New-York Historical Society

“However, be you Scotch or Irish”: Thomas Addis Emmet’s letter to his daughter Jane

Thomas Addis Emmet. PR 52, Portrait File

For many significant figures, the historical spotlight is focused on their public accomplishments but being able to appreciate the aspect of their lives outside the public sphere often presents an important context for those accomplishments. An excellent example is a cache of letters by famed early nineteenth century Irish-American revolutionary and lawyer Thomas Addis Emmet to his daughter, Jane Erin Emmet.

Composed of eight letters in all, they span the years 1816 to 1826, from Jane’s teenage years into her adulthood. With the exception of the last letter from Washington, D.C., Emmet writes from Albany while tending to the legal practice to which he devoted considerable energy. His letters encourage his daughter in her studies while offering healthy doses of fatherly advice. The latter is of predictably nineteenth century vintage, however, emphasizing the importance of her conduct and bearing, specifically with regard to her prospects of finding a husband.

Despite the abundant “guidance”, Emmet leaves no doubt that this was a loving relationship, with several moving statements affirming his fatherly affection.  And, like every teenage girl’s father, he even manages to present a curious analogy regarding her social “debut”:

I suppose she must feel something like a General after his first victory, a little frightened at the heaps of slain; but still proud of their number; + tranquillising her conscience, if it should feel troubled at the ravage she has made, by the glory of her maiden triumph.

We can only imagine  fit of eye rolling this provoked by his then seventeen-year-old daughter!

Perhaps the most memorable letter though is dated March 2, 1818. In it, Emmet is reduced to an emphatic apology to Jane whom he believes he has offended, guessing it may have been something he wrote about her “Scotch partialities.”

Perhaps it was. And perhaps not unjustly; for my wish to have you entirely Irish (except so far as you ought to be American) may have made me treat those partialities without mercy. I meant to make you Irish, in spite of your birth place, when I gave you the name of Erin, I meant to give you the feeling which little John Bradstreet once expressed with infantile naivete to a gentleman who asked where he was born — ” I was born in America, but I am to be brought up an Irishman.” However, be you Scotch or Irish, I shall always love you. And assure you that altho’ I have predelictions for Ireland, I have no prejudices against Scotland, so that if any harshness consisted in that, we can easily make friends.

Excerpt from Emmet's letter to his daughter Jane, March 2,1818. MS 2893, Whitlock Family Papers

Far from a passing comment, Emmet’s comments connect deeply with his life experiences. Despite being a lawyer of immense fame in America, his legacy is firmly rooted in his part in the United

Emmet memorial, St. Paul's churchyard. PR 20, Geographic File

Irishmen, a non-sectarian political movement in late eighteenth century Ireland that  failed in its 1798 bid to bring a revolution and republican principles to Ireland. Imprisoned for his part, Emmet spent several years in Glasgow, Scotland before settling for a life of exile in the United States in 1804. This he did with a heavy heart after the execution of his brother, Robert, in the previous year for his own failed uprising.

In this context, identity has considerable meaning to a man like Emmet. As you might infer, Jane was born during his time in Scotland which explains why she would have certain affinity towards the land of her birth. And yet Emmet, a man who achieved so much in his adopted land, had also sacrificed a great deal for his own native country and clearly remained very much attached to it. Interestingly, while he was unique  in so many ways from the enormous waves of Irish immigrants that would follow him, in this private letter, even he faced the shared immigrant dilemma of identity.

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The Traveller and the Stone: John Ledyard and the Central Park Obelisk

Titlepage for Ledyard's account of Cook's third voyage, 1783. Y1783.Ledy Numb

John Ledyard’s far from a household name in his own country even though he’s arguably the United States’ first explorer, and, had Catherine the Great not abruptly ended his circumnavigation of the globe in 1787-1788, could very well have achieved what Lewis & Clark accomplished fifteen years later. Ledyard also attended Dartmouth, participated in Cook’s Third Voyage, knew Thomas Jefferson, earned Sir Joseph Banks’ support and saw more of the globe than most people could imagine — even in the 21st century. And that’s just a fraction of his story. But while an investigation of his life is completely worthwhile — it’s  beyond remarkable — there isn’t nearly space here to chronicle them properly. Instead, we’ll have a look at how Ledyard, in Egypt in 1788 describes a sight many New Yorkers see on a daily basis.

After Catherine the Great quashed his circumnavigation bid, Ledyard set his sights on Africa, travelling under the auspices of the Association for Promoting the Discovery of the Interior Parts of Africa. This newly formed group counted Banks, the famed naturalist, botanist and patron of exploration, among its members and was intent on investigating the continent that it described as “still in a great measure unexplored.”

