New-York Historical Society

The cure for nostalgia: nineteenth-century coroner’s reports

Posted on August 22, 2012 by sue 1 Comment

This post was written by N-YHS intern Audrey Belanger

Coroner's Account, 1850. Y-1850, MS OS.

If you, like me, occasionally suffer from bouts of longing for life in the 19th century (Carriages! Balls! Needlepoint!), there is no better cure than perusing 19th century death records in the N-YHS manuscript collection.  Not only were sicknesses such as consumption, dropsy, smallpox, and hives regular menaces, but death lurked in unexpected places as well. According to a City of New York coroner’s bill from 1850, one might suffer a deadly scalding from coffee or the bath. One unfortunate woman died ominously from “a change of life” and numerous people died from falls.

The Weekly Visitor, or, Lady’s Miscellany helpfully published the city clerk’s weekly list of deaths in New York. From these lists I learned that in 1804 New York it was possible to die from “relax,” or even to just be “found,” say, in a cellar or at the 4 mile stone. Perhaps most disturbingly, one person died from drinking cold water. Apparently this was not an unusual cause of death.

On July 28, The Weekly Visitor reported that “several persons have lately died in consequence of drinking too freely of cold water, during the extreme heat of the day.” Since I often battle the extreme heat of New York summers by adding extra ice cubes to my glass of water, I was understandably distressed. Fortunately, both The Weekly Visitor and Blunt’s Stranger’s Guide To The City Of New York (1817) provide helpful tips for avoiding sudden death from drinking cold water (or cold liquors). I’ve summarized these tips below:

Weekly Visitor or Lady's Miscellany, July 28, 1804. PS1 .L26.

  1. Don’t drink cold water when you’re warm.
  2. If you must drink cold water, drink it in small sips and let it warm up in your mouth before swallowing.
  3. Alternatively, you can try warming the container with your hands before drinking
  4. Or you can cool yourself down first by rinsing your mouth and washing your hands and face with cold water before drinking.
  5. If you have foolhardily neglected these precautions, and are suffering ill effects (such as convulsions or cramps), try dosing yourself with laudanum.
  6. If a hot bath is immediately available, hop in that. If not, you should cover yourself with a blanket and put fomentations of spirits and water on your feet, stomach, and bowels.
  7. Finally, you should mix a pint of 1 part spirits, 2 parts water and inject this into your bowels.

In 1817, there were apparently physicians appointed by the humane society who specialized in these procedures. Since I have not found a similar list of physicians for today’s New Yorker, you may want to avoid cold water altogether, or at least contact your doctor to make sure (s)he is prepared to inject your bowels with a pint of spirits and water at a moment’s notice!

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Old Ironsides Earns Her Nickname: The USS Constitution versus HMS Guerriere

Posted on August 15, 2012 by sue No Comments

Post written by Mariam Touba, Reference Librarian

The logbook’s entry for the morning, 200 years ago, of August 19, 1812 records hazy weather, temperature 64° in the air and a similar 65° in water. By “3/4 past 11 am” the weather is cloudy with fresh breezes, so the mizzen topsail is set.
And then it ends.

PR 47, Irving S. Olds Collection of Naval Prints.

But for the U.S. frigate Constitution, it is very much a beginning—of an illustrious record in the War of 1812 and a long and beloved identity as “Old Ironsides.” By the afternoon of August 19 about 600 miles east of Boston the US Frigate Constitution sights and engages the HMS Guerrière in its famous sea battle.The New-York Historical Society owns multiple logbooks of the Constitution kept by Captain Isaac Hull during the years of his command beginning in 1809. They come courtesy of the Naval History Society. This particular book was sold at New York by the stationers Prior & Dunning, of 111 Water Street, and begins in August 1811. It only appears to finish on the fateful morning of August 19; on closer examination, one can see that the ending pages, those naturally describing the famed sea battle, are cut out. Looking further, other pages are lacking—those chronicling the days in July when the Constitution is chased by a British squadron off the coast of New Jersey over 57 hours. The frigate’s escape is actually thought to demonstrate the more masterful seamanship, while in the subsequent engagement with the Guerrière, Captain Hull’s tactics were conventional. In fact, some claim that Hull’s report of the August 19 battle was embellished to make it appear swifter and less grueling, and perhaps it was he who used the torn pages to prepare his reports in Boston. Some naval commentators attribute Hull’s success more to luck, a larger crew, and the design and sturdy oak construction of the vessel as it survived collisions. It was here, as the Constitution withstood enemy shot, and the sailors were said to have cheered, “Huzza, Her sides are made of iron!” that “Old Ironsides” acquired her nickname.

