New-York Historical Society

Joseph P. Day: The Man Who Sold The Bronx

Post written by Daniel Velardo, Scanning Technician

New York City officially consolidated with its outer boroughs in 1898. The metropolitan area was now comprised of vast swaths of unpopulated lands ready for development, especially those east of the Bronx River which were formerly part of Westchester County.

This problem was solved in in 1904 when New York City’s famed subway system served to connect some of these newly incorporated parts of the city with Manhattan. With the subway’s second phase of construction completed in 1920, there was a new hope to achieve the American Dream outside of the city’s crowded streets.

Increased public transit accessibility, combined with high demand for new housing, meant unsold property would be a hot commodity. Enter Joseph P. Day, a born and raised New Yorker, at a time when immigrants were arriving by the thousands at Ellis Island. A full fledged realtor by the age of 21, Day would become a recognized name relatively quickly. With his status in areas of Brooklyn and Queens secured through large lot real estate auctions, Day moved his keen eye for development to the Bronx. Traveling from property to property with his commissioned photographer, William D. Hassler, the pair not only sold land but helped photographically map and document the rapidly expanding city. The photos taken by Hassler are currently being digitized via a grant-funded project and featured throughout this piece.

Auction Day, May 31, 1914 PR83 Hassler Collection

Auction Day, May 31, 1914
PR83 Hassler Collection

What would currently be nestled under the shadow of the Bronx’s largest public hospital, Jacobi Medical Center, the Pearsall Estate was a large plot of private property situated in the present day neighborhood of Morris Park. Historically just open land, the estate was broken into lots, given street names and sold at auction under the tutelage of Joseph P. Day, who on the day of auction played both realtor and auctioneer. Day partnered with J. Clarence Davies to sell a grand total of 420 lots of undeveloped land over two days, May 31st and June 1st, 1914. Said lots commanded an average price tag of around $805, or $18,760.44 in today’s money. However, Day wouldn’t rest on his laurels. In 1921, he would hold what might possibly be the largest single day real estate sale ever; selling over 1,500 homes in 12 hours (Alef, D.,  Joseph P. Day: The Great Salesman; p 2).

The new community boasted easy access to travel through trolley connections to train lines that no longer exist, the Second and Third Avenue Els, and within a year, the promise of a new station along White Plains Road. The Pearsall Estate auction represented an opportunity to have a home away from the hustle and bustle of the inner city, which had yet to feel the effects of slum clearance, but remain within the city’s limits.

Close up of auction sign, corner of Williamsbridge Road and Pelham Parkway

Close up of auction sign, corner of Williamsbridge Road and Pelham Parkway

Advertised on a considerably large billboard at the time at the intersection of Williamsbridge Road and Pelham Parkway (see photo), the auction was a well publicized event. The New York Times advertised the then mostly rural area as a “growing section of [the] borough.” Today the Morris Park neighborhood (mostly 10461 zip code) in which the Pearsall Estate was located has a population density just under 22,000 people per square mile. Within a hundred year period, the borough would transform immensely and so would the neighborhood, changing from Jewish to Italian and now slowly into Latino hands.

Pearsall Avenue just north of original Pearsall Estate holdings

Pearsall Avenue just north of Pearsall Estate border

Today, much like the other families with large holdings in the borough (Astor, Spencer, Morris, Pell, etc.), the only link the residents of this Morris Park community have to the Pearsall family and its rural estate is a street sign, Pearsall Avenue, which runs north-northwest from the estate’s northern boundary.

Note: All original Hassler photos will be uploaded to the Photographs of New York City and Beyond section of New York Heritage digital collections.

 

 

 

The gallery below features both images of the area in 1914, and what it looks like today:

Intersection of Williamsbridge Road and Pelham Parkway, 1914 PR83 Hassler Collection

Intersection of Williamsbridge Road and Pelham Parkway, 1914
PR83 Hassler Collection

 

Intersection of Williamsbridge Road and Pelham Parkway, 2014

Intersection of Williamsbridge Road and Pelham Parkway, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Intersection of Yates Avenue and Pelham Parkway, 1914 PR83 Hassler Collection

Intersection of Yates Avenue and Pelham Parkway, 1914
PR83 Hassler Collection

 

Intersection of Yates Avenue and Pelham Parkway, 2014

Intersection of Yates Avenue and Pelham Parkway, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Panoramic view of Narragansett and Lydig Avenues, 1914 PR83 Hassler Collection

Panoramic view of Narragansett and Lydig Avenues, 1914
PR83 Hassler Collection

Intersection of Narragansett and Lydig Avenues, 2014

Intersection of Narragansett and Lydig Avenues, 2014

 

 

 

Artist as soldier: David Cronin’s sketches from the field of war

This post was written by Deborah Tint, cataloging assistant.

Nameplate of Harper’s Weekly, July 27, 1861. {E171 .H29 Oversize}

Nameplate of Harper’s Weekly, July 27, 1861. (E171 .H29 Oversize)

Article published in Harper’s Weekly each week from July 6, 1861 to August 3, 1861. (E171.H29 Oversize)

Article published in Harper’s Weekly each week from July 6, 1861 to August 3, 1861. (E171.H29 Oversize)

 

At the start of the Civil War Harper’s Weekly, then known as a journal of news, culture and serial fiction, sprang into action to provide striking images of the conflict to those at home and at the front. Articles appeared to inform readers that a corps of “Regular Artist-Correspondents” would supply sketches from the field, and to solicit freelance submissions from “volunteer correspondents.” Free copies of the paper were offered to any regiment or ship of war.