First page of 'Mr. Ledyard's Subscription" for his trip " to cross the continent of north America from Nootka to New York," November 1786, with Sir Joseph Banks' name included. AHMC - Ledyard, John

Ledyard arrived in Alexandria in August 1788 but died tragically in Cairo on January 10, 1789 at the age of thirty-eight while awaiting the next leg of his trip. As sad as his death was, Ledyard left behind quite an epistolary legacy, including a letter from Alexandria on August 15, 1788 to Thomas Jefferson, whom he had previously met in Paris. In it, Ledyard provides a fascinating, though hardly flattering reflection on the city. For our purposes the most interesting comment  regards its ancient ruins:

A pillar called the pillar of Pompey, & an Obelisk called Cleopatra’s are now almost the only remains of great antiquity — they are both & particularly the former noble subjects to see & contemplate & are certainly more captivating from the contrasting deserts & forlorn prospects around them.

Selection from Ledyard's letter to Thomas Jefferson from Alexandria, August 15, 1788. AHMC - Ledyard, John

If you frequent Central park, it probably won’t be news to learn that it boasts a 3,000 year old Egyptian obelisk, colloquially known as “Cleopatra’s Needle”; however, it might be surprising to learn that Ledyard’s letter is almost assuredly referring to the very same one. The “Obelisk called Cleopatra’s” as he puts it, was one of two in Alexandria when Ledyard visited, both having been moved there in 18 A.D. from Helipolis where they were erected in 1450 B.C.

Photograph of Central Park's obelisk in 1881, shortly after it has been erected. PR 20 Geographic File

Sadly, as Bob Brier points out, nowadays obelisks are something of an endangered species in Egypt since the Romans began an unfortunate trend of removing them as symbols of their military feats. By the later nineteenth century more modern sensibilities had similar results, bringing Alexandria’s pair to London and New York, in 1878 and 1880 respectively.

The saga of their removal and re-erection is another story altogether but the obvious question arises, how can we be sure that Ledyard is describing the New York one over the London one? Well, Rev. James King’s 1884 book Cleopatra’s Needle: a history of the London Obelisk indicates that through erosion “about 300 years ago, the colossal stone fell prostrate on the ground.” It’s clear that Ledyard is only referencing one obelisk but, even by 1788, the one destined for London had already lain on its side for two centuries, and sources indicate that sand had at least partially obscured it in that time. It’s safe to conclude then that Ledyard was then writing about the most prominent of the two, which would presumably have been the standing obelisk, the same one any visitor to Central Park can still find behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

 

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Free of an Empire, by Way of an Empress

This posting was written by Dael Norwood, a  Bernard & Irene Schwartz Postdoctoral Fellow at the New-York Historical Society. 

On February 22, 1784, a small ship with big ambitions weighed anchor, and sailed down the East River. Commanded by John Green, the Empress of China left New York on George Washington’s birthday aiming to be the first American ship to reach Canton, China. The novelty of this distant destination loaded the vessel with more than just ginseng root and silver dollars. Backed by a group of prominent Philadelphia and New York merchants and managed by respected veterans of the Revolutionary war, the ship bore Americans’ hopes for a new era of prosperity and independence.

A notice of the Empress's departure. (From the Independent Gazette, New York, NY, February 26th, 1784)

The Empress left a country in increasingly desperate straits. Just a month before, Congress had proclaimed the Peace of Paris, officially ending the Revolutionary War. But once the celebrations died down, the war’s costs remained. In addition to the lives and property destroyed, the fighting had deeply indebted state governments and the Continental Congress. Worse, now that they were proudly separated from the British Empire, Americans were cut off from the British West Indian ports that had been the lifeblood of the colonial economy. Efforts like the Empress’s voyage were part of a larger push to overcome these economic and political problems by expanding trade to new areas. In the post-revolutionary depression, American merchants tried to drum up business not just in Asia, but anywhere they could.

The Qing Empire, as pictured in an atlas published a year after the Empress's return. (William Gutherie, A new system of modern geography, 3rd ed. London, 1786).

Even so, trade with China was a big deal. Americans knew the Qing Empire as a political and economic superpower, but getting to Canton, the empire’s only port open to Westerners, was a difficult task. No matter whether merchants sailed east (around the Cape of Good Hope and into the Indian ocean, like the Empress did) or west (around Cape Horn and across the Pacific) a voyage to Canton would be among the longest sea routes, requiring well-built ships, careful management, and plentiful supplies. The commerce also required capital, and lots of it: ships needed to carry a sizable store of Spanish silver dollars (aka pesos de ocho, pieces of eight). Chinese merchants rarely accepted anything less than hard cash.