Hull, Isaac. Log Book US Frigate Constitution, 1811 August 2-1812 August 19, entry for August 18, 1812. Naval History Society Collection—Hull, vol. 5.

A complete log of the Constitution does exist at the National Archives, but even without the famous battle pages, the New-York Historical Society’s logbook well describes the routine of a man o’ war. The crew frequently beats to quarters in preparation and is constantly vigilant.  On the day prior to the engagement, shown here, they carefully approach what appears to be a vessel “bottom up,” only to discover it is a dead whale. Later that night they make chase of a sail of what turns out to be an American privateer, the Decatur, who has desperately thrown over 12 of her 14 guns only to discover her pursuer was a friendly naval ship. Hull, the Constitution, and his prisoners—the Guerrière was too badly damaged to take as a prize—sailed into Boston ten days later to extraordinary acclaim.

Naval Victory, Obtained by the American Frigate Constitution. (New York, N.Y.: Sold at No. 473 Pearl-Street, 1812?). Broadside. SY 1812-15W no. 52.

Much as the war, declared on June 18, was unpopular in New England, the victory gave credibility to the young United States’ capacity to stand up to the Royal Navy, and took the sting away from the early defeats on land, as—ironically—it was Isaac Hull’s uncle, William Hull, who had surrendered the garrison at Detroit less than two weeks earlier in the most the humiliating episode of the war.

Captain Hull’s pattern would repeat itself, as America’s naval officers were able to defeat the Royal Navy in a number of morale-boosting, single-ship engagements on the high seas. Captains were eager for glory and advancement and would sometimes set out even without orders so as to avoid being stuck in port due to the British blockade. The derring-do of these patriotic officers was celebrated in cities up and down the coast, pictured in artful prints, and sung about in popular ballads. The Historical Society is exceptionally rich in these examples of early American national pride.

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NYC 2012: Imagining the Olympic Games in New York City

Posted on August 8, 2012 by maurita No Comments

 

Olympic bid brochure, 2001. Paul Wiederecht Collection of Sports and Political Ephemera

From 2000-2005, New York planned a bid to host the 2012 Summer Olympic games. It was New York City’s first bid to host an Olympics and was managed by Daniel Doctoroff and his private non-profit organization, NYC2012. New York City was one of five candidates for the games but came in fourth behind London, Paris, and Madrid. Although New York City was a strong candidate, the bid was likely hurt by security concerns after 9/11, potential traffic problems, and the political rejection of the West Side Stadium which was supposed to be the Olympic Stadium.

In 2004, the N-YHS library received a donation of Olympic bid materials from designer Paul Wiederecht. The materials  include detailed maps and proposal descriptions from 1999-2003 and provide a glimpse into what New York might look like if the Olympics were being held here (an idea that was recently spoofed in the New York Times ).

Map of proposed Olympic venues in New York and New Jersey from 2001. Later plans changed the location of some venues. Paul Wiederecht Collection of Sports and Political Ephemera

The promotional materials emphasize that people from almost every country in the world live in New York City, thus making New York “the world’s second home.” The plans promised new construction of an Olympic Stadium on the West Side of Manhattan, an Olympic Village in Queens, an expansion of the Jacob Javits center, and new or updated venues in every borough as well as New Jersey. They assure swift transportation and state that no event would take place more than 35 minutes away from the Olympic Village.   Some of the materials were created before the September 11th terrorist attacks– including a photograph of a swimmer with the World Trade Center in the background.  Some early proposals continued to use this image but superimposed a memorial ribbon around the twin towers (see above brochure).