 

Pen and ink self-portrait based on an 1881 photograph, published in The work of David E. Cronin. John Thomas Washbourn. {NC Box 1}

Cronin’s self-portrait in The work of David E. Cronin by John Thomas Washbourn in the New-York Historical Society Quarterly Bulletin, January, 1941. (NC Box 1)

 

 

One of those artist-correspondents was David Cronin, working for Harper’s under the pseudonym Seth Eyland. The majority of the David Edward Cronin Papers, a remarkable collection of artwork and correspondence from the Civil War and beyond, came to the New-York Historical Society from his postwar patron, Daniel Parish, Jr.

Cronin was born in Greenwich, N.Y., studied art in New York City, and then in Europe from 1857 to 1860. Only a short time after his return to the U.S., he was moved by the Confederate attack on Fort Sumter to enlist in the Union army on April 19, 1861. He joined the 12th New York Militia, and soon after received an assignment as an artist for Harper’s Weekly. Later Cronin served with the 1st New York Mounted Rifles. Although his field sketches inevitably show some harrowing events, they more often convey a feeling of wry playfulness or melancholy. His numerous portraits of soldiers and commanders stress empathetic likeness over drama and heroism. It is clear from not only the volume of his wartime output but also his careful presentation of his memoirs after the war that preserving the historical record was vitally important to Cronin. On the occasion of the Society’s first comprehensive exhibit of Cronin’s work in 1941, an article in the New-York Historical Society Quarterly Bulletin recounted,

“Years later while looking through the files of Harper’s Weekly, Cronin was amazed to note how little they contained of value to the future historian. In a letter to Daniel Parish, Jr., he wrote: ‘The drawings are often of the most inferior grade—slight and inaccurate— the latter defect due no doubt to liberties taken by the office draughtsman who transcribed the drawing on wood.’ “

Encampment of the First Connecticut Volunteers at Roach’s Springs, Virginia. Harper’s Weekly, July 6, 1861. {E171.H29 oversize}

Encampment of the First Connecticut Volunteers at Roach’s Springs, Virginia. Harper’s Weekly, July 6, 1861. (E171.H29 oversize)

These frequent adjustments from field sketch to newspaper engraving are neatly illustrated by Cronin’s sketch of Roach’s Mills, Va. As reproduced in Harper’s, one of the main figures is shown leaning on a piece of heavy artillery, indicated by two large wheels. A watercolor in the Cronin collection shows the same scene with a notable difference. Here the figure leans instead on a modest box of provisions. This is most likely a copy of the sketch Cronin sent to Harper’s. The sketch caption reads, “Harper’s took many liberties with my drawing, even introducing cannon.” Elsewhere Cronin notes that there were no cannon with the advance in May of 1861.

Cronin’s watercolor. Camp of the 12th N.Y.S.M. at Roach’s Mills, Va. June 1861. Papers of David E. Cronin, Series I, v.2. (MS670.9)

Cronin’s watercolor. Camp of the 12th N.Y.S.M. at Roach’s Mills, Va. June 1861. Papers of David E. Cronin, Series I, v.2. (MS670.9)

The process of turning these field sketches into printable wood engravings was complex. Once submitted, the original sketch was redrawn in reverse on a number of woodblocks by a draughtsman. These blocks, small because they were cut across the grain of the wood, allowed finer carving and did not warp. In the interests of time the blocks were distributed among a number of wood engravers who carved the center but left the edges of each block clear. Finally the blocks were clamped together and the edges completed by a finisher to create a consistent image that was ready to print.

In the case of Cronin’s camp picture of Roach’s Mills, which covered a half page, six blocks were used, but the joins are too expertly handled to be visible. A different example can serve to illustrate this point. In a double-page spread it was much more difficult to create a seamless whole because of the number of blocks involved. Lines between blocks are visible to various degrees throughout the picture.

The United States fleet off Fort Pickens, Florida, by an uncredited artist, Harper’s Weekly, April 20, 1861. (E171 .H29 Oversize) Detail.

It is impossible to know how many of Cronin’s sketches made their way into the pages of Harper’s. Although some of Harper’s artists are credited by name, among them Winslow Homer and Thomas Nast, Cronin’s work, along with a large number of his colleagues went uncredited and was simply captioned, “from a Sketch by our Special Artist.” Luckily for us, Cronin’s energetic documentation of his experiences, and Daniel Parish’s prescient collecting of the artist’s work has preserved for us this invaluable window into a soldier’s life during the Civil War.

Doris Ulmann’s Portraits: “The Marks of Living Intensely”

Doris Ulmann Collection, PR 72.

Doris Ulmann Collection, PR 72.

In honor of the death of Pete Seeger last week, this week’s blog will highlight the work of another champion of American folk music and crafts: the photographer Doris Ulmann (1882-1934).

Like Seeger, Ulmann was born in Manhattan, and seemed an unlikely candidate to work in the rural South. The eldest daughter of a prosperous German-Jewish father and American mother, Ullman was trained as a teacher at the Ethical Culture School, graduating in 1903.  She later married a doctor, Charles H. Jaeger, and began to study psychology at Columbia University.  While there, she also took a photography course with Clarence H. White, and became one of his most devoted students. Ulmann’s husband, Dr. Jaeger, was also an amateur photographer and protoge of Clarence White, and both Ulmann and Jaeger were members of the Pictorial Photographers of America, which White helped to found. By 1918, Ulmann had adopted photography as her profession.

Doris Ulmann Collection, PR 72.

Doris Ulmann Collection, PR 72.

Ulmann began her career as a studio portraitist, photographing and publishing pictures of notable doctors, lawyers, scientists,  and writers — the fitting offshoot of her life as the wife of a a leading orthopedic surgeon and fellow photographer. But in the mid-1920′s, Ulmann and Jaeger divorced, and Ulmann began to pursue a new direction in her photography.  She set off on a series of extensive, annual car excursions south to the Appalachian mountain states and further into Louisiana and South Carolina.  John Jacob Niles, composer and collector of American folk ballads, accompanied her to help with the heavy equipment, and conducted his own research on Appalachian musicians and ballad singers.