Risky and complex, in the 18th century trade with China was similar in cachet to international aerospace industry of the late 20th century. Like building jets and satellites, trading in the “East Indies” marked a nation as a serious competitor on the world stage. For this patriotic service, the captain and crew of the Empress were lauded as pioneers. As the ship left New York, the city’s Independent Gazette not only wished it success, but reminded readers that those who formed “new channels for the extension of our commerce” were performing a service for the nation.

Goods from the Empress were quickly put on sale -as seen in this advertisement- but legal wrangling between investors tied up the profits for years. (From the Political Intelligencer, Elizabethtown, NJ, May 25, 1785)

Public spirit notwithstanding, the merchants of the Empress managed the voyage pretty well, returning home on May 11, 1785 with a valuable cargo of teas, silks, cotton cloth, and porcelain. The venture cleared a return of roughly 30% – not bad. Furnishing proof that trade with Asia was not only possible, but profitable, the Empress’s voyage earned wide accolades. One New Yorker argued that the safe return was worthy of “public thanksgiving and ringing of bells!” More circumspect, but still enthusiastic, Congress congratulated the mariners directly, expressing a “peculiar satisfaction” in “this first effort of the citizens of America to establish a direct trade with China.”

Samuel Shaw, supercargo aboard the Empress and later the first American consul in China. (From Samuel Shaw, The Journals of Major Samuel Shaw: The First American Consul at Canton: With a Life of the Author, ed. Josiah Quincy, Boston: Wm. Crosby and H.P. Nichols, 1847).

This new link was important. Samuel Shaw, the supervising merchant, or supercargo, who served on the Empress ably summarized the lasting significance of the voyage. Reporting to Congress on how the Americans had been “treated in that distant region,” Shaw focused on what the voyage meant for U.S. relations with other peoples. The Empress, he related, had received aid “from our good allies the French,” who had helped integrate the inexperienced American merchants into Canton’s foreign mercantile community. And even the English at Canton had behaved cordially, a welcome surprise.

But it was Shaw’s meeting with the Chinese that provided a conclusion to warm any proud revolutionary’s heart. “The Chinese were very indulgent towards us,” he wrote, “[t]hey styled us the new people.” Though cut off from the British Empire’s familiar markets, the Empress seemed to find a new way forward for American independence.

For more information on this topic,  watch for an N-YHS exhibit in October of 2014 that will examine the long, complex, often troubled, but also mutually sought-after relations between China, the U.S., and the people of both nations from the 1770s through the present day.

 

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“Jeff: Davis, aint this a Go?”: Hiram Rhoades Revels takes his seat in the Senate

Hiram Rhoades Revels by Matthew Brady. PR 11, Carte de Visite Photograph File

On February 25, 1870 Hiram Rhoades Revels, a preacher from Mississippi was sworn into the United States Senate. That occasion marked the first time a man of African descent served in either house of congress.

While his service is a landmark in American history, Revels would not seek a second term but did go on to distinguish himself in the field of education, becoming the first president of what is now Alcorn State University. His stint in office was also a rather quiet one though it presumably gave some satisfaction to many Northerners since he took the vacant seat of Jefferson Davis. It seems likely that diarist  George Templeton Strong captured something of contemporary opinion in his meticulously written entry of March 17, 1870:

One Revels, an Ethiop from Mississippi (or perhaps only a mulatto or octaroon [he was, in fact, a quadroon, or one quarter black]) has been making a speech in his place as U.S. Senator. Ten years ago we should have thought a Feejee President not more absurdly improbable. The world does move, & the arrogant folly of Southern swashbucklers & fanatics in [18]60 and [18]61 gave it a shove such as it has not felt for centuries. The Fr[ench] Revolution took more time & its causes had been longer at work. O Jeff: Davis, aint this a Go? What do you think of the gemman [sic], who sits in your seat, & represents your own — your be-yuteous — your chivalr-r-r-ric state? To this have all your intriguings and blusterings and proclamations and conscriptions come at last!

Jefferson Davis, who withdrew from the senate on January 21, 1861. PR 11, Carte de Visite Photograph File

In his facetiousness, Strong also hints at the poignancy of Revels’ achievement. Despite sitting in the highest legislative body in the country, racism prevailed even among supporters of the Union. Strong goes on to express this with shocking clarity:

His presence in the Senate is the assertion of  a principle. Perhaps it may prove desirable to repeat the assertion every fifteen years or so, but as a general rule colored persons can be made more useful in other fields of labor.