One brochure from 2001 describes the plan for the opening ceremony as a magical procession from the Olympic Village in Queens down the East River and around up the Hudson to the West Side Stadium.  There the Olympic torch was to be lit along with a laser of the Olympic rings sent into the sky.  This would cause another light beam to light up the top of the Empire State Building, then the September 11th Memorial and finally lighting the torch of the Statue of Liberty along with fireworks.

Although the specific plans outlined in the bid never happened, development plans for the Olympics did shape the way the city has changed in the last several years.  Rezoning for Olympic venues allowed for business and residential development of areas such as Manhattan’s Hudson Yards and the waterfronts in Queens and Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  Perhaps this redevelopment is the most lasting legacy of the unrealized proposal.

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Croquet, an Olympic Sport?

Posted on August 1, 2012 by sue No Comments

It was in 1900, for the first and only time.

An Olympic sport is born. PR68, Subject File.

 

The 1900 Olympics, held in Paris, were also the first which allowed women to compete (an Olympic tradition which has, happily, had a longer track record than croquet).  According to Olympic games historian Bill Mallon, two women competed (with other men) in a croquet match which began on June 28, 1900.   Women also participated in tennis and golf in the 1900 Olympics, but since the croquet match took place first, the women croquet players were the very first female Olympians.

 

Future Olympians in training? PR86, Subject File.

 

Perhaps not coincidentally, the 1900 Olympics are regarded as something of a fiasco.  Held in Paris, the 1900 games were combined with the 5th Universal Exposition that Paris also hosted in 1900.  This apparently created such confusion that even some of the Olympic medalists were not aware until much later that they had actually been competing in the Olympic games!

 

Universal Exposition, Paris. PR20, Geographic File.

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Who really created the Teddy (Roosevelt) Bear?

Posted on July 25, 2012 by sue 1 Comment

Brooklyn is justly known as the borough of churches and the rightful home of the Dodgers — but did it also give birth to the Teddy Bear?

Ideal Novelty & Toy Company catalog, 1950. Landauer GV1219.I44 1950.

Credit for inventing the teddy bear is generally given to Morris Michtom, a Russian immigrant who is said to have opened a candy store at 404 Tompkins Avenue in the Brooklyn neighborhood of Bedford-Stuyvesant.  The name was supposedly based on an incident that occurred when President Theodore (“Teddy”) Roosevelt went hunting in Mississippi in 1902.  According to this oft-repeated story, President Roosevelt’s aides or fellow hunters were concerned at his lack of hunting success, so they cornered a bear for him and tied it to a tree.   Roosevelt refused to shoot the trapped bear, and the incident was satirized in a political cartoon by Clifford K. Berryman which appeared on November 16, 1902 in The Washington Post.

It was this cartoon that allegedly inspired Morris Michtom (or his wife Ruth) to create a stuffed animal toy.  Michtom even wrote to the President, the story goes, to obtain his permission to sell his new toy as “Teddy’s bear.”  In 1952, the Brooklyn Eagle reported that the Michtom family still had Roosevelt’s letter granting Michtom permission to use his name in their possession (according to the article, Roosevelt said “I don’t think my name is likely to be worth much in the bear business, but you’re welcome to use it”).

An alternative version traces the original teddy bear to Margarete Steiff, a German seamstress who was confined to a wheelchair after contracting polio as a child.  An American buyer saw her stuffed bear at the Leipzig Toy Fair in 1903 and imported 3,000 of them, which ignited a nationwide “teddy bear” fad.

The Roosevelt bears: their travels and adventures. YC1906.Eaton

Contemporaneous sources, however, fail to corroborate any of these stories.  While Roosevelt’s failure to bag a bear on his 1902 hunting expedition was reported in the Washington Post and the New York Times, neither of these papers made any mention of a tethered bear that Roosevelt refused to shoot (Roosevelt was instead said to have offered the following explanation for his failure to shoot a bear: “Perhaps they were Democratic bears and took to the woods upon my arrival”).   And when author Kathleen Bart decided to investigate the origins of the Teddy Bear for a planned children’s book, neither the Roosevelt nor Michtom families were able to find the letter purportedly sent by Roosevelt granting Michtom permission to use his name.

