You’re A Grand Old Flag

Early images of the Stars and Stripes from the Jack and Beverly Wilgus Collection.

By Beverly Wilgus

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The earliest flag image in our collection is this ambrotype of a young Civil War soldier standing before a painted military backdrop of tents and an American flag. By necessity, it dates from the years of the conflict, between 1861 and 1864. He wears an enlisted man’s trousers, a blue-tinted cape coat, and a regulation enlisted man’s dress Hardee hat bearing the insignia “H” and “81” inside a brass infantry bugle. Five states had an 81st Infantry: Indiana, Illinois, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and New York. This fierce and determined Union soldier joined up from one of them. 
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This albumen stereoview card is from the 1871 “Kitty At Play” series by John P. Soule of Boston.
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Two girls stand before a large American Flag with a circular pattern of stars in this 19th Century albumen cabinet card. The girl on the left wears a flag dress and touches another flag held by her companion. There is no photographer’s imprint or location on the card. I speculate, but cannot be certain, that this dates from the Centennial celebration of 1876.
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The negative of this 1880s-era cabinet card by Swords Brothers of York, Pennsylvania, is marked “Baby Sutton.” The adorable little girl wears a dress that appears made from actual American flags. She may be a member of a theatrical family, but I have so far uncovered no performers of that name from this period.
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This tintype may portray an elderly couple and their middle-aged daughter at Baerena Park, which operated on an island in the Hudson River, 12 miles south of Albany. The number of stars suggest the image was made circa 1912. Tintypes were made at public entertainment and tourism venues of this type many decades after being supplanted by other photographic technologies.
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This undated tintype captures a little blond girl and an American flag draped over the back of a bench. It is most likely from an amusement park photo arcade during the 1910s.
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This real photo postcard of E. L. Orr shows the young man in uniform standing in front of a large American Flag. The postcard was mailed in November 1918 after the end of World War I. Orr writes on the reverse that he intends to stay in the army until spring to help in the demobilization.
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Rosemary Yacmett, the daughter of the Ohio photographer Fred Yacmett, is pictured in this real photo postcard in front of a large flag. Public records show that Rosemary was born in 1911, so it seems likely that this image celebrates the end of World War I in 1918.

Sit Down, John: An Adams Image Rediscovered

The historical importance of March 1843 daguerreotype was forgotten until now.

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Newly rediscovered daguerreotype of President John Quincy Adams. Photo courtesy Sotheby’s.

A new image of John Quincy Adams, America’s sixth president, will be presented for sale by the auction house Sotheby’s later this year. The March 1843 daguerreotype, which Quincy Adams gifted to a friend, remained in the recipient’s family through the generations although its historical importance was forgotten. The image was made during a sitting with early photographers Southworth & Hawes that yielded at least two daguerreotypes. A copy of the other now resides in the collection of the New York Metropolitan Museum.

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This daguerreotype copy of a second, cleaner image from the Southworth & Hawes sitting shows the former president as he actually appeared. Daguerreotypes present a mirror image of the subject; daguerreotype copies present the correct frontal view. Although it may appear so, Adams was not photographed in a private home. This set was used in other daguerreotypes taken by Southworth & Hawes. Image courtesy the Metropolitan Museum.

There is a third, badly damaged daguerreotype of Quincy Adams held by the Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery. Adams disliked it, noting in his diary that he thought it “hideous” because it was “too close to the original.” More than a hundred years later, in 1970, the daguerreotype was bought for 50 cents in an antique shop. After identification, it was eventually donated it to the nation.

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John Quincy Adams. Courtesy National Portrait Gallery.

Quincy Adams, born 11 July, 1767, was the son of the second U.S. president, John Adams (30 Oct., 1735-4 July, 1826)—a patriot renown as an American Founding Father. His mother, Abigail Smith (22 Nov., 1744–28 Oct., 1818), called her infant after her dying grandfather, Colonel John Quincy (21 July 21, 1689–13 July, 1767), for whom Quincy, Massachusetts, was named. Quincy Adams spent his formative years with his father on diplomatic missions to France and The Netherlands, studying for some time at the University of Leiden. He would travel to Russia and Scandinavia before returning to America to attend Harvard.