Together, Ulmann and Niles began to document the culture of the Southern Highlands. While Ulmann captured the “vanishing types” of mountain craftsmen and other rural residents in photographic portraits, Niles transcribed traditional songs from oral sources.  Ulmann was particularly moved, she said, by “a face that has the marks of living intensely, that expresses some phase of life, some dominant quality or intellectual power.”  Her Appalachian portraits reflect this preference; although Ulmann also photographed children and young adults, the majority of her portraits depict elderly people, reflecting Ulmann’s belief that “the face of an older person, perhaps not beautiful in the strictest sense, is usually more appealing than the face of a younger person who has scarcely been touched by life.”

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Doris Ulmann Collection, PR 72.

Ulmann’s best-known work was produced when she visited the South Carolina plantation of her friend, novelist Julie Peterkin, who employed a large community of Gullah workers to cultivate her fields (the Gullahs were descendents of West African slaves who settled mainly on the Sea Islands of South Carolina and Georgia and developed a distinctive creole language and culture).  The two women collaborated on Roll Jordan Roll, a book that documents, through Peterkin’s words and Ulmann’s images, the vanishing Gullah culture.  Widely regarded as Ulmann’s finest work, the fine art edition of Roll Jordan Roll, issued in 1933, has been described as one of the most beautiful books ever produced.

Doris Ulmann Collection, PR 72.

Doris Ulmann Collection, PR 72.

Like Seeger, however, Ulmann’s  aims were not merely artistic. By documenting what seemed to be a more authentic way of life, Ulmann hoped to promote interest in American regional culture. To this end, she spent the last two years of her life documenting the handicrafts of the Southern Highlands, photographs that were later used to illustrate Allen Eaton’s landmark book Handicrafts of the Southern Highlands. “I am of course glad to have people interested in my pictures as examples of art,” Ulmann told Eaton, “but my great wish is that these human records serve some social purpose.”

Doris Ulmann Collection, PR 72.

Doris Ulmann Collection, PR 72.

Always a sickly and frail person, Ulmann did not live to see the publication of Eaton’s book, which appeared in 1937. She died in 1934 at the age of 52. Eaton later lamented that she “didn’t realize that she had made the most definitive collection of rural characters, certainly in the field of handicrafts, that’s been done any place in the world.”  The New-York Historical Society is fortunate to have, in the Doris Ulmann Photograph Collection, the largest known body of prints made by Ulmann herself.

“An abomination in the eyes of sportsmen”: The early days of professional football

Detail of James F. Maury's entry for April 4, 1865. MS 1800, BV Maury, James F.

Detail of James F. Maury’s entry for April 4, 1865. MS 1800, BV Maury, James F.

On April 4, 1865, New Yorker James F. Maury wrote in his diary “Very fine day. I celebrated the capture of Richmond by breaking my leg while playing football.” Although the injury will not be new to today’s football fan, the game played that day might not have been quite as familiar. In 1865, football as we know it was yet a hybrid of existing sports like rugby and soccer; however, the game would continue to evolve and by the close of the century had become a popular intercollegiate sport.

With Super Bowl LXVIII descending upon New York and New Jersey this week, it seemed appropriate to take a quick look at professional football’s legacy. We found a small selection of photographs of football at the Polo Grounds thought that they might be early images of the Giants. Sadly, despite many hours of searching, we could not identify the team. A small consolation was the discovery that the advertising  matched a 1931 photograph, providing an approximate date range.

Unidentified football games at the Polo Grounds, circa 1931. PR 68, E.B. Child Photograph Collection

Unidentified football game at the Polo Grounds, circa 1931. PR 68, Subject File

Still, the effort served as a reminder of the humble beginnings of professional football. Despite its big money, big city status today, the game lagged behind amateur football for decades. One of many reasons for this is documented in the November 28, 1896  issue of Harper’s Weekly:

As for the individuals who, through hiring out at so much a game, lend themselves to the pollution of amateur sport, I hardly know what to say. In civil life a man who obtains goods under false pretences receives his deserts in court. In amateur sport men violate the same principle and suffer no punishment other than loss of the respect of their friends, which, in my estimation, is the severer sentence. But many of these football professionals who masquerade as amateurs are of too coarse fibre to shrink under the loss of friends’ respect. Perhaps they have never had it; perhaps they have become callous to the shame of it all. At all events, whatever their individual sensations, the influence of their example is demoralizing to the game, and to many young boys who in ethical ignorance glorify some brilliant ground-gainer as a foot-ball hero, and accept whatever he does as the law and gospel of the game.

An illustration of Pudge Heffelfinger, the first professional football player. Harper's Weekly, November 28, 1896

An illustration showing Pudge Heffelfinger of the Allegheny Athletic Association, regarded as the first professional football player. Harper’s Weekly, November 28, 1896

The article itself is a panegyric for the Chicago Athletic Association’s attempts to restore the amateur status of their teams, praising that effort as a “stalwart stand for honest sport.”

Detail showing a billboard for a game between the Orange Athletic Club and Princeton University, 1894. PR 82, Charles Gilbert Hine Photograph Collection

Detail showing a billboard for a game between the Orange Athletic Club and Princeton University, 1894. PR 82, Charles Gilbert Hine Photograph Collection

This he contrasts with the creeping professionalism on display at the Allegheny Athletic Association and Pittsburg Athletic Club. About the latter, the author sneers “Pittsburg’s football teams have always been an abomination in the eyes of sportsmen.” He certainly leaves no doubt as to his derision for professional sport, but he also establishes a precedent for many of the debates about compensating athletes that still rage in collegiate sports today. Less controversially, he demonstrates western Pennsylvania’s role as the cradle of American professional football, which would later spread to Ohio and then across the Midwest.

