
. Fukio Akimoto, ‘‘Charles H. Cheney of California: His Thoughts and
Practices,’’ a revised version of a paper that appeared in the City Plan-
ning Review of Japan, October , page .
. Palos Verdes Protective Restrictions, page ; Clarke, ‘‘Protective Deed
Restrictions,’’ page ; Prather, ‘‘Planning, Platting, and Improving
the Subdivision,’’ page ; Shuler, ‘‘Subdivision Control and Stan-
dards,’’ page .
     – 

. McMichael and Bingham, City Growth and Values, pages , ; un-
dated brochure, Box , Roland Park Company Records; Pitkin, Jr.,
‘‘Lessons in Subdivision Restrictions,’’ page ; Marc A. Weiss, ‘‘Urban
Land Developers and the Origins of Zoning Laws: The Case of Berke-
ley,’’ Berkeley Planning Journal (), pages –; Chase, ‘‘Restrictive
Deed Covenants,’’ pages –.
. Lawrence Veiller, ‘‘Districting by Municipal Regulation,’’ Proceedings
of the Eighth National Conference on City Planning: , page ;
Weiss, ‘‘Origins of Zoning Laws,’’ pages –; Vose, Caucasians Only,
pages –, ; Robert H. Whitten, ‘‘Zoning and Living Conditions,’’
Proceedings of the Thirteenth Annual Conference on City Planning: ,
page .
. Merriam, Building Districts and Restrictions, page ; Holleran, Bos-
ton’s ‘‘Changeful Times,’’ page ; Lawrence Veiller, ‘‘Protecting Resi-
dential Districts,’’ Proceedings of the Sixth National Conference on City
Planning: , page ; Veiller, ‘‘Districting by Municipal Regula-
tion,’’ pages –.
. Merriam, Building Districts and Restrictions, page ; Nichols, ‘‘A De-
veloper’s View,’’ pages –; The Country Club District[:] The 
Acres Restricted, J. C. Nichols Company Scrapbooks, volume , J. C.
Nichols Collection; Harsch, ‘‘Ottawa Hills,’’ page .
. Veiller, ‘‘Districting by Municipal Regulation,’’ page ; Merriam,
Building Districts and Restrictions, page ; Edward M. Bassett, ‘‘Zon-
ing Versus Private Restrictions,’’ Civic Comment, October , ,
pages –; Monchow, Deed Restrictions, page .

Part : Bourgeois Nightmares

. Stenographic Report of the Second Annual Conference of Developers of

High Class Residence Property (), pages –, –, Department
of Manuscripts and University Archives, Olin Library, Cornell Univer-
sity. See also National Real Estate Journal, April , , pages –.
. Second Annual Conference, pages –.
. Second Annual Conference, pages –, –; Stenographic Re-
    –

port of the Third Annual Conference of Developers of High-Class Residence

Property (), pages –, Department of Manuscripts and Uni-
versity Archives, Olin Library.
. Proceedings of the Eighth National Conference on City Planning: ,
page ; Second Annual Conference, page ; Third Annual Confer-
ence, pages –.
. Second Annual Conference, page ; Los Angeles Times, January ,
.
. Daniel Mark Epstein, Nat King Cole (New York, ), pages –.
See also Los Angeles Times, November  and , , December ,
.
. Olmsted Brothers, ‘‘Restrictions for Residential Subdivisions and Re-
lated Matters,’’ a report dated January , page , Loeb Library,
Harvard University. See also Jon M. Kingsdale, ‘‘The ‘Poor Man’s
Club’: Social Functions of the Urban Working-Class Saloon,’’ Ameri-
can Quarterly, October , pages –.
. Olmsted, Vaux & Co., ‘‘Preliminary Report Upon the Proposed Village
at Riverside, Near Chicago (),’’ Landscape Architecture, July ,
page .
. J. C. Nichols, ‘‘The Lessons of a Lifetime of Land Developing,’’ Na-
tional Real Estate Journal, February , page ; Proceedings of the
First Annual Convention Conferences of the Homebuilders’ and Subdivid-
ers’ Division of the National Association of Real Estate Boards: , page
; Los Angeles Times, November , December , , March ,
July , October , December , ; undated ad, Box , Roland
Park Company Records, Collection , Department of Manuscripts
and University Archives, Olin Library; Eloise L. Morgan, ed., Building
a Suburban Village: Bronxville, New York, – (), page ;
Country Life in America, December , page , November ,
page , March , , page c; Kansas City Star, October , .
. Elmer A. Claar, ‘‘Why the Cooperative Plan of Home-Ownership Is
Popular,’’ National Real Estate Journal, May , , page .
. White v. White,  S.E. , quote on page ; Charles Abrams, For-
bidden Neighbors: A Study of Prejudice in Housing (New York, ),
    – 

page ; ‘‘Transcript of Testimony’’ in the case of City of Louisville v.

Arthur Harris, November , , pages –, in Records and Briefs,
Buchanan v. Warley,  U.S. , Harvard Law Library; L. S. Knight,
‘‘Restrictions for the Subdivision,’’ Proceedings of the First Annual Con-
vention Conferences of the Homebuilders’ and Subdividers’ Division of
the National Association of Real Estate Boards: , page ; Olmsted
Brothers to Joel Hurt, April , , Records of the Olmsted Associ-
ates (hereinafter referred to as Olmsted Records), Job File , Manu-
script Division, Library of Congress.
. U.S. Immigration Commission, Reports of the Immigration Commis-
sion, volume , Dictionary of Races and Peoples (Washington, D.C.,
), page ; John Modell, The Economics and Politics of Racial Ac-
commodation: The Japanese of Los Angeles, – (Urbana, ),
pages –; Proceedings of the First Annual Convention Conferences of
the Homebuilders’ and Subdividers’ Division of the National Association
of Real Estate Boards: , page ; Protective Restrictions, Palos Verdes
Estates, Los Angeles, California (), page .
. Deed and Agreement Between the Ottawa Hills Company and John North
Willys Containing Restrictions and Conditions Relating to Plat Number
One, Ottawa Hills (), page ; U.S. Bureau of the Census, Four-
teenth Census of the United States Taken in the Year , volume ,
Population:  (Washington, D.C., ), pages –. See also
Claar, ‘‘Cooperative Plan of Home-Ownership,’’ page ; ‘‘Transcript
of Testimony’’ in the case of City of Louisville v. Arthur Harris, pages
–.
. Matthew Frye Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color: European Im-
migrants and the Alchemy of Race (Cambridge, ), page ; Gar-
rett Power, ‘‘The Residential Segregation of Baltimore’s Jews,’’ Genera-
tions (Fall ), page ; Abrams, Forbidden Neighbors, pages –;
Susan L. Klaus, A Modern Arcadia: Frederick Law Olmsted Jr. and the
Plan for Forest Hills Gardens (Amherst, ), page ; Charles Orson
Cook and Barry J. Kaplan, ‘‘Civic Elites and Urban Planning: Hous-
ton’s River Oaks,’’ East Texas Historical Journal (), page .
. Proceedings of [the] First Annual Conference of Developers [of ] High Class
     –