As disconcerting as the statement is, Strong’s concluding choice of words makes it even worse. It’s unclear whether he consciously chose “fields” but regardless, its detestable connotation drives home the point with a shockingly heavy blow.

Though  sobering, fortunately for twenty-first century Americans Strong’s words fade into the background of history with the knowledge that Revels’ term was the initial step in what has gladly surpassed the mere “assertion of a principle.” As this year’s Black History Month draws to a close , we can take great joy in remembering Revels’ pioneering contribution to American history.

Strong's comments on Revels in his tiny script. MS 2472, BV Strong, George Templeton

 

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The Tale of the Wandering Washington, No. 2

This post was written by Mariam Touba, Reference Librarian.

Last year at this time, we commemorated George Washington’s birthday by following a wooden statue of the general and President in its convoluted journey from city monument to private hands to mythologizing.  It would not be the only sculpture to share such a fate, and this week we consider yet another wandering Washington likeness.

 

Thom statue of George Washington; photo by Robert Tontaro

In 1838 the self-taught Scottish stone carver James Thom fashioned a Washington statue from the stone quarries of his adopted home in Little Falls, New Jersey.  It is the same red sandstone stone he would promote in the building of the (current) Trinity Church facade in the next decade.  The press called the statue “colossal,” but if that conjures the Colossus of Rhodes, we need to scale back a bit, as it was meant to indicate that, at about eight feet, it was larger than life size.  Thom did well at promoting the statue, getting positive reviews from some cultural arbiters who suggested that it was “admirably suited for a public square in an American city.”  After touring the piece through New York, Philadelphia, and Washington, he sought a buyer for $4,000, but the statue remained standing like a sentinel outside his new home in Nanuet, New York, unsold.

 

After much legal dispute over whether the statue belonged to the property, Manhattan dentist Stephen A. Main came to own it and arranged to place it in New York’s City Hall Park in 1857.  There the New York Times opined that the statue would have a beneficial effect on fiery open- air speakers “while the calm and dignified head of WASHINGTON is staring upon them, and his right hand holds out a scroll representing the Constitution.  It would have been better if the statue were bronze or marble; but, such as it is, it is better than none.”

 

Having died in 1850, sculptor Thom did not live to see his statue’s decade in the New York City sun, but he was also spared the snarky comments that followed.  The colossus had more than its share of detractors among the chattering classes.  When one group of citizens petitioned the city to purchase the statue, still owned by Dr. Main, another group concurred for different reasons, saying the purchase price (now $2,000) would be well worth paying in order to remove what they believed to be an eyesore.  Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper went on to suggest, “When the Aldermen have concluded the bargain, we suggest that it should be placed in the cupola on top of the City Hall.  It will be there privately secreted under the figure of Justice, and if that blind lady is true to her instincts she will keep her foot upon it for ever.”

Abraham Lincoln's funeral through City Hall Park, Pictorial Lettersheet Collection, PR 144

The transaction occurred just as South Carolina seceded from the Union, so perhaps patriotic feeling stalled its removal.  We have this visual evidence that the statue remained to watch the mournful obsequies for Abraham Lincoln as the funeral train passed through New York in April 1865, but in 1870 the statue made the transition to Trenton, New Jersey.

Closeup; Lincoln's funeral at City Hall Park

In Trenton, Washington was installed prominently in a niche at the Washington Market building on December 26, 1870, in a ceremony marking the anniversary of the great surprise victory at Trenton in 1776.  After the market was torn down in 1928, the statue remained on private property near Washington’s Crossing until rescued for preservation in 1995 and brought to the headquarters of Janssen Pharmaceutical in Titusville, New Jersey.

 

In its current home outside the Janssen cafeteria, the statue is accompanied by a helpful label recounting that some Trentonians doubted that they had the good fortune to have Washington in their presence at the marketplace.  Drawing on press reports, the label suggests that the skeptical wondered if the sculpture was really of DeWitt Clinton or Horace Greeley.

Horace Greeley, engraving, Portrait file PR 52

Horace Greeley?  The eccentric, courageous, and influential editor of The New-York Tribune of the mid-19th century would not have been wearing 18th century costume.  Did someone have a sense of humor or irony here?  Nobody hated the Washington statue more than Horace Greeley:  When the city fathers sought to purchase and move the statue in 1860, Greeley, who referred to it as “What Is It” and “a daily deformity to the Park,” suggested that it could be set up in “one of our dirtiest thoroughfares” as a monument to a corrupt and incompetent city government.  The main target of his barb, an Alderman Boole, was in surprising accord, and offered a resolution that the statue be moved to the offices of the Tribune, since that fit Greeley’s description of the “filthiest locality in the city.”