Even the briefest glance at a list of early professional teams shows that the sport was not confined to bustling Midwestern metropolises. In the 1920s, as the American Professional Football Association became the National Football League, teams hailed from locales such as Muncie, Dayton,  Hammond, Pottsville, Rock Island, Louisville, Canton, Evansville, Duluth, Minneapolis, Oorang, Racine and Akron.  Professional football made its way eastward too, and in addition to New York and Boston, teams sprung up in Providence, Hartford, Brooklyn and yes, Staten Island. In the 1890s, an early semi-professional team emerged from the Orange Athletic Club in Orange, NJ as well. Thirty or so years on, that club would become the Orange (later Newark) Tornadoes, and spend the 1929 and 1930 seasons as a bona fide member of the NFL.

Professional football struggled to gain an advantage over its collegiate counterpart, a reality that saw smaller NFL clubs, unable to sustain themselves financially, fall by the wayside; the survival of the Green Bay Packers is a noteworthy exception.  Ultimately, the arrival of television in the 1950s offered a means of  increasing revenue, paving the way for the NFL’s present stature.

Ticket stub for the New York Yankees game, November 16, 1947. PR 31, Bella C. Landauer Collection of Business and Advertising Ephemera

Ticket stub for the New York Yankees game, November 16, 1947. PR 31, Bella C. Landauer Collection of Business and Advertising Ephemera

One of the minor, but regrettable, aspects of declining smaller market teams was the loss of many unique nicknames. While many catchy ones can still be found in the NFL, in the college ranks and in other sports, many are not. Among these are the Triangles, Pros, Steam Roller, Eskimos, Celts, Red Jackets, Panhandles, Maroons, and Jeffersons.

Yet another curious side story is the intersection of baseball and professional football, particularly in the early decades when many stadiums hosted both sports (e.g., the Polo Grounds, Wrigley Field, Tiger Stadium, Comiskey Park and Yankee Stadium). Yankee Stadium, in fact, played home to the New York Yankees. The football team that is. As incongruous as it sounds, the Yankees existed as an NFL team from 1926-1928 and in a second iteration played from 1946-1949 in the All America Football Conference, a competitor with the NFL.

So, with quite a varied and interesting history, the NFL marches on, and this Sunday thousands of fans will head to MetLife Stadium for the ironic privilege of placing themselves at the mercy of Mother Nature. That fact is perhaps the simplest indication of how far professional football has really come.

The Light at the End of the Hudson Tunnels

This post written by project cataloger Geraldine Granahan.

Plans for Hudson Tunnels, 1902

Detail of Plan for Hudson Tunnel, 1902.

Few commuters probably give much thought to the tunnels under the Hudson River, even as they travel through them every day, but they should.  The history of the tunnels is a fascinating example of early Gilded Age engineering technology, which predates the construction of the New York City subway system by more than 30 years.

Before the construction of the tunnels, it was difficult for commuters from New Jersey to get to Manhattan. Passengers and freight had to cross over the Hudson, leading to many delays on the waterfront, as cargo ships, ferries, and other boats had to compete  for space on the Hudson River docks. In addition, boats were at the mercy of the weather, with ice and fog frequently lengthening the crossing.  Manhattan did have one rail line connected to the mainland, the New York Central Railroad, but because it ran from the Bronx, across the Harlem River, and then down the west side of Manhattan, it did not help New Jersey commuters.

Construction site, New Jersey Side. MS 1611.

Construction site, New Jersey Side, circa 1873 . MS 1611, BV Jackson.

As it was considered too dangerous to build in the deep mud of the Hudson’s riverbed, a bridge would not connect New Jersey and New York until the George Washington Bridge opened in 1931.  Another solution then was needed to alleviate the river’s chaos and congestion; the only logical option was construction of a tunnel.

DeWitt Clinton Haskin, an engineer from upstate New York, was inspired to build a tunnel under the Hudson after he spent a freezing night on a ferry stuck fast to the icy Hudson.  He had become an expert in railroad and tunnel construction during his time with the Union Pacific Railroad out west.  This experience, combined with a prescient understanding of the economic opportunities a tunnel would create, led him to found the Hudson Railroad Company in 1873.

Construction side, New Jersey side, looking towards shaft. MS 1611.

Construction site, New Jersey side, looking towards shaft, circa 1873. MS 1611, BV Jackson.

The tunnel was to connect Jersey City and Greenwich Village, but work had hardly begun when it was stopped in 1874 because of a legal challenge by the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Railroad Co., threatened by the potential competition to its ferries. After five years, construction began again, but progress was slow.  A tunnel of this enormity had never been attempted before, and presented a considerable challenge to the available technology. Haskin had invented a compressed air method for reducing cave-ins, a constant problem. But less than a year into the renewed construction, 20 workers were killed when the compressed air failed to keep the walls  from collapsing  and water from rushing in. They worked on, but another accident occurred in 1881.

In 1882,  the death of Haskin’s main financier halted work again. Haskin continued trying to find financing, but he was unsuccessful and gave up the project in 1887. The New-York Historical Society library has an account of this early attempt written by Oswald Jackson, an engineering student at Columbia University’s School of Mines, which gives an intriguing account of the early technology employed by Haskin and his crew.

Two years after Haskin’s dream died, a completely different British team, using different technology, restarted the construction.  Just 1,600 feet short of completion, they too had to stop construction due to financial difficulties.

After a prolonged gap that lasted past the turn of the century, William G. McAdoo came on the scene. As president of the newly organized New York & New Jersey Railroad, McAdoo–who later became the director of the United States Railroad Administration–oversaw the purchase of the assets, land, and partially-constructed tunnel in 1902.

Excerpt from 1902 report of the New York and New Jersey Railroad Company.

Excerpt from 1902 report of the New York and New Jersey Railroad Company.  HE2791 .N7523 M6 1902.