Quincy Adams served as a U.S. senator; a Harvard professor; a minister to Russia, the Court of St. James’s, Portugal, and Prussia; and secretary of state under James Monroe before narrowly winning a four-candidate presidential election in 1824. On 4 March, 1825, he took the oath of office, served one term, and was defeated by Andrew Jackson in the bitter election of 1828.

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In his prime: John Quincy Adams, aged 29, painted by John Singleton Copley. Courtesy Boston Museum of Fine Art.

Adams married British-born Louisa Catherine Johnson (12 February, 1775–15 May, 1852) in London in 1797. They had three sons and a daughter named after her mother—the latter of whom was born and died in infancy in St. Petersburg, Russia whilst the Adamses were on diplomatic assignment. One son, George Washington Adams (12 April, 1801–30 April, 1829), became a lawyer and politician. He committed suicide by jumping off a steamship in Long Island Sound in April 1829. Another son, John Adams II (4 July, 1803–23 October, 1834), was private secretary to his father during Quincy Adams’ presidency, then went into business.

John Quincy and Louisa’s youngest son, Charles Francis (18 August, 1807–21 November, 1886), led a distinguished political and diplomatic career, then turned to writing history. Charles’s son Henry Adams (16 February, 1838–27 March, 1918) was a noted historian and husband of photographer Marian “Clover” Hooper, who committed suicide by drinking her own darkroom chemical, potassium cyanide. Both Henry and Clover now lay buried in Washington’s Rock Creek Cemetery beneath sculptor Augustus St. Gauden’s masterpiece, “Grief.”

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The gravesite of John Quincy Adam’s grandson Henry and his wife Clover, taken in the 1970s. Courtesy of the National Archives.

Quincy Adams, whose grandson Henry was about five when he sat for the newly found daguerreotype, suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage on the floor of the House of Representatives on 21 February, 1848. He was carried to the Speaker’s room and placed in a bed; he died there two days later with his wife and son beside him. Quincy Adams was buried first in Washington’s Congressional Cemetery, but was later moved to Hancock Cemetery in Quincy, Massachusetts, to rest with his ancestors. Ω

A Soldier’s Comfort?

“Many cultures accept the faulty nature of memory. They know even the photograph only gets it halfway right. They believe there is only one way to bring the dead back to life, story.”― Jon Chopan

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Unidentified subject, sixth-plate ambrotype. Ann Longmore-Etheridge Collection.

This beautiful young woman was photographed somewhere in the antebellum United States in about 1852—a date I assign for two reasons. First, the fashions she wore, which include a distinctive corset type, ribbon choker, and an open-front bodice—all styles that were enormously popular in the late 1840s and early 1850s. Second, ambrotypes, which are produced by a wet-plate collodion process invented in 1851 by Frederick Scott Archer, became commercially available in 1852, so the image cannot date any earlier.

The subject was surely not more than about 18 years old when photographed and she appears to wear a wedding ring, making it possible that this is a bridal image. At some point, a large curl of her thick brown hair, still as glossy as the day it was cut, was tucked behind the ambrotype packet between slips of newspaper. The text of the newsprint is largely advertising for several companies in northern states, but there is also a mention of the Union occupation of Memphis, Tennessee, which began in June 1862. Together, these facts make it likely the young woman belonged to a northern family.

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The ambrotype packet and case contents.

Could this image and lock of hair have been carried by a Civil War soldier during his military tenure? Might he have opened the case often to recall his wife as she had been decade earlier in the first heat of their attraction? This is a romantic flight of fancy, but not without tiny wings: Soldiers on both sides of the divide carried photographic images of loved ones and these pictures were frequently found with, on, or near their battlefield corpses.