 

So, it appears that a certain class of New Yorkers thought they were too sophisticated for the brownstone statue, while a number Trentonians wondered if they were worthy enough to harbor an authentic representation of George Washington in their market.  What that says about the respective attitudes of a New Yorkers and New Jerseyans we leave for the reader to decide.

 

 

 

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A Short, Incomplete History of American Traditional Tattooing

This post is written by Joe Festa, Print Room Reference Assistant

As my colleague Ted pointed out in his previous blog post, the electric tattoo machine revolutionized tattooing at the end of the 19th century. However, it wasn’t just electric current that propelled the industry; another factor can be attributed to the circulation of what’s called “flash” today: sheets of pre-drawn designs displayed in a portfolio, or more commonly, on the walls of tattoo shops.

According to Albert Parry’s book Tattoo: Secrets of a Strange Art, published in 1933 by Simon and Schuster, tattooists of the time were so inundated with requests that it was difficult for them to keep up with the demand for new designs. But the exchange of flash during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, which were largely distributed with other supplies through mail order catalogs, helped artists keep up with the growing marketplace.

Details from tattoo sketchbook, unknown artist. Album File, PR2.451

The style that emerged during this turning point can be defined by its use of bold, black outlines and a limited color palette. It’s also defined by specific imagery – patriotic symbols like eagles, the American flag, or male oriented pictures of girl-heads and pin-ups – which can be attributed to the number of sailors who favored this act of body adornment. Designs were intentionally kept simple in an effort to further increase the speed of application and enable an artist to accommodate more clients.

Page from Percy Waters' mail-order catalog. Bella Landauer Collection of Business Ephemera, PR31

Of the many masters who helped fill the market gap, Parry credits New York City tattooer Lew “the Jew” Alberts as an early promoter and peddler of these new sheets of flash. Michigan native Percy Waters had a strong mail order business and was also influential. And according to Parry, he was also well known for his acrimonious criticism of his competitor’s practices and standards.

The author quotes from a leaflet Waters mailed that warns of “fly-by-nighters” who prey on inexperienced buyers, plagiarize literature, and sell ill-executed designs, such as the Statue of Liberty raising her left arm, or steamboats with flags that wave north while clouds of smoke float south. Waters concludes frankly with: “Such crap as this could not be classed with tattooing machines and designs made by a skillful mechanic and artist of long reputation.”

In some ways, Waters’ sentiment still rings true today – both inside and outside the tattoo industry. And while tattooing has become less of a “strange art” in recent years, the American style has become a time-honored tradition, and is still celebrated and referenced in countless studios across the country.

Trade Card, Percy Waters. Bella Landauer Collection of Business Ephemera, PR31

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Almost an Alleghanian: or how N-YHS tried to change the nation’s name to the United States of Alleghania

Given the New-York Historical Society’s reluctance to change so much as the hyphen in its own name (see “It Can Hyphen Here: Why the New-York Historical Society Includes a Hyphen”), it may come as a shock to learn that in 1845, N-YHS spearheaded an effort to give an entirely new name to the whole country.

On April 1, 1845, a three-person Committee appointed by the New-York Historical Society reported on “the subject of the irrelevant appellation, at present used for this country” and discussed a geographical name more likely to “promote national associations and prove efficient in History, Poetry and Art.”  As these remarks suggest, the Committee was dissatisfied with the name “United States of America,” for several reasons.

Portrait File, PR 52. Washington Irving, the first to propose that "United States of America" be changed to "United States of Alleghania."

First, it being a phrase “from which it is impossible to derive an adjective, we have no means of describing ourselves.” The term “United Staters” was dismissed as laughable, and “Americans” as simply inaccurate, there being two Americas, both rapidly rising in importance.  This “want of a perfectly distinct and natural appellation” was felt by no less than the nation’s leading man of letters, Washington Irving, who complained that “In France, when I have announced myself as an American, I have been supposed to belong to one of the French colonies; in Spain, to be from Mexico or Peru, or some other Spanish American country.  Repeatedly have I found myself engaged in a long geographical and political definition of my national identity.”

Second, the term “United States of America” was neither distinctive nor accurate, there being “on this continent four or five ‘United States.”  Finally, it was distressing to poets, who found the phrase too unwieldy to properly celebrate in verse (even as talented a writer as Irving wondered how our poets would “manage to steer that collocation of words, “The United States of America,’ down the swelling tide of song, and to float the whole raft out upon the sea of heroic poesy”).