The earliest source I could find discussing the origin of the Teddy Bear appeared in 1907 in the American Stationer.  This trade magazine reported that when Roosevelt’s hunting trip was in the news, “a party of New York Society people, desiring to spring something new and unique, said “we will give a bear party.”  They asked a German importer to get them some bears, and he ordered samples but they arrived too late for the party.  The importer threw them aside and his niece later found them and carried it with her to Atlantic City where it attracted much admiration.   Some alert Atlantic City businessmen arranged to have more bears imported and “the bears sold like hotcakes.  Then some clever chap named the animals Teddy Bears and the craze started in earnest.”

The “clever chap” who first came up with the name “Teddy Bear” may have been Seymore Eaton, an author and journalist who wrote a series of childrens’ books (first published serially in 1905 newspapers) on the adventures of The Roosevelt Bears, Teddy-B and Teddy-G.   When Eaton died in 1916, he was, according to his New York Times obituary, “widely known as the creator of the ‘Teddy Bear’ whose adventures were first celebrated in verse in The New York Times.”

Whatever its true origin, by 1906 a “Teddy Bear” craze was sweeping the country, providing a thriving business for both Michtom (who founded the Ideal Toy Company) and Steiff, as well as a host of imitators, for years to come.

 

 

 

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Before Rosa Parks: Taking on New York’s Segregated Street Car Companies

Posted on July 18, 2012 by Edward O'Reilly No Comments

Post written by Eric Robinson 

The corner of Pearl & Chatham St. Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1861.

So much has been written about the struggle against slavery and segregation in the American south that it is easy to forget that race relations in the north have been just as knotty. It is comparatively unknown that nineteenth-century New York City’s public transportation systems were racially segregated: African-Americans were forced to ride on specially designated horse-drawn street cars. Integration came about only slowly. Newspapers carried occasional reports of resistance to the policies by members of the African-American community, but the issue was never given a wider, systematic hearing. Three examples are cited here.

On Sunday, July 16, 1854, Elizabeth Jennings, an African-American teacher and organist on her way to the First Colored American Congregational Church on East Sixth Street, hailed a street car of the Third Avenue Railroad line at the corner of Pearl and Chatham Streets. The car did not carry the requisite sign reading “Colored People Allowed in This Car,” but the driver pulled over to allow Jennings and a companion to board. However the conductor, who was responsible for collecting fares, physically blocked Jennings from entering the car once she stepped on the platform, and an altercation ensued.

The conflicting signals given by the driver, who pulled over to let Jennings on, and the conductor, who stopped her from boarding, show just how arbitrarily segregation was enforced at the time. By her own account published in the New York Tribune a few days later, Jennings stated that the police officer called to the scene sided with the conductor, even though she was one that had been assaulted.

Jennings’s father, a prominent business man, and other African-American community leaders formed a Legal Rights Association and sued the Third Avenue Railroad. Under the legal guidance of future U.S. president Chester Arthur, Jennings won damages and the line was ordered desegregated.

New York Daily Times, October 4, 1854.

However, the decision did not apply to all of the city’s street car lines, which were individually owned and operated (this was long before the unified Metropolitan Transportation Authority came into existence). Each line had to be challenged separately.

In an effort to avoid confrontations like the one between Elizabeth Jennings and the Third Avenue Line’s conductor, the Sixth Avenue Railroad increased the number of its cars available to African-Americans beginning in October 1854.

However, in 1855, Thomas Downing, a well-known African-American caterer, made a mockery of the Sixth Avenue Line’s segregated system by daring anyone to stop him (he was 64) from riding uptown. He was followed by a band of determined supporters who pushed the car forward when the driver refused to go.