Residence Property (), pages b–b, Department of Manuscripts

and University Archives, Olin Library; Third Annual Conference, pages
–.
. First Annual Conference, pages b–b; Third Annual Conference,
pages –. See also John R. Freeman to Katherine McNamara,
August , , Loeb Library; ‘‘Transcript of Testimony’’ in the case
of City of Louisville v. Arthur Harris, pages –; Richard Albert
Farnum, Jr., ‘‘Prestige in the Ivy League: Meritocracy at Columbia,
Harvard, and Penn, –’’ (Doctoral dissertation, University of
Pennsylvania, ), pages –, –.
. Madison Grant, The Passing of the Great Race or the Racial Basis of
European History (New York, ), pages –; Ian F. Haney Lopez,
White by Law: The Legal Construction of Race (New York, ), pages
–, –; U.S. House Committee on Immigration and Natu-
ralization, Hearings Relative to the Further Restriction on Immigration
and Naturalization (Washington, D.C., ), part , pages –;
John R. Freeman to Katherine McNamara, August , ; Epstein,
Cole, pages –; Third Annual Conference, page .
. See Introduction, note , above.
. Olmsted Brothers to Joel Hurt, April , , Olmsted Records, Job
File ; Edward A. Loveley, ‘‘Fundamental Principles in Developing
High-Grade Subdivisions,’’ Annals of Real Estate Practice: , vol-
ume , page .
. John Charles Olmsted to Messrs. Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, August ,
, Olmsted Records, Job File ; Olmsted Brothers to Joel Hurt,
April , , Olmsted Records, Job File .
. John Charles Olmsted to J. H. Oldfield, May , , Olmsted Rec-
ords, Job File ; Edward H. Bouton to James B. Ladd, August ,
, Box , Roland Park Company Records; Third Annual Confer-
ence, pages –; Olmsted Brothers, ‘‘Restrictions for Residential
Subdivisions,’’ pages –.
. U.S. Bureau of the Census, Historical Statistics of the United States:
Colonial Times to , Part  (Washington, D.C., ), page ; Mar-
garet Marsh, Suburban Lives (New Brunswick, ), page ; Becky
     – 

M. Nicolaides, My Blue Heaven: Life and Politics in the Working-Class

Suburbs of Los Angeles, – (Chicago, ), pages –.
. Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., ‘‘Palos Verdes Estates,’’ Landscape Archi-
tecture, July , pages –; Monthly Labor Review, October ,
pages –, June , pages –, June , pages –, Octo-
ber , pages –, June , pages –, August , pages
–.
. Robert M. Fogelson, The Fragmented Metropolis: Los Angeles, –
(Cambridge, ), page ; ‘‘Final Report of the Commissioners
of Central Park: ,’’ in Frederick Law Olmsted, Landscape Archi-
tect, –, ed. Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., and Theodora Kimball
(New York, ), volume , page .
. U.S. Bureau of the Census: Fifteenth Census of the United States: ,
Population, volume , Families (Washington, D.C., ), pages –
; First Annual Conference, pages b–b; Third Annual Conference,
pages –; Cook and Kaplan, ‘‘River Oaks,’’ page ; Power, ‘‘Resi-
dential Segregation of Baltimore’s Jews,’’ pages –; Carey McWil-
liams, Southern California Country: An Island on the Land (New York,
), page .
. Pacific Palisades, a s pamphlet, Ephemera Collection, Hunting-
ton Library, San Marino, California.
. Palos Verdes Bulletin, April , page ; Kansas City Star, July ,
; Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., to Clinton B. Miller, September ,
, Olmsted Records, Job File ; Charles H. Cheney, ‘‘The Bene-
fits of Community Planning,’’ House Beautiful, August , page ;
E. H. Bouton, ‘‘Development of Roland Park, Baltimore,’’ Proceedings
of the General Sessions of the National Association of Real Estate Boards:
, page . The observations of Olmsted, Jr., can also be found in
Olmsted Records, Job File , portions of which were kindly sent
me by Professor Larry D. McCann, Department of Geography, Uni-
versity of Victoria.
. Los Angeles Times, March , ; River Oaks Corporation, A Few
Homely Preachments Concerning Homes and Homesites, undated pam-
phlet, Loeb Library; Why You Should Choose the Location for Your Home
    –

in Brendonwood, undated pamphlet, Loeb Library; Sunset Hill of the

Country Club District, ‘‘ Acres Restricted,’’ Planned-Developed and
Offered Exclusively by J. C. Nichols (), J. C. Nichols Collection,West-
ern Historical Manuscript Collection, University of Missouri–Kansas
City Archives.
. Robert M. Fogelson, Downtown: Its Rise and Fall, – (New
Haven, ), page .
. Witold Rybczynski, A Clearing in the Distance: Frederick Law Olmsted
and America in the Nineteenth Century (New York, ), page ;
Thorstein Veblen, Absentee Ownership and Business Enterprise in Recent
Times: The Case of America (New York, ), page ; Kenneth Jack-
son, Crabgrass Frontier: The Suburbanization of the United States (New
York, ), page ; Albert T. Atwood, ‘‘Money from Everywhere,’’
Saturday Evening Post, May , , pages , ; Erik H. Monk-
konen, America Becomes Urban (Berkeley, ), page .
. Jules Tygiel, The Great Los Angeles Swindle: Oil, Stocks, and Scandal
During the Roaring Twenties (New York, ), page ; Los Angeles
Times, November , , and , , January , March , June ,
October , ; Country Life in America, June , page .
. J. C. Nichols, ‘‘Suburban Subdivisions with Community Features,’’
Proceedings of the General Sessions of the National Association of Real
Estate Boards at the Seventeenth Annual Convention: , page .
. Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America (New York, ), vol-
ume , pages –; George William Pierson, ‘‘The Moving Ameri-
cans,’’ Yale Review, Autumn , pages –; William Dean How-
ells, Suburban Sketches (Boston, ), page .
. Stephan Thernstrom and Peter R. Knights, ‘‘Men in Motion: Some
Data and Speculations About Urban Population Mobility in Nine-
teenth-Century America,’’ Journal of Interdisciplinary History, Autumn
, pages –; Howard P. Chudacoff and Judith E. Smith, The Evo-
lution of American Urban Society (Englewood Cliffs, ), pages –
, –. See also Monkkonen, America Becomes Urban, pages
–.
. John F. W. Ware, Home Life: What It Is, and What It Needs (Boston,
    – 

), page ; J. C. Nichols, ‘‘Financial Effects of Good Planning in

Land Subdivision,’’ Proceedings of the Eighth National Conference on City
Planning: , pages –.
. Kevin Starr, Material Dreams: Southern California Through the s
(New York, ), page . See also William S. Worley, J. C. Nichols
and the Shaping of Kansas City: Innovation in Planned Residential Com-
munities (Columbia, Missouri, ), chapter .
. Alexander von Hoffman, Local Attachments: The Making of an Ameri-
can Urban Neighborhood, – (Baltimore, ), page xv; Pier-
son, ‘‘Moving Americans,’’ page .
. Fogelson, The Fragmented Metropolis, chapter ; Willard Huntington
Wright, ‘‘Los Angeles: The Chemically Pure,’’ in The Smart Set An-
thology, ed. Burton Rascoe and Graff Conklin (New York, ), page
; McWilliams, Southern California Country, page ; Sarah Com-
stock, ‘‘The Great American Mirror,’’ Harper’s Monthly Magazine, May
, page .
. Atwood, ‘‘Money from Everywhere,’’ pages , , ; A Report of
Proceedings and Addresses [at the] Meetings of Underwriting Subscribers of
Palos Verdes Project (Los Angeles, ), page ; McWilliams, South-
ern California Country, pages , .
. Samuel Swift, ‘‘Community Life in Rochelle Park,’’ House and Garden,
May , page .
. Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., to Joel Hurt, April , , Olmsted Rec-
ords, Job File . See also Mark Stewart Foster, ‘‘The Decentralization
of Los Angeles During the s’’ (Doctoral dissertation, University
of Southern California, ), pages –.
. Robin L. Einhorn, Property Rules: Political Economy in Chicago, –
 (Chicago, ), page ; Kingsdale, ‘‘The ‘Poor Man’s Club,’’’
pages –; James H. Timberlake, Prohibition and the Progressive
Movement, – (Cambridge, ), page .
. John Marshall Barker, The Saloon Problem and Social Reform (Boston,
); Timberlake, Prohibition, page ; Robert T. Devlin, A Treatise on
the Law of Deeds (San Francisco, ), volume , page ;  A.L.R.
; John Charles Olmsted to Messrs. Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, Au-
    –