 

McAdoo hired Charles Jacobs as his chief engineer, who was well known for having built the city’s first tunnel for gas mains under the East River. On March 11th, 1904, construction of the first Hudson River tunnel was finally completed.  McAdoo was the first person to walk from New Jersey to New York through the new tunnel. He later added another tunnel, and the two became known as the “McAdoo Tunnels.”

The tunnels opened to the public on Feb. 25th, 1908—some 35 years after Haskin had first started construction. McAdoo later extended the rail line into upper Manhattan and helped connect the 33rd Street station, later known as Pennsylvania Station, with commercial real-estate development.

He fulfilled a dream that had defeated many before him.  To this day, PATH train commuters have McAdoo, Haskin, and all the many unsung workers to thank for providing quick and easy passage between Jersey City and Manhattan.

Cataloging of the New-York Historical Society Library’s Railroad Collection was part of a grant-funded initiative.

Generations a Slave: Unlawful Bondage and Charles Carroll of Carrollton

This post was written by Julita Braxton, EBSCO Project Cataloger

julitasolomonnorthup

Portrait of Solomon Northup from his memoir, 12 Years a Slave

Challenges to the legality of bondage, shown in acclaimed director Steve McQueen’s film 12 Years a Slave—which won the Best Picture for Drama at the Golden Globes on Sunday night—are not without precedence, as evidenced by a document held in the manuscript collections of the New-York Historical Society: a list of persons to be freed. While the film tells the story of the unlawful enslavement in 1841 of Solomon Northup, a free African American from upstate New York, the N-YHS list is related to an earlier case in Maryland. Northup, played by Chiwetel Ejiofor in the movie, was kidnapped in 1841 on the streets of Washington, D.C., and sold into slavery in Louisiana, where he labored for twelve years on bayou plantations.

Title page of an 1853 printing held in the collections of the New-York Historical Society (E444.N87)

Title page of an 1853 printing (E444.N87)

His 1853 memoir depicts the horrors of American chattel enslavement from the perspective of a freeborn man who had lived that way for decades. His slave narrative went on to contribute to the national dialogue on abolition. Northup was unsuccessful in his pursuit of legal action against his captors, as the laws of the jurisdiction prohibited his testimony against a white man in the nation’s capital, the scene of the crime.

A half century before, in the courts of the neighboring Upper South state of Maryland, Charles Mahoney successfully challenged the legality of his enslavement. Mahoney brought suit in 1791 against Father John Ashton, an influential Catholic Procurator General, Jesuit missionary, head of the White Marsh Mission, and slave owner. Mahoney received a favorable ruling in Maryland’s Court of Appeals in May of 1799. Mahoney’s counsel had successfully argued that he be manumitted on the grounds that he was a descendant of a freewoman, Ann Joice, who had been unlawfully enslaved. (Joice’s descendants had long asserted their freedom, and in 1770 her grandsons, the brothers Jack Wood and Jack Crane, took an axe to the neck to the man who claimed to be their overseer.)

From the collection of Charles Carroll of Carrollton, Manuscript Department, New-York Historical Society

From the collection of Charles Carroll of Carrollton

The 1799 verdict in Mahoney v. Ashton not only freed Charles Mahoney, but also all known descendants of Ann Joice. Her descendants were owned not only by Ashton, but also by several other Maryland planters.

Portrait File, PR 52.

Portrait File, PR 52.

One such person in possession of Mahoney’s relatives was Ashton’s cousin, Charles Carroll of Carollton (1737-1832), a signer of the Declaration of Independence.

In compliance with the court ruling, Carroll accounted for Joice descendants currently held at his estate at Doughoregan, and those formerly owned by him.

 “The above is an exact list of all the negroes that were sold and who obtained their freedom belonging to Charles Carroll of Carrollton, Esq.” “I desire that the commissioners may have the above negroes taken off of my assessment and those who have been sold assessed to the respective purchasers mentioned in the above list which is signed by my clerk on Doughoregan Manor”.

“The above is an exact list of all the negroes that were sold and who obtained their freedom belonging to Charles Carroll of Carrollton, Esq.”

In May of 1799, Carroll took an inventory of Mahoney’s relations, including a list of the names of 23 newly freed persons, and “A list of negroes sold on Doughoregan Manor since December the 2d, 1799 by Mr. Carroll.” In consequence of legal reversals, for a few more years, Mahoney’s family continued to petition the Maryland courts for manumission, with a final favorable ruling being delivered in 1802.

“A list of negroes who obtained their freedom of Charles Carroll of Carrollton, Esq., in May, 1799 – in consequence of the verdict obtained by Charles Mahoney against the Rev. Mr. John Ashton, May Term, 1799”

“A list of negroes who obtained their freedom of Charles Carroll of Carrollton, Esq., in May, 1799 – in consequence of the verdict obtained by Charles Mahoney against the Rev. Mr. John Ashton, May Term, 1799”

Mahoney v. Ashton is an illuminating example of late-eighteenth-century abolitionist movement in the Upper South.

A 19th-Century Fad: The Illustrated Gift Annual

This post was written by Miranda Schwartz, cataloging assistant.

TheToken

Title page from The Token: a Christmas and New Year’s present. Boston: Published by Gray and Bowen, 1828.

The New-York Historical Society’s Patricia D. Klingenstein Library has a rich collection of about 500 English and American gift annuals. What is a gift annual? the modern reader may well ask. It’s an annual compendium of poetry and prose, usually heavily illustrated, gilt-edged, and bound in embossed leather or gold-blocked cloth. These annuals were popular gifts for women and children in the mid-19th century. Where today we might give someone a gift card to a big box store, 19th-century gift givers had the option of giving a gift annual.