In 2012, the Associated Press (AP) reported on several such images held in the collection the Museum of the Confederacy in Richmond, Virginia. At the time, the museum released the photo below on the “admittedly remote chance someone might recognize a familial resemblance or make a connection to a battlefield where they were found,” the AP noted. The article stated of the cased image, “Private Thomas W. Timberlake of Co. G, 2nd Virginia Infantry found this child’s portrait on the battlefield of Port Republic, Virginia, between the bodies of a Confederate soldier and a Federal soldier.”

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Did this little girl’s father wear blue or grey? Photo by Steve Helber/AP.

Perhaps the most famous of familial photos found amongst the Civil War dead was the “orphans of the battlefield.” After the massive military engagement at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, during the first week of July 1863, a local girl recovered an ambrotype of three children that was purportedly clasped by a dead Union soldier. The Philadelphia Inquirer of 19 October, 1863, both set the scene and described the image in detail: “Wounded, he had laid himself down to die. In his hands…was an ambrotype containing the portraits of three small children…two boys and a girl…nine, seven and five years of age, the boys being respectively the oldest and youngest of the three. The youngest boy is sitting in a high chair, and on each side of him are his brother and sister. The eldest boy’s jacket is made from the same material as his sister’s dress … [It is] desired that all papers in the country will draw attention [so] the family…may come into possession of it.”

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Philinda Humiston

The image was reproduced around the nation and carte de visite copies of the ambrotype were sold en masse to help speed the identification and for the benefit of the dead soldier’s family. It was just a matter of time before a friend showed Philinda Ensworth Humiston of Portville, New York, the October issue of the American Presbyterian. “Philinda, stunned and heartsick, read the description of the picture and realized it matched exactly the features of the ambrotype she had sent to [her husband] Amos,” wrote Mark H. Dunkelman in Gettysburg’s Unknown Soldier: The Life, Death, and Celebrity of Amos Humiston.

On 19 November, the very day President Lincoln gave his renowned address at the consecration of the Soldiers’ National Cemetery in Gettysburg, the Presbyterian announced that the orphans of the battlefield had names: Franklin Goodwin, Alice Eliza, and Fredrick Roy Humiston. The dead soldier was their 33-year-old father, former sailor and harness maker Amos Humiston, a sergeant in the 154th New York Volunteer Infantry. His decomposed body was later located where it was shallowly buried on a local farm. The remains were carefully coffined and transported to the new cemetery where he was laid in Grave 14 of New York’s Section B.

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Carte de visite copies of the ambrotype and a portrait of Amos Humiston.

Dunkelman wrote in his biography of Amos Humiston that 2 January, 1864, the Reverend Isaac G. Ogden of the Portville Presbyterian Church “handed the bloodstained ambrotype to Philinda. Ogden noted, ‘her hands shook like an aspen leaf, but by a strong effort she retained her composure.’” The widow was also given all proceeds from the carte de visite sales. When, in October 1866, the orphans and widows’ National Homestead opened in Gettysburg, Philinda and her children lived there for three years until she married farmer Asa Baines and removed to Shirley, Massachusetts.

During the remainder of the war and in its aftermath, the story of Amos Humiston and the ambrotype he held during his final moments was never forgotten. Songs and poetry were writ, including one poem by a Scotsman of Dumfries, Steve Rady, that includes the lines: “A soldier lies in battle, face buried in the mud, a picture of his children there painted with his blood; Fighting for his freedom, he fought until his death; He kissed his children’s picture as the took his dying breath.” Rady read his poem aloud in Gettysburg on 5 July, 1993, at the unveiling of a monument to Humiston. Ω

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Sheet music for a patriotic lament about the Humiston ambrotype. Courtesy Library of Congress.

This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

“I bought this for 6d. at a Rummage Sale at Ealing Broadway Methodist Church. It was thrown out by Mrs J. W. Allcock.”—Thomas Inwood, 1939

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An English 1/9th-plate daguerreotype of an unidentified teenager, possibly a member of the Allcock family, taken in the mid-1840s. Image courtesy James Morley Collection.