gust , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; Hatcher v. Andrews, 

Bush . See also Joseph R. Gusfield, Symbolic Crusade: Status Poli-
tics and the American Temperance Movement (Urbana, Illinois, ).
. John Charles Olmsted to Walter H. Leimert, June , , Olm-
sted Records, Job File ; Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., to Joel Hurt,
April , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; ‘‘The Uplands Limited:
Prospectus Revised by Messrs. Olmsted Bros.,’’ November , ,
Olmsted Records, Job File ; State v. Houghton,  N.W. ;
Richard M. Hurd, Principles of City Land Values (New York, ), page
; Henry Clarke, ‘‘The Real Estate Business—Today and Tomorrow,’’
National Real Estate Journal, May , page .
. Third Annual Conference, pages , –; State v. Houghton, 
N.W. , quote on page . See also Trustees of Columbia College
v. Thacher,  N.Y. .
. Andrew J. King, Law and Land Use in Chicago: A Prehistory of Mod-
ern Zoning (New York, ), page ; Report of the Board of Park and
Boulevard Commissioners of Kansas City, Mo. (Kansas City, ), page
; Country Club Homes Association, Report of Activities for the Year
Nineteen Twenty-Eight, J. C. Nichols Company Scrapbooks.
. Joel Schwartz, ‘‘Evolution of the Suburbs,’’ in American Urban History,
ed. Alexander B. Callow, Jr. (New York, ), page ; Fogelson,
Downtown, page ; Homer Hoyt, One Hundred Years of Land Values
in Chicago (Chicago, ), page ; Second Annual Conference, pages
–; Third Annual Conference, pages , –, –, –
, –.
. Kenneth Baar, ‘‘The National Movement to Halt the Spread of Multi-
family Housing, –,’’ Journal of the American Planning Asso-
ciation, Winter , pages –; Elmer S. Forbes, ‘‘Housing Con-
ditions in Small Towns,’’ Proceedings of the First National Conference
on Housing: , pages –; City of Bismarck v. Hughes,  N.W.
, quote on page ; Lawrence Veiller, ‘‘Protecting Residential Dis-
tricts,’’ Proceedings of the Sixth National Conference on City Planning:
, pages –; City of Jackson v. McPherson,  S.E. ; Otto
W. Davis, ‘‘Shall We Encourage or Discourage the Apartment House?’’
     – 

Proceedings of the Fifth National Conference on Housing: , pages ,

; Proceedings of the Third National Conference on Housing: , page
; City of Youngstown v. Kahn Bros. Bldg. Co.,  N.W. .
. City of Youngstown v. Kahn Bros. Bldg. Co.,  N.W. , quote on
page ; Ware, Home Life, pages –; Bernard J. Newman, ‘‘Shall
We Encourage or Discourage the Apartment House?’’ Proceedings of
the Fifth National Conference on Housing: , pages –; Davis,
‘‘Shall We Encourage or Discourage the Apartment House?’’ pages
–; Gwendolyn Wright, Building the Dream: A Social History of
Housing in America (New York, ), page .
. Brendonwood (), a pamphlet in the Loeb Library; Otto W. Davis,
‘‘How Can We Keep Our City a City of Homes?’’ Proceedings of the
Third National Conference on Housing: , page ; Walter Firey,
Land Use in Central Boston (Cambridge, ), page ; Lewis v. Goll-
ner,  N.E. ; Forbes, ‘‘Housing Conditions in Small Towns,’’ page
; Proceedings of the Third National Conference on Housing: , page
; State v. Houghton,  N.W. ; Third Annual Conference, pages
–.
. Miller v. Board of Public Works,  P. , quotes on page ; Wright,
Building the Dream, pages –; Proceedings of the Fifth National
Conference on Housing: , page ; Davis, ‘‘How Can We Keep Our
City a City of Homes?’’ pages –.
. Charles H. Cheney, ‘‘Removing Social Barriers by Zoning,’’ Survey,
May , , page ; Miller v. Board of Public Works,  P. ,
quote on page ; Third Annual Conference, pages –; John
Charles Olmsted to Walter H. Leimert, June , , Olmsted Re-
cords, Job File ; James Frederick Dawson to Walter H. Davis,
March , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; Euclid v. Ambler, 
U.S. , quote on page .
. Olmsted Brothers to Messrs. Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, November ,
, Olmsted Records, Job File .
. Fletcher Steele, compiler, ‘‘Restrictions on Land to Be Used for Sub-
urban Residential Purposes,’’ a memo dated February , , pages
–, Loeb Library; Jackson, Crabgrass Frontier, pages –; Olmsted
    –

Brothers to Joel Hurt, April , , Olmsted Records, Job File ;
Duncan McDuffie to James F. Dawson, July , , Olmsted Records,
Job File ; Robert Fishman, Bourgeois Utopias: The Rise and Fall of
Suburbia (New York, ), pages –.
. Duncan McDuffie to James F. Dawson, July , , Olmsted Records,
Job File ; Olmsted Brothers to Joel Hurt, April , , Olm-
sted Records, Job File ; Frederick Law Olmsted, ‘‘Deed Restrictions
That Affect Houses in Planned Neighborhoods,’’ Architectural Record,
November , page .
. F. A. Cushing Smith, ‘‘The Glory of Shaker Heights,’’ American Land-
scape Architecture, July , pages –; J. C. Nichols, ‘‘Suburban
Subdivisions with Community Features,’’ Proceedings of the General
Sessions of the National Association of Real Estate Boards at the Seven-
teenth Annual Conference: , page ; Palos Verdes Bulletin, March
, page .
. Frank L. Meline, ‘‘Advantages of Architectural Harmony in Subdivi-
sions,’’ Annals of Real Estate Practice: , volume , page ; Ches-
ter S. Chase, ‘‘A Well Planned and Well Planted Community,’’ House
Beautiful, September , page ; Richard W. Marchant, Jr., to
Charles A. Platt, December , , Box , Roland Park Com-
pany Records; John Charles Olmsted to Jay Lawyer, March , ,
and Olmsted Brothers to W. H. Kiernan, October , , Olmsted
Records, Job File .
. John Charles Olmsted to Jay Lawyer, March , , Olmsted Rec-
ords, Job File ; Meline, ‘‘Architectural Harmony,’’ page ; Balti-
more News, May , , Box , Roland Park Company Records.
. John R. Stilgoe, Common Landscape in America, – (New
Haven, ), pages –; Paul Groth, ‘‘Lot, Yard, and Garden:
American Distinctions,’’ Landscape (), pages –; Philip Dole,
‘‘The Picket Fence at Home,’’ in Between Fences, ed. Gregory K. Dreicer
(Washington, D.C., ), page ; David P. Handlin, The American
Home: Architecture and Society, – (Boston, ), pages –
; Frank J. Scott, The Art of Beautifying Suburban Home Grounds of
Small Extent (New York, ), pages , , .
. Nathaniel H. Egleston, The Home and Its Surroundings or Villages and
     – 