The annuals, with their sentimental tales of virtuous maidens, heroic gallants, precocious children, devoted lovers, and their over-romantic engravings of dramatic scenes, are more than the sum of their parts. Dated though they may seem to us, we should not dismiss them out of hand; they have real cultural value. Reading them gives a window into what the early and mid-Victorian world designated as appropriate for women. Women were generally believed to have narrow domestic interests—and the stories in the gift annuals gave them just that. Many of these gift annuals were also given to children: They served as vessels through which to foster shared values and standards. Looking at them this way, we see a rich vein of material for researchers to explore.

The gift annuals (also called gift books or literary annuals) in the N-YHS collection have such delightful titles as: Forget Me Not, Christmas Blossoms and New Year’s Wreath, Keepsake of Friendship, The Poets’ Offering, etc. Though many gift annuals had religious articles in them, some, such as The Rose of Sharon and The Religious Souvenir, contained exclusively religious content.

Title page from The Religious Souvenir, Philadelphia: Published by Key & Biddle, 1834.

Title page from The Religious Souvenir, Philadelphia: Published by Key & Biddle, 1834.

Frederick F. Faxon, whose Literary Annuals and Gift Books: A Bibliography, 1823-1903 was an invaluable resource in the cataloging of N-YHS’s annuals, cites the 1823 publication of The Forget me not as the first British gift literary annual. The annuals quickly caught on and Faxon doesn’t hesitate to call their rapid rise “a fad or craze.” But, he goes on to write, “the decline was as rapid as the rise”: By the late 1850s the gift annual craze had peaked in England.

Early on, intrepid American entrepreneurs saw the lucrative popularity of these English publications and quickly moved to start their own craze. The year 1826 saw the first American gift annual published in Philadelphia: The Atlantic Souvenir. And it was off to the races for these publishers, as they rapidly released scores of their own gift annuals. Though some lasted only a year or two, others carried on for longer than that: The Gift of Friendship (1847-1855); The Token (1828-1842).

As a look at Faxon’s work and at Ralph Thompson’s American Literary Annuals & Gift Books, 1825-1865 shows us, American publishers had no qualms about lifting material, both prose and illustrations, from the gift annuals of other publishers or from their own earlier releases. Copyright was a different matter in those days, and publishers played rather free and easy with their content. That being said, Thompson does note many prominent writers and illustrators who were credited contributors to gift annuals: Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Horace Greeley, Henry Wadsforth Longfellow, Margaret Fuller, and Harriet Beecher Stowe, for example. Well-known engravers such as John B. Neagle, James Smillie, and John Cheney worked from famous paintings by artists like Sir Joshua Reynolds and Sir Edwin Henry Landseer to provide the illustrations.

Sonsof Temperance

Title page from The Sons of Temperance Offering for 1850. New York: Published by Nafis & Cornish, 1849.

In addition to the usual religious annuals, American publishers branched out into covering the anti-slavery movement (The Liberty Bell, Freedom’s Gift), temperance (The Fountain, The Sons of Temperance Offering), and even particular cities (The Amethyst, which had pieces by Baltimore writers). The popularity of American gift annuals declined slightly later than their English counterparts. Thompson’s comprehensive catalog ends in 1865; gift annuals were certainly published past this year but they never regained their earlier popularity.

Cover of The Liberty Bell,  Boston : Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Fair, 1845.

Cover of The Liberty Bell, Boston: Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Fair, 1845.

Both Faxon and Thompson note the ways that gift annuals were treasured in the home. Thompson writes: “For nearly a generation the resplendent gift book was among the most treasured of personal belongings. Unlike other volumes, it was not, once read, forgotten. Thruout [sic] the year it lay upon the parlor table, an ornament awaiting re-examination in an idle hour.” Faxon ends his consideration of the annuals by quoting from the fond reminiscences of a gift annual owner in an 1893 Atlantic Monthly: “They were gifts and often treasured up as the faded rose…because they were haunted with the secret and subtle fragrance of bygone memories.”

The cataloging of the N-YHS library’s collection of gift annuals was part of a grant-funded initiative. 

The X-Rays of Melville E. Stone, Jr.

Portrait of Melville E. Stone, Jr. MS 2954, BV Stone, Melville E.

Portrait of Melville E. Stone, Jr. MS 2954, BV Stone, Melville E.

Scrapbooks are unpredictable. Each page turn may reveal some obscure, interesting piece of ephemera, photograph or letter. But it’s still a bit surprising to unearth x-rays of a man’s head and chest as we found in one of  two enormous scrapbooks of Melville E. Stone Jr.

Born in Chicago in 1874, Stone was an 1897 graduate of Harvard who followed his father, Melville Sr. and brother, Herbert, into the publishing trade. In 1909, he became president of the Metropolitan Magazine Company in what looked to be a major step in a promising career.

Though there is no information accompanying the x-rays, other documents in the scrapbooks and extant biographical details suggest that they are indeed Melville Jr.’s and were made around 1911-1912. Admittedly, since medical x-rays were made rather soon after German physicist William Roentgen’s discoveries in 1895, the x-rays aren’t among the earliest; however, at barely a decade and a half old, it was still a relatively new medical procedure.

X-ray of chest. MS 2954, BV Stone, Melville E. Jr.

X-ray of chest, circa 1911. MS 2954, BV Stone, Melville E. Jr.

X-ray of head, circa 1911. MS 2954, BV Stone, Melville E. Jr.

X-ray of head, circa 1911. MS 2954, BV Stone, Melville E. Jr.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As a modest example, the New-York Historical Society holds a small collection of a New York physician’s papers which helps document these early stages of radiography. According to an obituary, Brooklynite Sinclair Tousey was “one of the first men in America to experiment with X-ray machines and radium.” The collection includes the typescript of an essay that appeared in The American Journal of Physiologic Therapeutics in 1911, titled “Protection of Patient and Operator in Radiography and Radiotherapy.” While in the course of the article Tousey presents important details about how to safely x-ray a patient, between the lines, it also reveals a procedure that remained  to be a little rough around the edges. In fact, there is a certain “do it yourself” air that  might cause a 21st Century patient more than a little apprehension at what is today a drama-free medical procedure:

Cover of Metropolitan Magazine, July 1910. MS 2954, BV Stone, Melville E. Jr.