The first photographic image of human being was captured in 1839, when at about 8 a.m. one fine Spring day, photographic pioneer Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre sat up his camera in the window of the Diorama in Boulevard du Temple, Paris, 3rd arrondissement, for an exposure that lasted up to 12 minutes. Although the street was crowded with both persons and horse-drawn traffic, none of them remained still long enough to register save one man on a corner to whom a bootblack attended. We will never know who he was, but this 19th Century Frenchman holds a special place in mankind’s history.

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This is the unmirrored version of the Daguerre’s 1839 daguerreotype, correctly reflecting the photographer’s view of the Boulevarde du Temple. The man having his boots blackened is at lower right. This precious sliver of the past was destroyed during cleaning in 1974.

In the 21st Century, we possess both still and moving images of our family and friends, but in the 1830s faces of loved ones could be preserved only by personal memory, sculpture, portraits, caricatures, or silhouettes. The vast majority of people were born and died leaving no visual legacy. This quote from Henry Fitz, Sr., captures the enthusiasm that resulted from the release of the daguerreotype process by the French government as a gift to the world 19 August, 1839: “Here is a similitude of heavenly origin! Of a wonderful power! A supernatural (so far as man’s agency is concerned,) agent! An effect produced by the light of heaven; absolutely creating man’s perfect image and identity [emphasis mine].” (The Layman’s Legacy, Volume II, 1840.)

Millions of daguerreotypes—the vast majority of them portraits—were created in the the heyday of the art. Of those, it has been estimated that several hundred thousand survive. In A Curious & Ingenious Art: Reflections on Daguerreotypes at Harvard, author Melissa Banta explains, “Like painters of miniature portraits, they adopted the convention of placing a decorative mat and a sheet of glass over the plate. They used thin paper tapes to hold the assemblage together and to protect the image from shifting. Sometimes they enveloped the entire packet in an ornate metal rim, known as a preserver. This tiny composite fit snugly into a velvet- or stain-lined case made of leather, wood, or thermoplastic, or into a frame. Such decorative touches lent the daguerreotype much of its intimacy and charm. Fortuitously, these same elements protected the plate from its worst enemies: abrasion, airborne contaminants, and corrosive substances.”

Despite the care in their making, countless daguerreotypes succumbed to attempts to clean ills that become acute over time, including “surface dust, white or beige mold spiders, silver tarnish, blue or brown spots and areas of scum deposits that were caused when the older glass leached out some of its impurities onto the surface,” notes experienced restorer Casey A. Waters of Fine Daguerreotypes & Photography. “Less common elements are daguerreian measles (tiny black dots sometimes visible through an 8x loup), a white or bluish haze (but not tarnish), residue from wax on the copper side of the plate, and exfoliation of or bubbles in the silver layer.”

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A circa 1850 daguerreotype of sisters in matching dresses that displays wipe marks and a fingerprint from past attempts at cleaning. Ann Longmore-Etheridge Collection.

There is another reason that many of these precious historic relicts are now lost: Their inheritors tipped them in the rubbish bin. We see the same phenomenon today—grandchildren or other distant relatives hurry through possessions after a death, keeping only what appears valuable at that moment. Unidentified images of people who mean nothing to the inheritors are discarded.

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Thomas Inwood’s 1939 note, front.

The daguerreotype at the top of this article was mercifully saved from oblivion and now resides in the James Morley Collection. “I bought this for 6d. at a Rummage Sale at Ealing Broadway Methodist Church. It was thrown out by Mrs J. W. Allcock. 37 Hillcroft Crescent. Ealing W5. Spring 1937,” wrote Thomas Ernest Inwood (b. 1871) on a slip of paper inside the daguerreotype’s case. James Morley ascertained that Inwood lived at 8 North Common Road, Ealing, in 1937, when he spent his 6d. on this portrait of an unknown adolescent, seeing in it what others could not. “This is a Daguerreotype Portrait. About 1845. These photos were taken between 1842-1857. The Chief Librarian at the Victoria & Albert Museum said it was a splendid specimen & well worth retaining. Centenary of Photography 1839-1939. 12 January, 1939.”