Village Life (New York, ), pages –. On the village improve-
ment movement, see Handlin, The American Home, pages –.
. Egleston, The Home and Its Surroundings, pages –; Julian R.
Tinkham, ‘‘A Discussion of the Fence Problem: II. A Plea for Fences
and Privacy,’’ Country Life in America, September , pages –
; L. H. Bailey, ‘‘A Discussion of the Fence Problem: I. The Phi-
losophy of Fences,’’ ibid., pages –; Ernest Hemmings, ‘‘Hedges
for the Country or Suburban Estate,’’ Suburban Life, September ,
page ; Parris Thaxter Farwell, Village Improvement (New York,
), page ; Groth, ‘‘Lot, Yard, and Garden,’’ page .
. Steele, compiler, ‘‘Restrictions on Land,’’ page ; Mary Harrod North-
end and Dorothy Loud, ‘‘A Plea for Fences,’’ House Beautiful, Febru-
ary , page ; ‘‘On Our Fenceless State,’’ Atlantic Monthly, Au-
gust , pages –; Tinkham, ‘‘A Plea for Fences and Privacy,’’
pages –; Hemmings, ‘‘Hedges for the Country or Suburban
Estate,’’ page .
. Frederick Law Olmsted to American Gardner, August , , Fred-
erick Law Olmsted Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress
(hereinafter cited as Olmsted Papers); Edward H. Bouton to Messrs.
Stuart & Young, June , , Box , Roland Park Company Rec-
ords; First Annual Conference, pages b–b; Olmsted Brothers to
Joel Hurt, May , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; Olmsted Broth-
ers to Walter H. Leimert, June , , Olmsted Records, Job File
; Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., to Edward H. Bouton, December ,
, Olmsted Records, Job File ; Olmsted Brothers to Messrs.
Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, November , , Olmsted Records, Job
File ; Edward H. Bouton to James A. Burgess, September ,
, Box , Roland Park Company Records.
. Steele, compiler, ‘‘Restrictions on Land,’’ pages –; H.V.H., ‘‘Land
Subdivision Restrictions,’’ Landscape Architecture, October , table
following page ; Olmsted Brothers to Walter H. Leimert, June ,
, Olmsted Records, Job File ; Olmsted Brothers to Messrs.
Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, November , , Olmsted Records, Job
File .
. Olmsted Brothers to Messrs. Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, August ,
     – 

, Olmsted Records, Job File ; W. S. Kies to H. J. Slaker, Janu-

ary , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; Joel Hurt to Olmsted
Brothers, May , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; Second Annual
Conference, page ; Steele, compiler, ‘‘Restrictions on Land,’’ page
.
. City of St. Louis v. Stern,  Mo. App. , quote on page ; In re Linehan,
 Cal. ; Sharp v. Ropes,  Mass. ; Donald Grant Mitchell, Out-
of-Town Places: With Hints for Their Improvement (New York, ),
pages , ; John R. Stilgoe, Metropolitan Corridor: Railroads and the
American Scene (New Haven, ), page ; Catharine E. Beecher
and Harriet Beecher Stowe, The American Woman’s Home (New York,
), chapter .
. Francis E. Clark, ‘‘Why I Chose a Suburban Home,’’ Suburban Life,
April , pages –; Stilgoe, Metropolitan Corridor, pages –
; H. S. Babcock, ‘‘Poultry Breeding in the United States,’’ Outing,
October , page ; E. I. Farrington, ‘‘Poultry-Yard Patriotism,’’
Countryside Magazine and Suburban Life, June , page ; Henry
Lowe, ‘‘Rabbit Raising for War-Time Food,’’ Illustrated World, July ,
pages –.
. Stilgoe, Metropolitan Corridor, pages –; David R. Contosta, Sub-
urb in the City: Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, – (Columbus,
Ohio, ), pages –; Johanna Von Wagner to Frederick Law
Olmsted, January , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; Washing-
ton Post, February , ; Nicolaides, My Blue Heaven, pages –,
–; Los Angeles Times, April , .
. Second Annual Conference, page ; Hycliff Standards[:] A Declaration
of Protections and Restrictions for Hycliff, Section Two (), page ;
H.V.H. ‘‘Land Subdivision Restrictions,’’ table following page ; deed
from Walter W. Davis and Hallie K. Davis to an unidentified buyer,
May , , Loeb Library.
. Foster, ‘‘Decentralization of Los Angeles,’’ page . See also Olmsted
Brothers to Messrs. Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, November , ,
Olmsted Records, Job File ; Baltimore Sun, May , ; John
Charles Olmsted to H. J. Slaker, February , , Olmsted Records,
Job File .
               –    

. Olmsted Brothers to Joel Hurt, October , , Olmsted Records,
Job File ; Baltimore Sun, May , ; John Charles Olmsted to J. H.
Oldfield, May , , Olmsted Records, Job File .
. Olmsted Brothers to Messrs. Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, August ,
, Olmsted Records, Job File . See also John Charles Olmsted
to J. H. Oldfield, May , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; John
Charles Olmsted to H. J. Slaker, February , , Olmsted Records,
Job File .
. Roland Park Review, March , page , April , page , June
, page .
. Roland Park Review, April , pages –, May , page , August
, page , April , page .
. James W. Waesche, Crowning the Gravelly Hill: A History of the Roland
Park-Guilford-Homeland District (Baltimore, ), page ; Roland
Park Review, March , page , May , pages –, March ,
page .
. Roland Park Review, March , page , April , page , August
, page , January , page , May , pages –.
. Olmsted Brothers to Joel Hurt, May , , Olmsted Records, Job
File ; Hycliff Standards, page ; Olmsted Brothers to William H.
Graf [f ]lin, March , , Job File ; Henry S. Kissell, ‘‘Com-
munity Features for Suburbs,’’ Annals of Real Estate Practice: , vol-
ume , pages –.
. Hycliff Standards, page ; Olmsted Brothers to Joel Hurt, May ,
, Olmsted Records, Job File .
. Nicolaides, My Blue Heaven, page , , –, ; Johanna von
Wagner to Frederick Law Olmsted, January , , Olmsted Rec-
ords, Job File ; Los Angeles Times, January , ; E. C. Shriver to
Roland Park Company, August ; James E. Green to E. C. Shriver,
August , , Box , Roland Park Company Records.
. Baltimore Sun, May  and , ; John Charles Olmsted to J. H. Old-
field, May , , Olmsted Records, Job File ; Fourth Annual
Report of the Board of Commissioners of the Central Park: , pages
–.
. Hurd, Principles of City Land Values, page .
    –

. Fred W. Viehe, ‘‘Black Gold Suburbs: The Influence of the Extractive
Industry on the Suburbanization of Los Angeles,’’ Journal of Urban
History, November , pages , , ; Dan La Botz, Edward L. Do-
heny: Petroleum, Power, and Politics in the United States and Mexico
(New York, ), pages –; Tygiel, The Great Los Angeles Swindle,
pages –, –; Starr, Material Dreams, pages –.
. Albert W. Atwood, ‘‘When the Oil Flood Is On,’’ Saturday Evening Post,
July , , pages , ; Tygiel, The Great Los Angeles Swindle, pages
, –, ; Bruce Bliven, ‘‘Los Angeles: The City That Is Baccha-
nalian—In a Nice Way,’’ New Republic, July , , page .
. Upton Sinclair, Oil (New York, ), pages –; Tygiel, The Great
Los Angeles Swindle, pages –; Albert W. Atwood, ‘‘Mad from Oil,’’
Saturday Evening Post, July , , pages –, ; Los Angeles
Times, May , July , August , October , .
. Sinclair, Oil, pages –, . See also Atwood, ‘‘When the Oil Flood
Is On,’’ page ; Martin R. Ansell, Oil Baron of the Southwest: Edward L.
Doheny and the Development of the Petroleum Industry in California and
Mexico (Columbus, Ohio, ), pages –; Tygiel, The Great Los
Angeles Swindle, page .
. Tygiel, The Great Los Angeles Swindle, pages , ; Sinclair, Oil, pages
–; Atwood, ‘‘When the Oil Flood Is On,’’ page ; Mark Lee
Luther, The Boosters (Indianapolis, ), pages –.
. Walter V. Woehlke, ‘‘The Champion Borrower of Them All,’’ Sunset
Magazine, November , pages , ; Meetings of Underwriting Sub-
scribers, page ; E. G. Lewis to Underwriting Subscribers, a memo
dated February , , Local History Collection, Palos Verdes Library
District, Palos Verdes Estates, California; Protective Restrictions, Palos
Verdes Estates, Los Angeles, California (), page ; Indenture Be-
tween the Huntington Land and Water Company and Lester H. Luh-
non and Elizabeth Clark Luhnon, July , , Huntington Land Com-
panies Files, which were once in the companies’ office in San Marino,
California, and, archivist Alan Jutzi tells me, are now in the Hunting-
ton Library, which is also in San Marino; Pierce E. Benedict and Don
Kennedy, eds., History of Beverly Hills (Beverly Hills, ), part ,
     – 