In June, 1864 a Civil War widow named Ellen Anderson won another important case, this time against the Eighth Avenue Railroad. She had been evicted from a segregated car while wearing mourning clothes for her husband, a sergeant in the 26th Colored Regiment who had died in South Carolina, perhaps garnering a degree of public sympathy. In her case Police Commissioner Thomas Acton offered stirring testimony concerning a police officer who aided a conductor in removing Anderson from the street car:

It was his duty to preserve the peace, and there was no breach of the peace until he broke it. It was rather his duty to have arrested the conductor than the woman, if he was breaking the peace. He didn’t care what he supposed; he ought to exhibit some common sense in these matters. There was no law against these people riding the cars, and they had no right to make such a law; nor was there any order requiring policemen to do the work of the conductors.

A line of street cars on Broadway between Prince and Houston. PR 65 Stereograph File

The company’s director also criticized the conductor from the witness stand, and the Eighth Avenue Railroad desegregated all of its cars, but segregation in New York’s street cars wouldn’t be comprehensively prohibited by the state legislature until 1873.

The story of New York City’s 19th century African-American civil rights activists has largely been forgotten, but several historians are shedding new light on the daunting and courageous struggles of Ellen Anderson, Thomas Downing, and Thomas and Elizabeth Jennings and their community. Root and Branch by Graham Hodges, In the Shadow of Slavery by Leslie Harris, African or American? by Leslie Alexander, Black Gotham by Carla Peterson, and contributors to the Historical Society’s Slavery in New York catalog, including Shane White and Craig Wilder, begin to tell the story and help us find lessons for our 21st century world.

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“Undesirable edifices generally”: The 1916 Zoning Resolution

Posted on July 11, 2012 by Edward O'Reilly No Comments

"The Equitable Bldg.", completed in 1915. PR 54, Postcard File

The built environment, especially in so eclectic a place as New York City, has a way of hiding history in plain sight. With that in mind, if you have never noticed how many of the profiles of early 20th century buildings in New York retreat incrementally from the sidewalk as the building grows taller, then you may be surprised the next time you step outside.

Although there is an inherent aesthetic to this design, it is also an outgrowth of a more practical effort at preventing the streets of New York from devolving into gloomy, darkened canyons in the early days of skyscrapers. In 1915, the 40-story Equitable Building (120 Broadway) was completed. Boasting a whopping floor area of 1.2 million square feet on a single acre, the monstrosity threw a permanent, 7-acre shadow on the street below. It was both a testament to the technological advances making the skyscraper possible and a glaring signal of the harm that unregulated building could inflict on the city. Not surprisingly, people began to take notice and outcry grew steadily. In August 1915, the New York Times summarized a speech of George B. Ford of the New York Committee on City Plan to students of the American City Bureau Summer School by portraying skyscrapers as “poor business propositions, destructive of adjacent land values, unwholesome obstructions to light and ventilation, and undesirable edifices generally.”

The Singer Tower by Ernest Flagg, 1908. PR 24, George P. Hall & Son Photograph Collection

An organization active in the fight to preserve the character and quality of life in the city as well as an integral factor in the push for zoning legislation was the Fifth Avenue Association. As its name reflects it focused its efforts on the environs of Fifth Avenue. The Times covered a May 1916 luncheon of the FAA at which the “Save New York” movement, aimed at stopping undesirable development, was the topic of the address. What’s perhaps most interesting about the luncheon, however, is who presided over the function. This honor was enjoyed by George T. Mortimer, the President of the Equitable Office Building Corporation, the very building that, to many, manifested the very worst elements of such development.

Building Zone Plan: Map Designations and Map Designation Rules, 1916.

Mortimer’s role is a curious one. Having been the vice president of a company that owned buildings neighboring the Equitable Life Assurance Society of the United State’s lot, he foresaw the effect such a enormous structure would have on the value of those buildings and attempted to prevent the building’s construction. Yet in a classic “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” move, he took over the management of that very building after construction finished. In a complete mind-bender, despite managing the antithesis to the ideals of the movement, he still advocated discerning legislation, which explains his role at the FAA luncheon. But his motivations were clear. Not only was he aware of the negative effects these buildings would have on the city, but like many of his counterparts, he also recognized ways regulation could actually enhance the real estate business.