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Inwood’s note, reverse.

The Allcock family lived at 37 Hillcroft Crescent, Ealing, in 1937, headed by John William Allcock, and including his wife Mabel, née Hewson, and daughter Ruth. John Allcock was a Wesleyan Methodist Minister, born in Litchurch, Derbyshire, in 1870 to railway messenger William Allcock (1828-1903) and his wife Sarah Naylor Gott (1839-1919). If the daguerreotype’s young subject is an Allcock, he was from William’s generation. Ω

Alice Isn’t Dead: A Cautionary Tale, a Family History

Upon receipt of the carte, I scanned, enlarged, and enhanced the image. Immediately I became aware of motion blur caused by the child’s arms moving during the exposure.

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Mary Jane Stayman Culley holding eight-week-old Alice Maud Culley in August 1879. Albumen carte de visite. Ann Longmore-Etheridge Collection.

Within eBay’s vintage and antique photo subcategory, every slightly odd-looking baby is a dead baby. I confess that when I saw the listing for the carte de visite (CDV) above, I thought this was an infant gone, never to grow up, forever to sleep, dressed in angelic white and buried in a tiny coffin so unfairly made-to-fit, her grave topped by a small stone lamb. This was cruel fate; this was a Victorian postmortem. But those who explore the Victorian propensity to mark gut-wrenching loss via photography should take this story as cautionary tale, not unlike one I featured last November, “To Be, or Not to Be, a Victorian Postmortem.”

The CDV’s backstamp is that of “John Davies, Portrait & Landscape photographer, BelleVue High Street, Weston-super-Mare. Formerly with the late T. R. Williams, London, Photographer to the Queen and Royal Family.” There is also a handwritten inscription: “Alice Maud Culley, 8 weeks old, Aug. 1879.”

Upon receipt of the carte, I scanned, enlarged, and enhanced the image. Immediately, I was aware of motion blur caused by the child’s arms moving during the exposure. Alice Maud Culley wasn’t dead. I could then plow into the public records because of the fortuitous identification upon the reverse.

Alice’s mother, Mary Jane Stayman, was a dressmaker who may have created the ensemble in which she was photographed.

Alice Maud Culley was the daughter of Henry Edward Culley. He was born in 1847 in Cockfield, County Durham, England, a village on the edge of Teesdale. Alice’s mother, the beautiful and elegant woman pictured, was Mary Jane Stayman, a dressmaker who may have created the ensemble in which she was photographed. In 1851, Mary Jane was born in the historic Teesdale market town of Barnard Castle. The town takes its name from the venerable fortification at whose foot it grew, which was erected in the 12th Century by Bernard de Balliol and rebuilt by Richard III.

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A postcard of Barnard Castle taken in about 1910.

Alice’s maternal grandparents were Thomas Stayman (d. 1893) and Elizabeth Stokell, the former of whom was born in 1817 in East Layton Yorkshire; Elizabeth was a native of Winston, Durham, born 1811. They married in early 1839 in Teeside. By 1851, the Staymans lived in Barnard Castle, the census reporting that Thomas worked as an agricultural laborer with his wife and children Ann (b. 1840), Elizabeth (b. 1841), John (b. 1842), Margaret (b. 1846), Thomas (b. 1849), and baby Mary Jane living in the home.

In 1861, the Staymans lived in Galgate Street, Barnard Castle, only a few doors from the Teesdale Union Work House, built in 1838 to hold approximately 140 of the paupers of Union’s 44 parishes. Later, the family lived in Baliol Street.