Cover of Metropolitan Magazine, July 1910. MS 2954, BV Stone, Melville E. Jr.

If you are a beginner, find out from the manufacturer or from some friend who has used the same apparatus what is a perfectly safe exposure and what exposure should produce a good radiograph of the hip joint. But don’t let your initial attempt at radiography be upon your patients or yourself or friends. Experiment upon a sugar-cured ham until you can make an excellent radiograph with an exposure that would be safe for a patient.

Returning to Mr. Stone, according to a later editorial, he made great strides in his first two years at the helm of Metropolitan Magazine, during which he turned into a more respectable publication. But his tenure was to be unfortunately short after illness forced Melville Jr. to leave his post in 1911 for a year of “complete rest.” This date would suggest that the x-rays, which were made roughly around that same year, were a part of the investigation into the cause of his ill-health.

The diagnosis was tuberculosis, and despite his attempts at recuperation, which included a move to California, Stone finally succumbed in January 1918. Sadly it was must have been a loss that only compounded the grief already suffered by his parents and sister after losing his brother Herbert on the Lusitania’s fateful voyage in 1915. Like many documents, these x-rays help tell the very personal story of Stone’s life and illness. But they’re unique in that they do so in such a profoundly literal way.

“A Real Santa:” the portrait photography of Theron W. Kilmer

Long before SantaCon, Theron W. Kilmer found — and photographed — “A Real Santa” in New York City.

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“A Real Santa.” Theron Kilmer Photograph Collection, PR 30.

Although largely forgotten now, in his own time Theron W. Kilmer was aptly described as “an amazing person.”   He was a distinguished physician, an associate professor of pediatrics, a writer, a lecturer, an honorary police chief, a  major in the New York National Guard and, for a time, the fifth ranking rifle marksman in the entire U.S. national guard.  As if that weren’t enough, Kilmer was also a highly accomplished amateur photographer who won international acclaim for his portraits, many of which are held by N-YHS in the Theron Kilmer Photograph Collection.

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“Fireman.” Theron Kilmer Photograph Collection, PR 30.

Born in Chicago in 1872, Kilmer moved with his family to New York when he was 10 years old.  He began his medical practice in 1895, after graduating from Columbia University’s College of Physicians and Surgeons.  In addition to treating patients (he specialized in children’s diseases), Kilmer taught first aid to the New York police and fire departments, devised the “Kilmer test” (an early method of determining whether a driver was intoxicated) and a test for color blindness, wrote three medical books (between 1903 and 1906), and was active in the Society of U.S. Military Surgeons and the American Medical Association.

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“Negro with Pipe.” Theron Kilmer Photograph Collection, PR 30.

Despite his demanding professional schedule, Kilmer also made a “hobby” of photography, “carrying his work in this field to the point where its quality was professional” (National Cyclopaedia of American Biography).  Indeed, Kilmer’s portraits were so highly regarded that his work was frequently compared to that of Pirie MacDonald, a renowned professional portrait photographer whose work is also held by N-YHS.  Like MacDonald, Kilmer was especially known as a photographer of men, using soft-focus head-and-shoulder shots to reveal the essential character of his sitters. Although most of Kilmer’s sitters were fellow doctors, he also made studies of certain “types,” including men with beards, African-American men, and such ethnic character types as “The Sheik” and “The Hindu.”

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“Rev. Donald Miller.” Theron Kilmer Photograph Collection, PR 30.

 

According to photographic historian Peter Christiansen, “Kilmer considered the German painter Hans Holbein his greatest inspiration and suggested that photographers would learn more by going to art museums than from reading photographic literature.”  Notwithstanding this advice, Kilmer himself wrote a number of articles for photographic magazines, covering such topics as gum prints and paper negatives.  These writings provide a window into Kilmer’s techniques, as well as his personal aesthetic — including his preference for male subjects. “While a woman’s face is charming and sweet to look upon,” Kilmer wrote, “nothing to me is comparable to the rugged face of a man.”

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“The Ash Man.” Theron Kilmer Photograph Collection, PR 30.

Kilmer’s work was widely exhibited, including many solo exhibitions, and won numerous national and international prizes. He was a member of the Camera Club of New York, Nassau County (New York) Camera Club, Pictorial Photographers of America, and was designated an associate of the Photographic Society of America (APSA) and a fellow of the Royal Photographic Society (FRPS). Many of the prints held by N-YHS bear stickers from camera club exhibitions throughout the United States.

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Exhibition stickers. Theron Kilmer Photograph Collection, PR 30.

 

Kilmer’s compelling portraits not only reveal the character of the individual sitters, but also provide a fascinating glimpse of cultural attitudes toward ethnic and professional groups in the first half of the 20th century, and deserve to be as widely admired now as they ever were.

The Everywhere Footprints of Captain John Montresor

This post was written by Mariam Touba, Reference Librarian for Printed Collections.

John Montresor, print from a portrait by John Singleton Copley, a family friend, PR 052 Box 94

John Montresor, print from a portrait by John Singleton Copley, a family friend, PR 052 Box 94

Fictional works—movies, most memorably—depict characters like Forrest Gump or Woody Allen’s Zelig who manage to turn up at every major historical event alongside the world’s movers and shakers.  A nominee for such a real-life character in 18th-century America would be John Montresor.