Anyway, the tangible result of all this concern was the Zoning Resolution of 1916. The law made no limitations on the height of skyscrapers provided they did not occupy more than 25 percent of the total area of the lot. A model for this was Ernest Flagg’s Singer Tower, completed in 1908, in which Flagg demonstrated the practicality of the 25 percent approach for skyscrapers. Architecturally, an efficient, visually amenable way to adhere to the new resolution was through the setback which gives a step-like character to the external profile of the building. It is also sometimes colloquially referred to as the “wedding cake” style. An early example can be found in the Shelton Hotel built in 1924 (now the New York Marriott East Side).

At the time the resolution was described as “one of the most complete and comprehensive plans for the control of city building ever adopted by any American city.” Although zoning regulations have since changed, a stroll around New York City streets is all it takes to see how profound an effect this legislation had on the visual character of New York, even after close to one hundred years. Of course, it had an international impact as well, but seeing that might be slightly less convenient!

The Shelton Hotel, 1924. PR 9, Browning Photograph Collection

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Who wrote the Declaration of Independence?

Posted on July 3, 2012 by Edward O'Reilly No Comments

Selection of Timothy Matlack's handwriting, from a 1761 letter to Haydock Bowne. AHMC - Matlack, Timothy

It sounds like an easy question, right? Well, Thomas Jefferson certainly wrote it — in terms of authorship. But do you know whose hand it was that literally produced the famous handwritten copy? If you’re not sure, don’t worry, historians aren’t completely certain either. That said, there is consensus that it was “probably” Timothy Matlack, of Pennsylvania. Matlack had been appointed clerk to the secretary of the Second Continental Congress, Charles Thomson, a little over a year before the Declaration. Incidentally, he also wrote George Washington’s 1775 commission.

Engraving of Timothy Matlack by Samuel Sartain, after Charles W. Peale. PR 52, Portrait File

Anyway, Matlack’s document is usually referred to as the “engrossed” copy. If you’ve never heard the term, it is commonly used to describe official, often legal, documents such as deeds and commissions. More specifically, it denotes a document written in a clear, formal hand, meant to be the authoritative copy. And authoritative the engrossed Declaration is. But it’s a minor detail, often overlooked, that the iconic, physical artifact itself was not itself produced on July 4, 1776.

If your history is a little rusty, the New York delegation, it so happens, abstained from the voting while awaiting their instructions. So technically, from July 4th only 12 of the 13 colonies had actually voted for the Declaration until July 9th when New York officially approved it. Only on the 19th did Congress ultimately order the engrossed copy, and nearly two weeks passed before Congress actually signed Matlack’s copy on August 2nd.

If you’re interested in the history of this fundamental American document, come by the N-YHS to check out the temporary exhibition of the rare 1823 Stone engraving of the Declaration of Independence.

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Golf and the Gilded Age at Newport Golf Club

Posted on June 27, 2012 by Edward O'Reilly No Comments

"'Ochre Court,' Residence of Mrs. Ogden Goelet". Newport: Our Social Capital, 1905.

It’s probably no consolation for last week’s heat wave but if you were a well-heeled New Yorker living in the late nineteenth century, you would probably be spending the sultry days of summer living it up in Newport, RI. Not surprisingly, the story of Newport and New York’s richest dwellers is well documented at the N-YHS. An interesting source is the register of the Newport Golf Club (1893-1898). It records visitors, their address, the length of time they plan to use the course, the fees paid, and the name of the member who referred them. Even if you’re not a particular fan of golf, like their cottages, the register is a reflection of the larger story of the Gilded Age as told through Newport.

"Staircase, 'The Breakers,' Residence of Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt." Newport: Our Social Capital, 1905.

Interestingly, wealthy southerners first popularized the city as a summer getaway, that is until the Civil War facilitated a geographic shift. Consequently, New Yorkers became fixtures in Newport’s summer social season by the time the Gilded Age was in full swing.