Alice’s father, Henry Culley, was the son of William Blakey Culley (1817-1893), a flax worker, and Maria Snaith (1817-1880). The family appears on the 1851 Census of Hartwith cum Winsley, Yorkshire—a smattering of houses in the ancient parish of Kirkby Malzeard in the West Riding, now part North Yorkshire. Henry’s eldest sisters Eliza and Jane were, at this date, both “factory girls;” his older brothers William and John were scholars but also factory workers; the youngest children—Margaret, Henry, and Robert were under their mother’s care at home.

By 1861, the Culleys removed to Barnard Castle. William Culley listed his employment as “flax dresser.” Henry was then the eldest child still living at home, with his brother Robert and youngest sisters Maria and Elizabeth. All of them attended school and Henry’s good, clear signature remains on extant documents.

The new trooper swore an oath to “defend Her Majesty, Her Heirs, and Successors, in Person, Crown, and Dignity, against all enemies.”

Henry’s elder brother John joined the British Army’s 2nd Regiment of the Life Guards, formed in 1788 as the monarch’s main mounted protectors. Military attestation papers state that John brought his brother into the same regiment on 27 May, 1868, when Henry was a 19-year-old blacksmith. The following day at Marylebone, the new trooper swore an oath to “bear true allegiance to Her Majesty, Her Heirs, and Successors” and to “defend Her Majesty…in Person, Crown, and Dignity, against all enemies.”

The records also include a description of Henry: He was 6′ tall with a fresh complexion, hazel eyes, and sandy (later described as “reddish brown”) hair. His medical exam related his appearance in even more detail: He weighed 162 pounds; the circumference of his chest over the nipple was 37″; his muscular development was “middling;” he had been vaccinated against smallpox in childhood but was revaccinated two days after joining the army. We even know that on 27 May, 1868, whilst he sat for the military physician, his pulse was 72 beats and his respiration was 20 inspirations per minute.

Henry Culley and May Jane Stayman married at the Register’s Office, Teeside, Durham, on 26 September, 1869. Mary Jane’s elder brother Thomas became a blacksmith, as did Henry, so it is possible that the couple met through her brother, or perhaps they became acquainted long before, during their adolescence in Barnard Castle. The 1871 Census, taken on 2 April, placed Mary Jane, then pregnant, in her hometown with her family. She may have visited before the birth or spent part of her pregnancy there. Her child, Henry Edward, Jr. (Oct. 1871-31 July, 1930), safely arrived later that year in St. Pancreas, London.

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An early photo of the 1747 Market Cross at Barnard Castle by Walter Benton & Company, Glasgow, Scotland. Henry Culley and Mary Jane Stayman would have known this view well.

In late October 1872, Henry committed a breach that separated the couple for six months. His records note that on 28 October he was placed in confinement for insubordination. The following day he was tried and imprisoned until 16 April, 1873. When released, he was no longer a trooper, but made a horse-shoeing blacksmith for the regiment instead. He then settled into military life without further incidents, his commanding officer noting “Habits regular. Conduct very good.” After two years, he was promoted to corporal-farrier on 28 June, 1875.

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A corporal-farrier of the Life Guards.

The image at right shows an unknown corporal-farrier dressed as Henry would have appeared on parade. The Farriers’ uniforms were sombre blue and they wore axes at the side.  When on parade, troopers drew their swords and the farriers drew the axes, as pictured.

At the time of his promotion, Henry and Mary Jane had a second son Charles Snaith, born in 1874 at Barnard Castle (d. 1950). A third, John Stayman (d. 1973) arrived 12 July, 1876, at Windsor. Alice Maud, the first daughter, came into the world in late Spring 1879, either at Regent’s Park Barracks, St. Pancras, London, or at the Knightsbridge Barracks at Windsor.

When she was two months of age, she traveled with at least her mother and likely with her father and gaggle of brothers to the Somerset holiday town of Weston-super-Mare, where the Birnbeck Pier offered a pleasant walk in the salt air and the little boys could play at the water’s edge.

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Weston-super-Mare in the late 1890s. Alice and her mother were photographed here in 1879.