pages –; Rodeo Land and Water Company to E. L. Doheny, a

deed dated June , , Historical Collections, Beverly Hills Public
Library, Beverly Hills, California.
. John O. Pohlmann, ‘‘Alphonzo E. Bell: A Biography,’’ part , South-
ern California Quarterly, September , pages –, and part ,
ibid., December , pages –; Tygiel, The Great Los Angeles
Swindle, pages –; Atwood, ‘‘When the Oil Flood Is On,’’ pages
, ; Pacific Southwest Trust and Savings Bank to Susan Emma
Beachy, a deed dated January , , Bel-Air Association Files, Bel-
Air, California; Los Angeles Times, October , December , .
. William H. Wilson, ‘‘The Billboard: Bane of the City Beautiful,’’
Journal of Urban History, August , pages –; Quentin J.
Schultze, ‘‘Legislating Morality: The Progressive Response to Ameri-
can Outdoor Advertising, –,’’ Journal of Popular Culture,
Spring , pages –; Fogelson, Downtown, pages –.
. Wilson, ‘‘The Billboard,’’ pages –; Schultze, ‘‘Legislating Mo-
rality,’’ pages –. See also W. L. Lawton, ‘‘Regulation of Outdoor
Advertising,’’ Planning Problems of Town, City, and Region: Papers and
Discussions at the Eighteenth National Conference on City Planning: ,
page ; Everett L. Millard, ‘‘What Chambers of Commerce and Real-
tors Can Do to Help Abate the Billboard Nuisance,’’ American City,
March , page .
. Wilson, ‘‘The Billboard,’’ pages –; ‘‘Billboards and Other Forms
of Outdoor Advertising,’’ Chicago City Club Bulletin, December ,
, pages –, –, –. See also St. Louis Advertis-
ing Co. v. City of St. Louis,  S.W. , especially pages –.
. ‘‘Billboards and Other Forms of Outdoor Advertising,’’ pages ,
Harry F. Lake, ‘‘The Billboard Nuisance,’’ American City, November
, pages –; Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., to Charles H. Lor-
ing, June , ; Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., to Myron E. Pierce,
December , , Olmsted Records, Job File .
. ‘‘Billboards and Other Forms of Outdoor Advertising,’’ pages –
, –, –. See also Wilson, ‘‘The Billboard,’’ pages
–.
     –

. Wilson, ‘‘The Billboard,’’ pages –; American City, March ,
page ; Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., to Charles H. Loring, June ,
, Olmsted Records, Job File ; Housing, June , page ;
Clinton Rogers Woodruff, ed., The Billboard Nuisance, American Civic
Association, series , no. . (June, ), page ; Edward T. Hartman,
The Billboard Nuisance, an undated, unpaged pamphlet published by
the Massachusetts Civic League, Loeb Library; Billboard Advertising in
St. Louis: Report of the Signs and Billboards Committee of the [St. Louis]
Civic League (St. Louis, ), page .
. First Annual Conference, pages b–b; Olmsted Brothers to Messrs.
Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, November , , Olmsted Records, Job
File .
. Third Annual Conference, pages –; Deed and Agreement Between
the Ottawa Hills Company and John North Willys Containing Restrictions
and Conditions Relating to Plat Number One, Ottawa Hills (), pages
–, Loeb Library; ‘‘Billboards and Other Forms of Outdoor Advertis-
ing,’’ page .
. Olmsted Brothers to Joel Hurt, April , , Olmsted Records, Job
File . See also Proceedings of the First Annual Convention Conferences
of the Homebuilders’ and Subdividers’ Division of the National Associa-
tion of Real Estate Boards: , page .
. Second Annual Conference, page ; Los Angeles Times, February ,
; Helen Monchow, The Use of Deed Restrictions in Subdivision De-
velopment (Chicago, ), page ; Steele, compiler, ‘‘Restrictions on
Land,’’ page ; Charles E. Beveridge and Paul Rocheleau, Frederick
Law Olmsted: Designing the American Landscape (New York, ),
page ; Judging Palos Verdes as a Place to Live, undated promotional
pamphlet, page ; Fogelson, Downtown, page ; Nicolaides, My
Blue Heaven, page ; Susan Mulcahey Chase, ‘‘The Process of Sub-
urbanization and the Use of Restrictive Deed Covenants as Private
Zoning’’ (Doctoral dissertation, University of Delaware, ), pages
–; Jackson, Crabgrass Frontier, page .
. Richard W. Marchant, Jr., to John Morrow Adams, February , ,
Box ; W. L. Tuttle to Richard W. Marchant, Jr., May , , Box
     –  

, Roland Park Company Records; Waesche, Crowning the Gravelly

Hill, pages , ; Richard W. Marchant, Jr., to John Rutledge, May ,
, Box , Roland Park Company Records; Olmsted Brothers to
Messrs. Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner, November , , Olmsted Rec-
ords, Job File ; Ignaciunas v. Risley,  A. , quote on page ;
A. C. F. Judge to Roland Park Company, June , , Box , Roland
Park Company Records.
. Nichols, ‘‘Good Planning in Land Subdivision,’’ page ; Eberle Eco-
nomic Service, March , , page ; W. W. Robinson, ‘‘The South-
ern California Real Estate Boom of the Twenties,’’ Historical Society
of Southern California Quarterly, March , page ; James Clif-
ford Findley, ‘‘The Economic Boom of the ’Twenties in Los Ange-
les’’ (Doctoral dissertation, Claremont Graduate School, ), page
.
. Nichols, ‘‘Good Planning in Land Subdivision,’’ page ; Loveley,
‘‘Fundamental Principles in Developing High-Grade Subdivisions,’’
page ; H. A. Lafler to Walter H. Leimert, February , , Olmsted
Records, Job File ; J. C. Nichols, ‘‘A Developer’s View of Deed Re-
strictions,’’ Journal of Land & Public Utility Economics, May , page
; Nichols, ‘‘Lessons of a Lifetime,’’ page .
. Frederick Law Olmsted to William H. Graf [f ]lin, March , ,
Olmsted Records, Job File .
. Country Club District Bulletin, November , page . See also C. P.
Gray, ‘‘Principles in Selecting Land for Subdivision,’’ Proceedings of
the First Annual Convention Conferences of the Homebuilders’ and Sub-
dividers’ Division of the National Association of Real Estate Boards: ,
page .