To remedy this unfortunate situation, the Committee members urged adoption of a name taken from “our mountains, or our lakes, or our rivers” — specifically (as Irving had urged), the Alleganian or Appalachian chain of mountains.  “What we want,” concluded the Committee, “is a sign of our identity.  We want utterance for our nationality.”  They found the Alleganian range — which “binds the country together, as with a band of iron,” and was also associated with “the best parts of our own history, with colonial adventure, and revolutionary heroism” — exactly suited to this purpose.

Other natural features were considered but rejected: the Rocky Mountains were “too little familiar to us,” the Great Lakes were not national enough, and a number of states were already named after the Mississippi River and its tributaries.  Besides, as Washington Irving pointed out, if the country adopted the United States of Alleghania as its new name, its initials would still be USA (on the other hand, Alleghania seems equally difficult to work into a poem and much harder to spell).

Doris Ulmann Photograph Collection, PR 72. Appalachian Mountains.

The Committee’s enthusiasm for the new name was not, however, shared by the rest of the country — or, for that matter, even the rest of the Society, who rejected the proposal at an apparently heated meeting held on May 13, 1845 (according to the Evening Gazette, Society President Albert Gallatin, formerly Thomas Jefferson’s Secretary of Treasury, had difficulty keeping the members in order).  Pointing out that the frontier had moved further west, the Evening Gazette ridiculed the name Allegania, and suggested that perhaps the name Fredonia should be adopted instead.  While the sarcasm may not be obvious to modern readers, this referred jokingly to a prior and much-ridiculed proposal by statesman Samuel L. Mitchell to rename the USA Fredonia, a word he coined by combining the English “freedom” with a latinate ending.

Sister historical societies were equally derisive.  Called on for support, the New Jersey Historical Society instead issued a stinging rebuke: “The object of Historical Societies is not to change the name of States or Empires, but to aid in the writing, and in the preservation of all that pertains to, their true history.”  The Massachusetts Historical Society agreed in principle that the country needed a new name, but championed Columbia over Allegania, the latter evoking a “mere clod of earth — a mere chain of not even lofty mountains, overtopped as elevations above the surface of the earth, by the Alps in Europe, the Himmelayan [sic] chain in Asia, and the Andes of the sister continent of this hemisphere” (apparently Boston was bitter towards New York  even before the Bambino’s curse).

Mitchell, Samuel L. "Address to the Fredes." Pamphlet collection, Pamph E286 .M58 1804

Needless to say, the Committee’s proposal was never adopted.  It was almost resurrected during the Civil War, when a Charleston journalist suggested that the Confederate states should adopt “a name for colloquial, journalistic and poetic uses.”  But the name Allegania was given even shorter shrift in the south: “Even if there were a country here wanting a name, which there is not, what sort of propriety would there be in giving a designation to the Confederate States which would suggest the idea of their being still a portion of the United States? The Alleghany or Apalachian mountain chain extends from Maine to Alabama . . .  therefore to give our Confederacy the name of “Allegania” or Apalachia” would be only strengthening that famous geographical argument of Mr. Seward, that the physical geography of the continent has itself peremptorily decreed an indissoluble union.”

Having survived the Civil War both nominally and corporally, the United States of America — like the hyphen — is here to stay.

 

 

 

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Snakes in the Mail

"General Surroundings at 'Potosina'", a mine Treadwell had an interest in, Durango, Mexico. MS 636, George A. Treadwell Papers.

Although he lived at the Waldorf-Astoria, died at St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital and is interred at Green-Wood Cemetery, George A. Treadwell spent the bulk of his career as a mining engineer out west, much of it in the sweltering Arizona desert. Naturally, his papers document this mining work but they also contain some curious incoming letters regarding side interests in science and biology. The letters are proof that he came across some very interesting creatures while at work and that he had a propensity for sending many of those creatures on to James John Rivers, a curator at the University of California, Berkeley museum,  for study.

Just to clarify, yes, Treadwell sent live animals, though they didn’t always arrive in that state. All told, he sent quite a list of creepy crawlies too, including frogs, ants, beetles, numerous snakes, as well as a lizard or two and even a scorpion. Slightly less dramatically, he dabbled in botany as well, sending a specimen of the then newly discovered Arizona cypress.

From all appearances Treadwell was constantly on the lookout for something interesting, even while on business. He scribbled down his recollections of one occasion when riding with the cashier from the Santa Eulalia Mine to Chihuahua City, Mexico he spied “a beautiful silver gray snake slim + about 2 1/2 ft long.” He leapt from the buggy to corral the snake (that Rivers later identified as pityophis elegans) and stowed it in the barrel of his gun for safekeeping. Soon after, the cashier noted that “the ramrod is moving up” and sure enough, “quite limber like a snake [was] coming out the muzzel [sic].”