At some point during their holiday, Mary Jane dressed herself in fashionable raiment and Little Alice Maud in what may have been her christening dress. At Davies’ gallery on the busy High Street, mother and daughter sat together for their portrait, which I hold in my hand today, 138 years later.

Of the photographer, “John Davies was born in Tetbury 1839. He was apprenticed to a watchmaker in London; however his interest in scientific instruments was such that he designed and made” at least two brass and mahogany orreries sold in 2009 by a descendant, wrote Dreweatts Donnington Priory Salerooms, which sold the objects. “Photography was another interest which resulted in him setting up in business, in partnership with his brother Martin, as photographers, printers, booksellers, and stationers at 14 High Street, Weston-super-Mare, in 1873. ‘Davies Brothers’ continued to trade after John’s death in 1919 until the premises was destroyed in an air raid in 1942.”

Henry Culley’s medical record states that he suffered from the effects of a “predisposition” to haemoptysis—acute bronchitis with coughing of blood.

In 1881, the Culleys lived at 40 Red Hill Street, St. Pancras, according to the census. Mary Jane was pregnant with another boy, Thomas Alfred George (d. 1968), who was born that summer. Emma May arrived in 1883 and Frederick Barnabas (d. 1969) in early 1885.

Corporal Henry Culley had begun to suffer greatly from the negative health effects of his career. His medical record states that as early as 1869 he suffered from a “predisposition” to haemoptysis—acute bronchitis with coughing of blood. He had tonsillitis in June 1870 from “catching cold in the stables,” bronchitis from “exposure” in March 1873, and “acute rheumation”—probably of the hands—in July 1875, also caused by exposure.

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A pressed glass souvenir bowl commemorating Queen Victoria’s 50 years on the British throne, called the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. Large and enthusiastic celebrations took place all around Britain 20 and 21 June, 1887. Ann Longmore-Etheridge Collection.

Henry received a severe burn to his foot in June 1877 (one hopes a hot horseshoe was not the cause); another attack of rheumatism followed in July 1882. The final entry to his record was “paralysis (local)” on 12 May, 1886. Whether the cause of this condition was a stroke or otherwise, it left him permanently unable to perform his duties. Shortly thereafter, Henry was “discharged in consequence of being found unfit for further service.”

Now without a prestious position or income, former Corporal-Farrier Culley and his brood left London for Leeds, Yorkshire, taking up residence there before the birth of Edith Victoria on 21 June, 1887 (d. 1966)—her mother having labored through the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. Before the 1891 Census, there was yet another daughter born named Ethel. (A tenth child and final son, Sam, would be born in 1894 when his mother was 43. He died at age 13 in 1907, the only Culley child not to reach adulthood.)

On Sunday, 5 April, 1891, the census takers found the Culleys at 57 Anchor Street, Hunslet, Leeds. Henry, aged 42, and his teenaged son John worked as advertisers for Watson’s, soapmaker. Joseph Watson and Sons ran their soapworks out of Whitehall, Leeds, and I believe that Henry and John Culley may have been two of many individuals who walked the streets wearing large painted banners and boards, pitching products such Watson’ Matchless Cleanser and others the soapmaker sold.

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Anchor Street, Hunslet, Leeds, in 1964. At the turn of the century, the Culleys lived at number 57, which is the terrace house farthest left. Photo courtesy West Yorkshire Archive Service.

A decade later, the family was still almost fully intact at 57 Anchor Street. Henry had taken work as a porter and the girls as assistant chemists and apprentice bonnet or cigar makers. One son was a postman, another a steam engine fitter.

Alice married Tom Booth the following summer on 3 August at St. Mary the Virgin Church, Hunslet. The son of Yorkshireman James William Booth (b. 1856) and Jane Briggs (b. 1859), he followed his father’s trade of glass bottlemaking. Tom was born 10 September, 1879, and baptized at age ten at St. Mary the Virgin. Much like Alice, he had grown up in a terrace house bursting with siblings—for at least some of that time at 11 Springfield Place on Woodhouse Hill. Alice gave birth to a son 1 June, 1902, who was named Harry after her father. A daughter, Ellen, was born 1 July, 1908.

