‘A Bundle of Horridness’: The Great Teddy Bear Panic of 1907

In the mind of Reverend Michael Esper, teddy bears were public enemy number one.

In July 1907, Esper, the leader of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in St. Joseph, Michigan, addressed his congregation about a forthcoming church social. Church members were being encouraged to bring along a doll for resale to help fundraising efforts. All dolls were welcome, Esper said, but the teddy bear—the plush, furry ursine that had become the toy trend of the moment—was not.

“Though I shall not forbid it, I would like it understood by all who are to participate in the event that it is my earnest desire that no one bring a teddy bear to add to the collection of dolls,” he said.

Such bears were “a bundle of horridness” that he found “disgusting.” At another point, he referred to them as “pseudo animals.”

Esper was not alone in his condemnation of the teddies, though it stands as one of the more bizarre protestations of the 20th century. What could a man of the cloth, or anyone, have against one of the most innocuous playthings ever devised? What had the bears done to provoke such wrath and be decried as contributing to the moral decay of society?

Esper had his reasons.

1. Bear Country
2. In Defense of the Teddy

Bear Country

The teddy bear emerged out of a presidency. In November 1902, President Theodore Roosevelt was on a bear hunting excursion in Mississippi at the invitation of its governor, Andrew Longino. Roosevelt, a famously rugged outdoorsman, intended to put a bear in his sights and blow the hapless animal into non-existence.

Nature, however, was uncooperative. Roosevelt didn’t see any bears. Eventually, his tracker cornered a bear and tied it to a tree, but Roosevelt wasn’t having it: He considered attacking the defenseless bear unsportsmanlike and refused to shoot. (The bear was still marked for death, however—it was killed by another person on the hunt.)

The media had a field day with the president’s perceived nobility. So did cartoonist Clifford Berryman, who drew a panel for The Washington Post depicting Roosevelt’s refusal. The cartoon was such a hit that Berryman kept adding bears to his drawings of Roosevelt.

The story caught the attention of Morris Michtom, a candymaker in Brooklyn who thought there might be public interest in a stuffed bear. His wife, Rose, began sewing them by hand; Michtom sought and secured the permission of Roosevelt to dub it the “teddy bear” after Roosevelt’s “Teddy” nickname. Though the president reportedly hated being called “Teddy,” he had no issue with Michtom using it for the stuffed animals. (Stuffed bears had, of course, existed before this, most notably in Germany, where plush toymaker Margarete Steiff peddled bears, elephants, and other animals. Her nephew, Richard, reportedly sketched a stuffed bear as early as 1894.)

Michtom soon formed the Ideal Toy Company. Ideal and other manufacturers watched as the bears flew off retail shelves, bolstered by the notoriety of the Roosevelt story. Priced between 50 cents and $5, the toy created a teddy bear industry that was soon bringing in $2 million in annual sales.

By 1907, it appeared as though the bears would become an evergreen toy category, one that could potentially replace the durable doll market thanks to their unisex appeal. While boys of the era largely avoided dolls, the teddy was socially acceptable. Bears, after all, were considered to be marauding killers.

Yet the teddy trend didn’t escape the attention of critics. The most vocal was Reverend Michael Esper, whose admonition made national headlines. It wasn’t just his anti-teddy position but his reasoning. Esper believed that teddy bears threatened to undermine the maternal instincts of little girls he believed were better nourished by doll babies, declaring that the peddling and cuddling of teddies would lead to “race suicide.”

The concept of race suicide was circulated by a prominent sociologist of the era named Edward Ross, who cautioned that a combination of immigration and low birth rates could dilute American culture. (His concepts are not unlike those of the “great replacement theory” of today.) Esper built upon this brazen theory by surmising teddy bears would lead to fewer children being born.

“There is something natural in the care of a doll by a little girl,” he said as part of his 15-minute diatribe on the bears. “It is the first manifestation of the feeling of motherhood. And in the development of these motherly instincts is the hope of all nations … It is a monstrous crime to do anything that will tend to destroy these instincts. That is what the teddy bear is doing, and that is why it is going to be a factor in the race suicide problem if the custom is not suppressed.”

Father Esper seemed to be viscerally revolted even by the presence of the bears. “What is more disgusting than to see a child of tender years fondling and caressing and even kissing these pseudo animals?” he asked.

In Defense of the Teddy

Newspaper editors certainly understood the gold to be mined in repeating the comments of a reverend who seemed to regard teddy bears as a kind of cotton-stuffed evil. Esper’s rant spread, inviting both agreement and criticism. Reporters even quizzed President Roosevelt about it. Though he declined to give an on-the-record statement, it was said he had read the Esper comments with interest.

Jane Close, a supervisory teacher of sewing for a New York school district, agreed with Esper’s teddy bias, if not precisely his motive. “The teddy bear is not good for little girls,” she said. “The bear is keeping the children from the pleasure of caring for a doll. He can’t wear pretty frocks and dainty underwear, and the little girl who has him for a pet gets no incentive to make these things. Hence she loses the education involved in dainty garments. The teddy bear is all right for boys, but not for girls.”

Another critic, W.A. Ramsay—who was described by the Nevada State Journal as “childless and unmarried, yet an observer”—concurred. “I agree with the priest,” he said. “I never liked the teddy bear. The old-fashioned doll is the thing for the child to play with. There is something human about a doll, at least it has the human image, but these toy beasts have nothing to recommend them.”

The teddy was taking heavy fire. But it had its share of defenders. “Anything that awakens as much love and sympathy among children as the teddy bear is certainly safe and sane,” said Mrs. Dwight Goss, a teacher in Grand Rapids, Michigan. “I have observed that little girls often prefer the teddy bear to their dolls, but I think it is because the bear is less perishable … as to the maternal instinct, nature has planted that too deep to be imperiled by a teddy bear or anything else for that matter. There is nothing to worry about on that score.”

Mrs. George Murphy, a supervisor of Grand Rapids kindergartens, chafed at the suggestions bears might overrule the doll. “There is no probability that the teddy bear will ever become a usurper in the realm of dolls,” she said. “Little girls love their dolls and playhouses because they represent the family and the home. With them, they reproduce the little dramas of family life. The teddy bear is a novelty, and one can trust the child to give it its proper place.”

Mrs. Murphy was prescient. Leading into the holiday 1907 season, interest in teddy bears was on the wane. Toymakers and retailers observed demand for the bears was plummeting, though it was impossible to say whether Esper’s comments had influenced people or simply that the fad was declining.

Richard Osmun, editor of Playthings magazine, believed Esper had made a difference. “Father Esper of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church is not alone in his fear of the teddy bear evil,” Osmun said in August 1907. “At first, when the bears were something of a novelty, there was no objection to their use on the part of mothers. But now that the novelty has worn off some mothers are leaning to the idea that nothing should supplant the old time dolly in the hearts of their children.”

The bears, of course, suffered no permanent injury from Esper, though the same could not be said of Harold Smith. In 1923, the 14-year-old boy crossed paths with the Father, who was by then affiliated with a Detroit church. Esper caught Smith as he was attempting to steal donation boxes. As he was taking Smith to the parish house, the boy attempted to flee. Esper took aim and shot the child with a revolver. Fortunately, Smith was said to not have been seriously wounded. With all due respect to Esper, it seems like he may have been a far bigger danger to children than the humble teddy bear.

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