Now if you’re hung up on the logistics of sending live specimens in the mail, a 1902 biographical entry actually sheds some light. Predictably, it declares Treadwell’s mailings as “contrary to the postal laws” and while we could find no further discussion of the incident, it relates how one of his packages caused a stir after escaping at the post office in New York.

Letter from Sir John Lubbock to Treadwell, acknowledging receipt of the Gila Monster, July 13, 1882. MS 636, George A. Treadwell Papers

It seems he evaded arrest only because Arizona was an uninviting place for authorities to track him down. Instead, peace was restored after Treadwell agreed to cease his wriggly packages.When this happened isn’t entirely clear but based on a letter and the publication date of the bio, it would have been sometime between 1897 and 1902.

Treadwell’s letters from Rivers are complemented by several from Sir John Lubbock, an English banker, politician and scientist of some repute. They aren’t quite earth-shattering, but they do reference a rather intriguing episode of Treadwell’s hobby. On July 12, 1882, Lubbock wrote: “I have duly received your kind letter of the 3 June, + the ‘Monster’ which has duly come to hand + seems none the worse for the journey.” That “monster” Lubbock was referring to was a Heloderma suspectum, Helioderma horridum, or, a Gila Monster, that Treadwell had shipped all the way to London!

While the Gila Monster is not exceedingly dangerous, they are venomous; in 2008, a zoo keeper in New Mexico spent a week in the hospital after being bitten.  Not surprisingly, at the time the animal was still of great curiosity to scientists who were still undecided over the effects of its bite. Perhaps with that in mind, Lubbock subsequently passed the lizard onto the Zoological Society, and it didn’t take very long for a documented case. In the December 1882 issue of Nature, a keeper described the painful consequences of his negligence while handling the lizard. At least his misfortune proved that a Gila Monster bite was not necessarily fatal to humans.

"Helderma Horridum, or Gila Monster", a wood engraving in Scientific American Supplement of Sir John Lubbock's specimen taken from the London magazine The Field, 1882.

Curiosity aside, there is no indication that Treadwell and Rivers’ inquiries led to any major scientific breakthroughs, but neither were they un-practiced amateurs. Aspects of their correspondence reveal this; among them are Treadwell’s connection to Lubbock, a prominent man of science, and Rivers’ request that Treadwell provide Arizona cypress seeds to be sent to Sir Joseph Hooker, a leading botanist and director of the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew. Moreover, Rivers’ education at the University of London acquainted him with the likes of Huxley, Faraday and yes, Darwin.

Perhaps most indicative of the context in which the Treadwell-Rivers correspondence occurred is found in a letter by Rivers while he gushes over the giant whip scorpion in 1883. He writes “It[s] nature is just between a Scorpion and Tarantula and one of those things that would delight Mr. Darwin when he was living.”  The famed Charles Darwin had died the previous year but clearly his shadow lingered over these pursuits as it still often does today.

…And finally… Treadwell’s adventures with North American fauna is a nice segue into reminding everyone that Audubon’s watercolors will be making a return appearance in Aududon’s Aviary: Part I of the Complete Flock, opening on March 8th!

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It Can Hyphen Here: Why the New-York Historical Society Includes a Hyphen

Sign for Sesquicentennial exhibition, June 1954 (N-YHS Pictorial Archive)

Visitors to the New-York Historical Society (as well as many copy editors and printers throughout the ages) have often wondered why the title of our institution includes a hyphen between the “New” and “York”.  The answer is simple; when the New-York Historical Society was founded in 1804, New York was generally written as “New-York.” This practice was adhered to in books and newspaper titles and often applied to the spelling of other states such as New-Hampshire and New-Jersey.  The general use of the hyphen in such words began to subside in the mid 1800’s, but some publications and legal documents continued to use it officially. For instance, The New York Times was one of the last holdouts and used the hyphen in its masthead until the 1890’s. See the N-YHS trivia book When Did the Statue of Liberty Turn Green? for further details.

Broadside, 1774 (SY 1774-49)

The fact that the hyphen in the Society’s name was never officially dropped generally went unnoticed.  However, in January of 1945 the New York World-Telegram reported that certain city council members became upset when one of them noticed the hyphen in the Society’s name on a subway advertisement for the institution. The paper stated that Chief Magistrate Henry H. Curran told President of City Council Newbold Morris “This thing -this hyphen- is like a gremlin which sneaks around in the dark…You should call a special meeting of City Council immediately and have a surgical operation on it! We won’t be hyphenated by anyone!” The Council soon attempted to pass a law barring the use of the hyphen in New York.