Epilogue

. Orlando Sentinel, March  and , ; New York Times, July ,
. See also Evan McKenzie, Privatopia: Homeowner Associations
and the Rise of Residential Private Government (New Haven, ),
pages –.
    –

. J. M. Nolte, ‘‘Restrictions for the Man of Moderate Means,’’ Annals of

Real Estate Practice: , volume , page ; Joseph Laronge, ‘‘The
Subdivider of Today and Tomorrow,’’ Journal of Land & Public Utility
Economics, November , page ; New York Times, August ,
, September , ; John Delafons, Land-Use Controls in the
United States (Cambridge, ), pages –; Edward J. Blakely and
Mary Gail Synder, Fortress America: Gated Communities in the United
States (Washington, D.C., ), chapter .
. Proceedings of the General Sessions of the National Association of Real
Estate Boards at the Seventeenth Annual Convention: , page ; La-
ronge, ‘‘The Subdivider,’’ page ; National Association of Home
Builders, Home Builders Manual for Land Development (Washington,
D.C., ), pages –; Shelley v. Kraemer,  U.S. ; Clement E.
Vose, Caucasians Only: The Supreme Court and the Restrictive Cove-
nant Cases (Berkeley, ), especially chapter ; Gunnar Myrdal, An
American Dilemma (New York, ), volume , page ; Eugene
Rachlis and John E. Marqusee, The Landlords (New York, ), pages
, –.
. McKenzie, Privatopia, pages –; Blakely and Snyder, Fortress Amer-
ica, pages –; New York Times, September , , July , ,
July , ; ‘‘America’s New Utopias,’’ Economist, September ,
, page . Scores, if not hundreds, of restrictive covenants are
available on the World Wide Web.
. F. Emerson Andrews, ‘‘When Is a Restriction Really a Protection?’’
House Beautiful, December , page . See also New York Times,
July , .
. Frederick Law Olmsted, ‘‘Deed Restrictions That Affect Houses in
Planned Communities,’’ Architectural Record, November , page
.
. John M. Gries and James Ford, eds., Planning for Residential Districts
(Washington, D.C., ), pages , ; Susan Mulcahey Chase, ‘‘The
Process of Suburbanization and the Use of Restrictive Deed Cove-
nants as Private Zoning: Wilmington, Delaware, –’’ (Doc-
toral dissertation, University of Delaware, ), pages –; Na-
     –  

tional Association of Home Builders, Home Builders Manual, pages

–; John H. Beuscher, Robert W. Wright, and Morton Gitel-
man, Cases and Materials on Land Use (St. Paul, ), page .
. Marc N. Goodnow, ‘‘Neighborhoods That Can’t Be Spoiled,’’ Survey,
July , , page ; Helen Koues, ‘‘Beauty in Community Plan-
ning,’’ Good Housekeeping, March , pages –; Urban Planning
and Land Policies: Volume  of the Supplementary Report of the Urbanism
Committee to the National Resources Council (Washington, D.C., ),
pages –.
. These figures were gathered from the  census by my research
assistants, Tamam Mango and Diana R. Sherman.
. New York Times, August , .
 Acknowledgments

If Bourgeois Nightmares did not take as long as expected,

it’s largely because I had so much help.
MIT’s Humanities, Arts, and Social Sciences Fund, which sup-
ported my last two books, gave me a grant that helped with this
one. Additional support came from elsewhere at the Institute,
notably from the Center for Real Estate, the Dean’s Fund of the
School of Humanities, Arts, and Social Sciences, and the Depart-
ment of Urban Studies and Planning. My thanks to Tony Cio-
chetti, Marion Cunningham, David Geltner, Phil Khoury, Bill
Mitchell, Harriet Ritvo, Bish Sanyal, and Larry Vale.
My research assistants—Kate Fichter, Lita Lee, Tamam Mango,
Alison Novak, and Diana Sherman—were of great help. Also of
great help were the MIT and Harvard libraries, especially MIT’s
Rotch and Humanities libraries and Harvard’s Loeb, Law, and
Widener libraries. Thanks to Margaret de Popolo, head of Rotch,
Teresa Tobin, head of Humanities, and their colleagues. Thanks
also to the Baltimore Public Library, Department of Manuscripts
and University Archives of Cornell’s Olin Library, Henry E.
Huntington Library, Manuscript Division of the Library of Con-
gress, Palos Verdes Homes Association, Palos Verdes Library Dis-
trict, and Larry McCann of the University of Victoria, who sent
me a copy of his files on the Olmsted Brothers firm.
For getting me material from out-of-the-way places (and spar-
ing me several long and arduous trips), I would also like to thank
Kelly Davenport, a former student, Elaine Gerdau of the Bel-


  

Air Association (as well as Tom Gilmore and Greg Fischer, who
put me in touch with her), Charlie Halpern, an old friend and
former head of the Nathan Cummings Foundation, Alan Jutzi of
the Huntington Library, June Lewin of the Beverly Hills Public
Library, and Stephanie Willerth, another former student.
Anna Bergren, David Handlin, Langley Keyes, Richard Long-
streth, Douglas Rae, and Lloyd Weinreb, all of whom had more
than enough other things to do, read one or another draft of Bour-
geois Nightmares. And many of their suggested revisions were in-
corporated into the text. Nancy Kirk and Phil King, who edited the
manuscript, did a splendid job, as did Lisa Fogelson, who typed
the draft, Alexa Selph, who prepared the index, and Nancy Ovedo-
vitz, who designed the book. Many thanks to them—as well as to
Anna Bergren, David Boutros, and John Cook for their help with
the illustrations.
Thanks also to my agent Ike Williams, his associate Hope
Denekamp, and Michelle Komie of Yale University Press, each of
whom was a pleasure to work with.
 Index

Abbott, William R.,  racial covenants in, ; Roland Park,

Adams, Thomas, ,  –, , ; Sudbrook, , 
African-Americans: exodus from Barker, John Marshall, –
the South, –. See also racial Barrow v. Richard, 
covenants Bartholomew, Harland, , 
Albright, Emory,  Bassett, Edward M., 
alienation of real property, –, Beecher, Catharine E., 
. See also restrictive covenants: Bel-Air (Los Angeles), , 
legal challenges to Bell, Alphonzo E., –
Allen, Florence E.,  Belle Mead (Los Angeles), 
Altadena Country Club Park (Los Beverly Crest (Los Angeles), 
Angeles),  Beverly Hills (Los Angeles), 
Amalgamated Oil Company,  Beverly Wood (Los Angeles), 
Andrews, F. Emerson,  Bigelow, George T., , , , 
animals: domestic, –, – billboards, , , –
, –; household pets, , Biltmore, 
– Birmingham, Ala., 
apartment houses, – Bixby, George, 
Armour, J.Ogden,  Bixby, Jotham, 
Ascher, Charles S.,  Blakey, Clayton, 
Asian-Americans, ,  Bloomfield Hills, Mich. (Devonshire
Astor, John Jacob,  Downs), , , , 
Atlanta, Ga. (Druid Hills), , , Bonnycastle Terrace (Louisville, Ky.),
 
Atwood, Albert W., , , , , Boston, Mass., area: Back Bay, –
 ; Hayward Place, ; Lewisburg
Avalon (Great Neck, N.Y.),  Square, ; Oak Hills Village, ;
South End, ; West Roxbury, 
Back Bay (Boston), – Bouton, Edward H., , , , ,
Baltimore, Md.: Guilford, –, , , , , , , , ;
; Homeland, ; Lilliendale, ; on desirability of suburbs, ; on


  

fences, –; on Jews, , , –; on racial covenants, , ;
; on minimum cost require- on restrictive covenants, , , ,
ments, ; and racial covenants, 
, , ; and restrictive cove- Chevalier, Stuart, 
nants, , , ; and Roland Park, Chevy Chase, Md., , –, 
,  Chevy Chase Land Company, 
Brendonwood (Indianapolis), –, chickens, –
, , –,  Chudacoff, Howard P., 
Brentwood Terrace (Los Angeles), City and Suburban Homes Company,
 