If you’re at all familiar  with the area, you’ll certainly know that period was heavily characterized by overt displays of wealth, specifically in the form of  voluptuous summer houses or “cottages” that have become a main attraction of modern Newport. Although architectural marvels in terms of design and style, these massive structures invariably served as nouveau riche statements of respectability as well. In a sense, they sought to create a de facto American aristocracy with Europe as its model. This translated into facades and interiors heavily influenced by existing Old  World buildings and motifs, designed by the foremost American architects, which were at times beautiful and at others garish — and sometimes both.

The Newport Golf Club itself was founded in 1893. Although it is certainly not the first golf club in the United States, it is among the earlier incorporated clubs, and played an active role in the development of the American game. In fact, it was involved in the founding of the United States Golf Association while hosting both the first U.S. Amateur and U.S. Open championships.

Advertisement for the Bridgeport Gun Implement Co., one of the earliest American golf club manufacturers (1896-1904). PR 31, Bella C. Landauer Collection of Business and Advertising Ephemera

Since golf had existed in one form or another for quite a long time before this, it may seem strange to be talking about its American “birth” so far down the road. However, save a few scattered references, golf’s foothold in North America had remained negligible until the very late nineteenth century. While it is likely only a small part of the explanation, it is telling that the well-to-do, especially the newly minted, took up the game in droves during the Gilded Age. After all, this was the “Royal and Ancient”, European game and a connection can be made to the houses of Newport and how dearly these interlopers wanted to replicate the style of their European counterparts. So it seems that in golf the wealthy may have found an activity that served a similar function as material culture. It also didn’t hurt that the expense essentially required one to be wealthy in the first place. As the New York Herald suggested in 1894, “this alone would serve to make it the game par excellence of our social elite.”

Getting back to the register, the names in the volume are a mixture of lesser known, but still financially successful, and the celebrity rich. Among the former is Edward Neufville Tailer, a dry goods merchant from New York whose name shows up on more than one occasion. And, it so happens that his diary at the N-YHS documents the first trip.

Page from the Newport GC visitor's register from Augut, 1894, showing August Belmont. MS 2079, BV Newport

Names from the latter group include Cornelius Vanderbilt, Anthony J. Drexel, Stuyvesant Fish, August Belmont, Teddy Wharton (Edith’s husband), Ward McAllister and yes, even Ulysses Grant. Among the visitors were even the literal architects of Newport’s society, with Ogden Codman, Stanford White and Charles Follen McKim all appearing. But it’s names like Count Louis Szechenyi, Prince Xavier Drucki Lubecki, Count Kessler, Baron Seilliere, Count J. Sierstorpff, Lord Westmeath, Grand Duke Alexander of Russia, and the Marquis and Comte de Chasseloup-Leubat that bring us full circle. Here, in the pages of the club’s register, are representatives of the very establishment that the summer inhabitants of Newport were actually emulating.

If you’re a fan of the Gilded Age, you may be interested in the current exhibition at the N-YHS, Beauties of the Gilded Age: Peter Marié’s Miniatures of Society Women, open until September 9, 2012.

 

 

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Davy Crockett Almanacs

Posted on June 19, 2012 by sue 7 Comments

This post was written by cataloger Catherine Falzone.

Davy Crockett's Almanack, 1837. Tenn. 1837 .D38 N3.

As my colleagues and I work to catalog the thousands of almanacs held by N-YHS, thanks to a Hidden Collections Program grant from the Council on Library and Information Resources (CLIR), we have come across some unusual items that bear a closer look. Some of my favorite discoveries so far are the Davy Crockett almanacs. These items helped to spread the myth of Davy Crockett and serve as fine examples of early American humor. Today, more people know about Davy Crockett, the larger-than-life “king of the wild frontier” in the coonskin cap, than they do about the real David Crockett (1786-1836), a Tennessee militia colonel in the Creek War of 1813-1814 and member of the U.S. House of Representatives. His folksy charm brought him national fame, but he was an ineffectual legislator. After losing the 1835 election, Crockett headed for Texas–then part of Mexico– to get a fresh start in a new land. He ended up fighting in the Texas Revolution against the Mexican army and died on March 6, 1836 during the Battle of the Alamo.