Central Park West entrance showing the hyphen "chiseled in stone" , ca. 1985

Despite these harsh words, curators and librarians at the Society stood by the hyphen and bravely confirmed that the hyphen was in the Society’s name since it was founded. Librarian Dorothy Barck declared that she could not locate any evidence that the official hyphen in “New-York” was ever officially deleted by the city or state.  Curator Donald A. Shelley remarked that we couldn’t even change our name if we wanted to because, “It’s chiseled in stone on the front of our building.”

All this press over something so silly, especially during World War II, naturally called for mockery.  In March of 1945, a group of musicians and composers wrote “The Hyphen-Song” to be sung at a city council meeting.  The words to this love song about hyphens written by Leonard Whitcup included:

 

Take a boy like me, dear

Take the girl I’m dreaming of-

Add a hyphen, what’ve you got?

You got-UM-M- you’ve got love!

Me without you-you without me

It’s a sad affair-

But take a tip from the hyphen-

And baby we’ll get somewhere

It appears that no law was ever passed outlawing the infamous hyphen, and the Society continues to use it in its official name. Today the New-York Historical Society is proud of the hyphen in its name.  The hyphen is still prominently displayed outside the building in stone and the Society’s summer softball team name is called “the Hyphens.”

Current entrance to the Society on Richard Gilder Way (77th Street) that proudly displays the hyphen.

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“Freely for games and recreative sports”: New York and the small municipal park

Jacob Riis. PR 84, Pach Brothers Photograph Collection

Central and Prospect Park parks dominate New York City park history. While that’s somewhat understandable, it’s time smaller parks got some attention of their own.

Despite New York’s long history, small, city-owned public parks didn’t really become a common feature until the waning years of the nineteenth century. It was then that waves of  immigration and detrimental effects of the growing city spurred reformers like Jacob Riis to action. One of their remedies was the building of smaller, more accessible parks, especially as an outlet for those starved for open space, such as the “crowded districts” of the Lower East Side. Similar arguments were made for the creation of Central Park but, pioneering though they were, the large picturesque designs of Manhattan’s Central Park and Brooklyn’s Prospect Park were not a comprehensive solution. They provided an idyllic escape for the city’s residents, yet were built on what were then the margins of settlement. Consequently, they were hardly convenient destinations for much of the city’s population — especially those of lesser means.

The Calvert Vaux-designed Mulberry Bend Park, shortly after opening, circa 1900. PR 20, Geographic File

In 1887, Riis’ efforts and those of others like him culminated in “An Act to Provide for the location, acquisition, construction and improvement of additional public parks, in the city of New York.” The New York legislature specifically meant this act to increase the number of small parks. Under its provisions, the city allotted $1 million per year for their creation with Mulberry Bend Park becoming the first opened under the act on June 14, 1897.

Although funds were used to purchase land, progress was frustrating slow, leading Mayor William L. Strong to appoint the Committee on Small Parks. In  its 1897 report the committee recommended the establishment of new parks and playgrounds; the latter being a particular concern. They lamented that “since the city has secured larger parks there has been a strange oversight of the necessity of providing, first of all, for the children the opportunity to use these public grounds freely for games and recreative sports.”  It also clarified for the Parks Department that despite the lack of specificity, the 1887 act did allow for the inclusion of playgrounds in the new public parks.

Detail of a map within the Committee on Small Parks' report, showing overcrowded areas in need of parks, as well as planned and existing parks, 1897.

As Ethan Carr points out in Wilderness By Design, “Progressive Era ‘small park’ design responded to social science, not landscape scenery.”  In essence, the primacy of picturesque landscape parks was giving way to the practicality of smaller spaces and amenities for children. Instrumental to the evolution of the New York park was the Outdoor Recreation League, a reform-minded organization created  by Charles Stover and Lillian Wald that operated playgrounds on New York City park properties. In 1902, the Parks Department assumed responsibility for operating those parks and a year later opened Seward Park, “the first municipal park in the country to be equipped as a permanent playground.

"General View of Playground, Seward Park -- Kindergarten Tent in Center" from the Outdoor Recreation League's booklet "Playground Scenes", circa 1900.

By the beginning of the twentieth century then, the park in New York City was well on its way to the form we know today, embracing a blend of Olmsted and Vaux’s vision of an idyllic setting within the gritty, bustling city, and a place where children could have the space and infrastructure to be active and healthy citizens.

 

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This is a blog created by staff members in the library to draw attention to the richness and diversity of our collections.

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