Brookline, Mass., ,  City Terrace (East Los Angeles), –
Brouwer v. Jones, ,  , 
Buchanan v. Warley, –, ,  Clark, Charles E., , , 
Buckley, Pendleton,  Clark, Francis E., 
Bula, Melinda and Joe, – Clarke, Henry, , , , 
Burke, Edmund W.,  Cleveland, Ohio, 
Burns, Anthony,  Cole, Maria, 
businesses: viewed as nuisances by Cole, Nat King, , 
homeowners and developers, –, Colonia Solana (Tucson), 
– Colony Hills (Springfield, Mass.),
–, 
Cahuenga Park (San Fernando Valley), Columbus, Ohio, 
 Commonwealth Trust Company, 
Canfield, Charles A., ,  constitutional amendments: Fifth,
Canfield, Daisy,  ; Thirteenth, ; Fourteenth,
cats, , – , , , , ; Fifteenth, ;
CC&Rs (Covenants, Conditions, and Eighteenth, 
Restrictions), –. See also Corrigan v. Buckley, , , 
restrictive covenants Cory, H. T., , 
Chaille, Emerson W., , ,  Country Club District (Kansas City),
Chandler, Harry,  , , , , , , –,
Chase, Chester S., – ; restrictive covenants at, –
Chase, Susan M.,  , , , 
Chatham Crescent (Savannah, Ga.), , Country Club District (Minneapolis),
 , 
Cheney, Charles H., –, , , , Country Club Plaza, 
, , ; on apartment houses, Cowell v. Springs Company, 
 

Craig, Alfred M.,  Field, Stephen, 

Cushing Smith, F. A.,  Finch, Francis P., 
Finlayson, Frank G., 
Dallas, Tex., , , ,  Fishman, Robert, , , , 
Dana, Richard Henry, Jr.,  Forest Hills Gardens (Queens, N.Y.),
Danziger, Jake,  –
Day, William R., – Foster, Arthur D., –
deed restrictions. See restrictive cove-
nants Gage, Lyman, 
Delafield Estates (Bronx, N.Y.),  Gary, Joseph E., 
Demarest, John F., , , , Gillis, R. C., 
– Goldwyn, Samuel, 
Devonshire Downs (Bloomfield Hills, Good Housekeeping Shield, 
Mich.), , , ,  Gould, E. R. L., 
dogs, , –,  Grafflin, William H., 
Doheny, Edward L., , , , Gramercy Park (New York City), 
– Grandview (Columbus, Ohio), 
Dominguez Land Company,  Grant, Madison, 
Dominguez Ranch,  Grasty, Charles, –
Downing, Andrew Jackson, ,  Great Neck, N.Y., 
Druid Hills (Atlanta), , ,  Great Neck Hills (Long Island), , 
Druim Moir,  Green, James E., 
Greensboro, N.C., 
Edmunds, William H., ,  Greentree, 
Egleston, Nathaniel H., – Greenwich Village (New York City), 
Eliot, Charles W.,  Guilford (Baltimore), –, 
Ely, Richard T.,  Guilford Park Land Company, –
Emott, James, –
Erie County, Pa.,  Hadacheck v. Sebastian, 
estates, residential, – Hale, Edward Everett, 
ethnic minorities. See racial covenants Hallam, Oscar, 
Euclid Avenue (Cleveland),  Halliwell, A. D., 
Hancock Park (Los Angeles), , ,
Farrington, Charles K.,  , 
Federal Housing Administration,  Harsch, Paul A., , , , 
Felinton, Mindy,  Hartman, Edward T., 
fences, , – Hartmann, Arnold, , 
  

Hartshorn, Stewart,  Jackson, Kenneth T., 

Haskell, Llewellyn S., ,  Jacobson, Matthew Frye, , 
Hatch, Jackson,  James, Frank, , 
Hayward Place (Boston),  Jarvis and Conklin, –
Hegemann, Werner,  Jemison, Robert, Jr., , , , 
Herring, Oswald C., –, –, Jews, as affected by restrictive cove-
,  nants, , –, 
Highland Park (Dallas), , , ,  Julian, C. C., 
Hogg, Mike, –
Hogg, William C., – Kansas City, Kans./Kansas City, Mo.:
Holleran, Michael, ,  Country Club District, , , –
Hollywood Crescent Rose Tract No.  , , , ; Mission Hills, ;
(Los Angeles),  Quality Hill, ; Rockhill Place, ;
Hollywood Hills (Los Angeles),  Sunset Hill, , 
Homeland (Baltimore),  Kenilworth, Ill., 
homeowners’ associations, –, Kent, James, 
 Kessler, George E., , , , 
Hone, Philip, – Kiernan, W. H., 
Horner, Larry,  Kies, W. S., 
Housing and Urban Development, Kingsdale, Jon M., 
Department of,  Kirkwood Land Company, 
Houston, Henry Howard, ,  Kissell, H. S., –, , , 
Houston, Tex. (River Oaks), , , Knight-Menard Company, –, 
–, –, , – Knights, Peter R., 
Howells, William Dean,  Koebig & Koebig, 
Hunt, Myron, , , 
Huntington, Henry E., , ,  Lafler, H. A., 
Hurd, Richard M., , ,  Lake, Harry F., 
Hurt, Joel, , , , , , , Lake Shore Club District (Erie County,
, , ,  Pa.), 
Hycliff (Stamford, Conn.), , – Lakeshore Highlands (Oakland, Calif.),

Indianapolis, Ind. (Brendonwood), Lawrence, William Van Duzer, 
–, , , –,  Lawrence Park (Bronxville, N.Y.), 
Institute for Research in Land Eco- Lawyer, Jay, , , , , 
nomics and Public Utilities,  LeDroit Park (Washington, D.C.), 
Irving Park (Greensboro, N.C.),  legal issues: challenges to restrictive
 

legal issues (continued) McCoun, William T., , –, 

covenants, –, –, –, McDuffie, Duncan, , , , ,
, ; regarding nuisances, – , –, , 
, , , –. See also racial McFarland, J. Horace, 
covenants McPherson, Aimee Semple, 
Leimert, Walter H., –, , , McWilliams, Carey, , 
, , ,  Marchant, Richard W., Jr., –, 
Lennon, Thomas J.,  Marquand, John P., 
Levitt, William J., , ,  Marsh, Margaret, –
Levittown (Long Island),  Marshall, Louis, 
Levittown II (Bucks County, Pa.),  Mason-McDuffie Company, , ,
Lewis, Charles E.,  
Lewis, E. G., –, , , , , , Maxwell, Hammond, 
, , ,  Meline, Frank L., , , 
Lewisburg Square (Boston),  Melody Farm, 
Lilliendale (Baltimore),  Merriam, Charles E., , 
Llewellyn Park, N.J., , ,  Minneapolis, Minn. (Country Club
Lorillard, Pierre, IV, ,  District), , 
Los Angeles, Calif., area: Altadena Minot, William, 
Country Club Park, ; Bel-Air, Mission Hills (Kansas City), 
, ; Belle Mead, ; Beverly mobility, as characteristic of American
Crest, ; Beverly Hills, ; Beverly people, –
Wood, ; Brentwood Terrace, Modell, John, 
; Cahuenga Park, ; City Ter- Monchow, Helen C., , 
race, –, ; Hancock Park, , Montluzin, Albert de, , , 
, , ; Hollywood Crescent Morgan, J. P., 
Rose Tract No. , ; Hollywood Mountain Brook Estates (Birmingham,
Hills, ; Oak Knoll, ; oil fields Ala.), 
in, –; Pacific Palisades, ; multifamily dwellings, –
Petroleum Gardens, ; population Munsey Park (Nassau County), 
growth in, –; racial cove- Musick, Elvon, 
nants in, ; Raymond Village, ;
Whitley Park, . See also Palos Newlands, Francis G., , –
Verdes Estates Newton, Mass., 
Louisville, Ky.,  New York City area: Avalon, ;
Loveless, John,  Delafield Estates, ; Forest Hills
Loveley, Edward A., ,  Gardens, –; Gramercy Park,
  