Unlike his fictional counterparts, Montresor was not mentally or emotionally challenged.  As a confident engineer with the British army in America, he was merely doing his job.  He first appears to American history enthusiasts in 1755 when he was wounded at the British disaster known as Braddock’s Defeat, the engagement at modern-day Pittsburgh that also featured the young George Washington.  John Montresor would continue to be seemingly everywhere during the French and Indian Wars:  serving under Jeffrey Amherst at the capture of Louisbourg on Cape Breton Island and later through the besieging of Detroit during Pontiac’s Rebellion.  While stationed at Quebec in 1759, Montresor drew a sketch of General James Wolfe, no doubt the last depiction of this officer before he met his hero’s death two weeks later on the plains of Abraham.

The Death of General Wolfe, engraving from the well-known painting by Benjamin West,  PR 052 Box 154

The Death of General Wolfe, engraving from the well-known painting by Benjamin West, PR 052 Box 154

In New York City during the violent opposition to the Stamp Act in 1765, Montresor’s hurried construction of temporary defenses around Fort George at the tip of Manhattan Island saved the hated stamps from destruction by the rioting colonists.  Within this volatile situation, Montresor was assigned to sketch a “Plan of this Place on a large Scale.”  The result was Montresor’s attractive 1766 plan of New York City and environs, produced, he claimed “Sub Rosa as observations might endanger ones house and effects if not ones life.”

A Plan of the City of New-York & its Environs to Greenwich on the North or Hudsons River, engraved by P. Andrews; London:  Mary Ann Rocque, 1767, M33.1.19

A Plan of the City of New-York & its Environs to Greenwich on the North or Hudsons River, engraved by P. Andrews; London: Mary Ann Rocque, 1767, M33.1.19


At the same time, Montresor was appointed barrackmaster for North America, pitting him against the Sons of Liberty in New York,  Boston, and Philadelphia in their years-long campaign against the quartering of British troops in colonial cities.

As barrackmaster, Montresor had to outmaneuver Paul Revere and his counterparts in New York to bring carpenters to Boston, Broadside SY 1774 no. 23

As barrackmaster, Montresor had to outmaneuver Paul Revere and his counterparts in New York to bring carpenters to Boston, Broadside SY 1774 no. 23

On April 19, 1775 Montresor found himself securing the bridge over the Cambridge River for the redcoats as they advanced toward Lexington, Massachusetts; this was followed by action at Bunker Hill.  Evacuating Boston with the British, he hovered around patriot-controlled New York City long enough to make it his business to recover the leaden head of George III:  When the equestrian statue of the reigning monarch was torn down by New Yorkers as news of the Declaration of Independence reached them on July 9, 1776, the statue was famously melted into bullets for the colonists’ cause.  A few pieces survive, the largest among them in the collections of the New-York Historical Society.  George III’s now-disfigured gilded head, however, was stolen at Montresor’s behest from a Yankee tavern in upper Manhattan, hidden, buried, then recovered by him and sent to England “to convince them of the infamous disposition of the ungrateful people of this distressed country.” (it was last seen there in 1777).

Johannes Adam Simon Oertel, "Pulling Down the Statue of King George III, N.Y.C., ca. 1859, 1925.6

Johannes Adam Simon Oertel, “Pulling Down the Statue of King George III, N.Y.C., ca. 1859, 1925.6

Now named Chief Engineer in America, Montresor also served as General William Howe’s aide-de-camp at the Battle of Brooklyn, from where he suggested Kip’s Bay as a beachhead for the successful British landing on Manhattan.  His next task was to bring up artillery to the Battle of Harlem Heights.  With Manhattan thus secured for the British, Montresor was stationed near Howe’s headquarters where he took pity on a young American, captured as a spy and about to be hanged.  The prisoner was denied access to a clergyman or Bible, and Montresor invited him into his tent to spend his final moments, supplying him with pen and paper to write his last letters.  When American officers came on two visits under a formal flag of truce to speak of other matters, Montresor related to them the circumstance of the capture, death and last words of Nathan Hale.  Years later, one of the American officers and a friend of Hale, William Hull, would cite John Montresor as the witness to Hale’s “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

The following year, Montresor was in Pennsylvania participating in the battles of Brandywine and Germantown.  In occupied Philadelphia he constructed fortifications but also had charge of the fireworks and ballroom decorations for the “Meschianza” (Italian for “medley”), the extravagant farewell fête for his commander William Howe.  His fellow party planner was John André, the urbane British officer whose life would end by noose when captured as an accomplice of Benedict Arnold in 1780.   When the British abandoned Philadelphia in the sweltering June days of 1778, Montresor, bothered by his old wound, chose to travel with the fleet to New York rather than march with the Army, and thus—for once—missed the Battle of Monmouth in central New Jersey.

John Montresor had married a native New Yorker, Frances Tucker, and they and their ten children had country quarters on Montresor’s Island, the East River feature now known as Randall’s Island.  They would return to England in late 1778 where he resigned his commission.  He spent much of his remaining years seeking reimbursement for expenses incurred during  military service that he characterized as “Eighteen actions and Thirty-two voyages.”  He died in 1799, overburdened by debts and unresolved claims, leaving his sons to restore his reputation.

Charlotte:  A Tale of Truth (Philadelphia, 1794), Y 1794 .R

Charlotte: A Tale of Truth (Philadelphia, 1794), Y 1794 .R

Montresor’s many adventures also included the amorous variety; through one of his liaisons he is said to be the father of Ethan Allen’s second wife.  Montresor’s first cousin, Susanna Rowson, earned fame for her wildly popular 1791 novel, Charlotte: A Tale of Truth, that features a “Lieutenant John Montraville” who seduces Charlotte Temple and brings her to New York, only to abandon her, ill and pregnant.   Rowson manages, however, not to make the remorseful officer the villain of the novel.

Given his movements on fields of battle, six loses of luggage, and multiple fires, John Montresor’s papers had a difficult time surviving.  The partial writings that remain were published by the New-York Historical Society in 1882 while the charred papers themselves remain in family hands.  He is still awaiting a full-length biography.

 

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