It is part of the lore of the Walker family that my immigrant great-grandfather, who was farming in Iowa at the time – although famously workaholic and tight-fisted – took time and money to attend the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893. He must have been impressed, because he made it a practice to attend other world’s fairs whenever he could.

And he well might have been impressed, judging from the story told in Erik Larson’s The Devil in the White City, which chronicles, for a generation which has forgotten it, the story of the Columbian Exposition. Along with a much more sordid story.

Who today knows that the construction of the Columbian Exposition involved the first use of spray paint in history? That the Pledge of Allegiance was composed for it? That the vertical file was first introduced there? That the first Ferris wheel was built for it? That Columbus Day was created in its honor? That it contained the first carnival “Midway?” That it provided the public its first taste of Juicy Fruit gum, Cracker Jacks, and Shredded Wheat? That it showcased long-distance telephone service, Edison’s moving pictures, and newfangled zippers?

The hero of the story is Daniel H. Burnham, a Chicago architect who became the chief organizer of the fair. When Chicago won the right to host it, the world scoffed. Chicago had no reputation as a cultural center, and New Yorkers (especially) laughed at the idea that such a raw, filthy, slaughterhouse town could dream of mounting an exhibition that would be anything but embarrassing compared to the previous one, which was held in Paris and stunned the world with (among other marvels) the Eiffel Tower.

Plagued by contentious colleagues, logistical delays, and horrible weather, Burnham managed to open the fair more or less on time (it opened officially before the buildings were entirely ready). Somehow, in between their bouts of bickering, he and his colleagues developed the idea of the “White City,” an exposition built all in white, in neo-classical style, strongly influencing American urban architecture for generations. The harmonious design, combined with the marvel of the Ferris Wheel, left a lasting impression on visitors from all over the world. Another prominent character in the book is the landscape designer Frederick Law Olmsted, who planned the grounds, agonized over their progress, and ruined his already fragile health in the process.

As a counterpoint to all this positive creativity, author Larson presents the story of another Chicagoan who was busy building a legend at the same time – “Dr. H. H. Holmes” (not his real name) who ran a pharmacy in suburban Englewood, and built a strange building, ostensibly as a hotel for fairgoers. In fact it was a killing trap. No one knows how many people (mostly but not exclusively young women; he killed men, older women, and young children too) fell into his clutches and were never seen again. What is most amazing about his story is the fact that he could carry out his murderers as long as he did without anyone suspecting at all. That young women from small towns were drawn to the city in droves, and that no insignificant percentage of them disappeared, never to be heard from again, was no secret. But the police displayed little concern about the matter, and lacked the tools to do anything about it if they had. It was an ideal age for the enterprising serial killer, and “Holmes” made the most of it.

There really isn’t much connection between the two narrative strands of the book, other than propinquity in time and place. But they make a fascinating counterpoint, and help to illuminate the positives and negatives of an energetic, colorful age. It’s nice to see 19th Century American builders described in positive terms.

I was also glad that the author spared us close examination of the sufferings of Holmes’ victims. Unlike most serial killers, he varied his methods. Some died quickly, others suffered horribly. Through it all, Holmes operated as a psychopath, utterly without empathy, endowed like many psychopaths with near-hypnotic manipulative charm. His story is chilling.

The Devil in the White City is a fascinating story to read, and I recommend it. My only complaint is that it contains no mention of the “Viking” replica ship, which sailed from Norway for the exposition. I’ve seen it in person, and am a member of a society devoted to its preservation. Their web site is here.