; Great Neck Hills, , ; Green- Olmsted, Frederick Law, Jr., –, ,
wich Village, ; Lawrence Park, ; –, , , –, , , ,
Levittown, ; Munsey Park, ; , , , , ; on African-
Rochelle Park, ; Scarsdale Es- Americans, ; on billboards, ,
tates, –; Staten Island, –; –; on domestic animals, –
Washington Heights,  , –; on fences, ; on
Nichols, J. C., , , , , , ; homeowners’ associations, –
as advocate of restrictive covenants, ; and Palos Verdes Estates, , ,
–, , , , ; concerns , , , , ; on restrictive
about restrictive covenants, –, covenants, , , , , ,
, , , , , –, , , –, –; on Roland
; as developer of the Country Park, 
Club District, , ; on enforce- Olmsted, John Charles, –, , , ,
ment of restrictions, , , ; ; on African-Americans, ; on
on Jews, –; on mobility of billboards, –; on domestic
Americans, –; and racial animals, –, –, ;
covenants, ; on Roland Park,  on fences, ; and Palos Verdes
Nicolaides, Becky, ,  Estates, ; on restrictive covenants,
North Shore (Long Island),  , , , –, , ,
nuisances: apartment houses as, – , –
; businesses as, –, –; Olmsted Brothers, –, , , ,
legal issues involving, –, , 
; multifamily houses as, – Olsen, Donald J., 
; saloons as, –. See also Ottawa Hills (Toledo, Ohio), –, ,
animals; billboards , 
N. W. Ayer agency, 
Pacific Palisades (Los Angeles), 
Oak Hills Village (Newton, Mass.),  Palos Verdes Art Jury, –, 
Oak Knoll (Pasadena, Calif.),  Palos Verdes Estates (Los Angeles),
oil wells, , – , –; design and develop-
Oldfield, J. H., , – ment of, –, –; promotion of,
Oldfield, Kirby & Gardner,  , –; restrictive covenants at, ,
Olmsted, Frederick Law (Sr.), –, –, , , , 
, , , , , ; concerns Panic of , –
about suburbs, –, , , , , Parker v. Nightingale, 
, , –, , ; design Pasadena, Calif., , 
guidelines developed by, – Peabody Heights Company, 
 

Petroleum Gardens (Los Angeles, restrictive covenants, , –;

Calif.),  activities prohibited by, ; ani-
Phelps, Robert,  mals restricted by, –, –;
Pierson, George William, ,  against apartment houses, –
Pitkin, William, Jr.,  ; architectural requirements of,
Potter, Hugh, –,  –, –, –; billboards
Potter & Smith, ,  restricted by, , , –; class
poultry farming, –,  as aspect of, –; on clotheslines,
Prather, Hugh E., , , , , , ; current application of, –
,  ; desirability of, –, –;
property owners’ associations. See early use of, –; enforcement
homeowners’ associations of, –, –, –, –
property values: increases in, –; ; extensions of, –; fears
and oil speculation,  embodied in, , , –,
protective covenants. See restrictive –; fences regulated by, ,
covenants –; height limits, –; legal
challenges to, –, –, –
Quality Hill (Kansas City),  , , ; length of term of,
–; as marketing tool, , ,
rabbits, , ,  –, –, –; minimum
racial covenants, , , , –, cost requirements, –, –,
, –, , –, , – , ; minimum-square-footage
; constitutionality of, –, requirements, ; and multifamily
, ; groups affected by, – dwellings, –; objections to,
, –, –, ; Jews as –; and oil drilling, , ; at
affected by, , –, – Palos Verdes Estates, , –, ,
racial zoning,  , ; and preservation of property
Raymond Village (Pasadena, Calif.),  values, –; proliferation of,
Redmont Park (Birmingham, Ala.),  –, –; racial, , , ,
restricted subdivisions: appeal of –, , –, , , –
to homeowners, –, –; , , –, , ; rationale
in Canada, ; exclusive, –; for, –; reservations about,
middle-class, –, ; in the –; scope of, –, –;
Midwest, –, –, ; sales setbacks dictated by, –, –
force at, ; in the South, ; in , ; signs restricted by, –,
the Southwest, –; for working ; terminology used for, –
people, – ; trades proscribed by, –;
  

‘‘undesirable’’ people as defined by, Shaker Heights, Ohio, , , ,
–; and zoning,  –
reversionary value of property, – Shaw, Howard, 
Ridgewood (Springfield, Ohio),  Shelley v. Kraemer, , , 
River Oaks (Houston), , , –, shopping centers, 
, , – Short Hills, New Jersey, , 
Rochelle Park (Westchester County), Shriver, E. C., 
 Shuler, Robert, 
Rockefeller, John D.,  Sies, Mary Corbin, 
Rockhill Place (Kansas City),  signs, restrictions on, –. See also
Rodeo Land and Water Company,  billboards
Roland Park (Baltimore), –, , Sinclair, Upton, , 
, –, –, ,  Slaker, H. J., , 
Roland Park Company, , , , Smith, Judith E., 
–, , – South End (Boston), 
Ross, Erskine M.,  South Gate (Los Angeles), 
Rowell, Elmer A.,  Springfield, Mass. (Colony Hills),
Russell Sage Foundation, ,  –, 
Springfield, Ohio, 
St. Francis Wood (San Francisco), , Stamford, Conn., –
, , ,  Staten Island, N.Y., –
saloons, – Stewart, Lyman, 
Sanford, Edward T.,  Stewart and Young, 
San Francisco, Calif., area: Lakeshore Stilgoe, John R., , 
Highlands, ; St. Francis Wood, , Storey, Moorfield, 
, , ,  Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 
Sanger Brothers,  subdivisions. See restricted subdivi-
Santa Fe Springs, Calif., ,  sions
Savannah, Ga., ,  suburbs: domestic animals in, –
Scarborough-on-the-Hudson, N.Y., , –; exclusive communities
,  in, –, –; historiography
Scarsdale Estates (Westchester of, –; mobility of residents of,
County), – –; Olmsted, Sr.’s concerns
Scott, Frank J., , , – about, –, , , , , , ,
Sears, Joseph,  –, , 
setback requirements, –, – Sudbrook (Baltimore), , 
 Sunset Heights (Los Angeles), 
 

Sunset Hill (Kansas City), ,  Veiller, Lawrence, –, , 
Swift, Louis,  Victoria, B.C. (Uplands), , , ,
Swift, Samuel, – , 

Taft Realty, ,  Walsh, William C., 

Thernstrom, Stephan,  Walworth, Reuben H., 
Thompson, Ben, ,  Ware, John F. W., , , , 
Thompson, King, , , , , , Waring, George E., Jr., 
 Warren, Frank, 
Thorpe, Samuel S., –, ,  Washington, D.C., area: Chevy Chase,
Title Insurance and Trust Company, Md., , –, ; LeDroit Park,
,  
Tocqueville, Alexis de, ,  Washington Heights (New York City),
Toledo, Ohio (Ottawa Hills), –, , 
,  Westleigh, 
Tomalin, Arthur,  West-Man Heights (Los Angeles), 
Torrance, Jared S.,  West Roxbury (Boston), 
Torrance, Calif., – Whitley Park (San Fernando Valley),
Tucson, Ariz.,  
Tuley, Murray F., – Whitney, Henry M., 
Tuxedo Park, N.Y.,  Whitney, Payne, 
Tygiel, Jules, ,  Whitney v. Union Railway Company, 
Whitten, Robert H., 
Unwin, Raymond,  Wiggins, Frank, 
Uplands (Victoria, B.C.), , , , Willys, John North, , 
, , , , , –,  Wilmington, Del., 
Upper Arlington (Columbus, Ohio),  Wilson, William H., , 
urban areas, deterioration of, – Wood, H. G., , , , 
Woodburne, 
Vanderbilt, Cornelius, Jr.,  Woods, Harriet, 
Vanderbilt, George W.,  Wright, Gwendolyn, 
Vanderlip, Frank A., , , , , , ,
, , , ,  zoning: constitutionality of, ; draw-
Van Sweringen, Mantis J., , ,  backs of, ; as means of land-use
Van Sweringen, Oris T., , ,  regulation, , –; racial, ,
Vaux, Calvert,  
Veblen, Thorstein, , 