Fall of the Alamo -- Death of Crockett. Davy Crockett's Almanack, 1837. Tenn. 1837 .D38 N3.

The real David Crockett struggled with debt, the dissolution of his marriage to his second wife Elizabeth, and a desire for political power that he never fully attained, but the mythologizing of his character and exploits began during his lifetime and was perpetuated by numerous Davy Crockett almanacs, books (including Crockett’s own autobiography) plays, songs, newspaper articles, and word-of-mouth.

While Crockett was not above using his outsize image to further his own career, he probably did not have anything to do with the popular almanacs. In fact, no one knows who wrote them. The so-called “Nashville imprints” were published from 1835 to 1841, with the first four probably printed either in Nashville or elsewhere in South or West, and the 1839-1841 editions probably printed in Boston despite the Nashville imprint, which was probably kept in order to give them an aura of authenticity. From 1835- to1856 about 55 varieties were published in cities all over the country. N-YHS has Davy Crockett almanacs for 1836 through 1839.

The Crockett Almanac, 1839. Tenn. 1839 .C76 N3.

The almanacs use a pastiche of Crockett’s voice to tell amusing tall tales of life in the backwoods and feature dynamic and unmistakably American woodcuts of the bawdy adventures of Crockett and his neighbors. In addition to a straightforward yearly almanac each issue features stories and illustrations in which Crockett handily wins fights against panthers, bears, and snakes in the woods of Tennessee while keeping his characteristic good humor.

I heard a loud howl behind me, that so started me that I jumped right out of water like a sturgeon. I knew it was a bear, and on turning to see how near he was, I saw a wolf but a short distance making towards me…I div down in a slantindicular direction so as to come up beyond them. When underwater an amphibious river calf saw me, and chased me to the surface. Upon breaking water they all began to chase me…upon the wolf’s coming within reach, with a good blow over the nose he went off howling. The bear came on, in the most rageiferous manner…but I gave him some startling raps…And I stunned the River Calf with a blow of my club, so that he was taken. I was invited on board [a steam boat], but as there was ladies on board I did not like to appear in a state of nature, so I dove under the boat and swam ashore. Bears and wolves swim across the Mississippi very often. (Davy Crockett’s almanack, of wild sports in the West, life in the backwoods, & sketches of Texas. 1837, p. 20)

A Tongariferous Fight with an Alligator. Davy Crockett's Almanack, 1837. Tenn. 1837 .D38 N3.

Another theme running through these almanacs is that women can be just as fierce and heroic as men. The next passage shows Crockett’s wife and daughters more than holding their own against an alligator.
The women then slacked the rope a little and made it fast round a hickory stump, when my oldest darter took the tongs and jumped on [the alligator’s] back, when she beat up the “devil’s tattoo” on it, and gave his hide a real “rub a dub.”…My wife threw a bucket of scalding suds down his throat, which made him thrash round as though he was sent for. She then cut his throat with a big butcher knife. He measured thirty seven feet in length. (Davy Crockett’s almanack, of wild sports in the West, life in the backwoods, & sketches of Texas. 1837, p. 10).

Davy Crockett's Almanack, 1836. Tenn. 1836 .D38 N3.

The new ideal American, exemplified by Davy Crockett’s image in his almanacs, was self-sufficient and forward-looking: “The Backwoodsman is a singular being, always moving westward like a buffalo before the tide of civilization. He does not want a neighbor nearer than ten miles; and when he cannot cut down a tree that will fall within ten rods of his log house, he thinks it time to sell out his betterment and be off” (Davy Crockett’s almanack, of wild sports in the West, life in the backwoods, sketches of Texas, and rows on the Mississippi. 1838., p. 44).

David Crockett. PR52, Portrait File.

After his death at the Alamo, the real Crockett (who opposed Andrew Jackson’s Indian Removal Act) receded and Davy the folk hero emerged as a popular symbol for land-hungry, ambitious Americans who would fight Mexicans, Native Americans, and nature for the Western lands they saw as their rightful territory. As both David and Davy Crockett were known to say, “Be always sure you’re right–then go ahead!”

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