In 1911, the final census to which we have access, Tom, Alice, and their children lived at 1 Balmoral Grove, Hunslet, with Harry and Ellen. Mary Booth was born in 1911 and Alice Booth in 1913. I hope that when the 1921 Census becomes available in 2022 (or sooner, if genealogists have their way), that the stories of the Booth children can be added to meaningfully.

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The block of Balmoral Grove where Tom and Alice Booth lived in 1911. West Yorkshire Archive Service.

Harry Booth wed Agnes Bell in the same church as his parents, St. Mary the Virgin, on 17 March, 1928. His namesake grandfather and his grandmother almost certainly attended the service. Henry Culley would live another two years, dying in January 1930, aged 81. Toward the end of that year, Alice Maud Culley Booth, the not-dead infant of the summer of 1879, followed him out of life. (Her husband outlived her by 13 years, dying in June 1843, also in Leeds.)

Mary Jane lived to see her granddaughter Ellen marry Thomas Reginald Wilson, a boilermaker, the son of John William Wilson, cable layer, on 16 March, 1935, also at St. Mary the Virgin.  Mary Jane passed away at age 87 in early 1938. On 8 March, 1948, Harry Booth, then of 2 New Pepper Road, died at 128 Beckett Street, Leeds. The estate he left was £399 14s. 6p. His wife Agnes died in late 1960, with her daughter Ellen Booth Wilson following in 1965. Ω

A Mother’s Mortality, A Woman’s Glory

The posing of mother and child may also deliberately highlight the loss of her long and well-cared for hair.

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Photo courtesy Jack and Beverly Wilgus Collection.

This stunning tintype, circa 1875, of an American mother and infant, is owned by collector and Your Dying Charlotte contributor Beverly Wilgus, who notes, “This little tintype is not as much a ‘hidden mother’ as a mother who chose to put the emphasis on the baby. I do wonder about her very short hair. One explanation could be that she has been very ill, maybe after a difficult birth, and her hair was cut short for comfort.”

It is possible that the woman pictured suffered from puerperal sepsis (called childbed fever) in the aftermath of delivery, which had been combatted, in part, by hair cropping. If true, this mother surely thought the tintype image celebratory—even triumphant: She had survived; her magnificent reward was the healthy infant draped over her shoulder, offered visually to posterity.

The sitter was lucky—a scarce survivor of a bitter scourge. “Childbed fever killed at the cruelest moments. It was described as a ‘desecration,’ an aspect of the natural world that felt almost deliberately evil. What caused it? Some thought ‘a failure of uterine discharge;’ others, a little later, called it ‘milk metastasis,’ noting that the internal organs of the women who died seemed covered in milk. Eventually it was accepted that the fluid was not milk at all. It was pus,” wrote Druin Burch in a Live Science article, “When Childbirth Was Natural, and Deadly.” When obstetricians and midwives talked of “delivering women,” he explained, they meant delivering them from the deadly perils of childbirth.

Puerperal sepsis from Streptococcus pyogenes is transmitted via unsanitary conditions during delivery. In an age before antibiotics, the takeover of its host was medicinally unstoppable. Between 1847 to 1876, an estimated five deaths resulted after each 1,000 live births, with puerperal sepsis causing up to half of those losses. “There was no cure available: doctors merely prescribed opium, champagne, and brandy-and-soda, trying to ease the passing, rather than making a vain attempt to cure a mortal illness,” wrote Judith Flanders in her 2003 book Inside the Victorian Home.

Yet against the odds, this mother survived.

In the Little House series, Mary Ingall’s lovely blonde hair was cropped during the throes of scarlet fever in a bid to save her life.

That hair should be cut during a high fever steamed from a long-held notion that it could drain the energy of the seriously ill; cutting it also allowed heat to escape the body thus lowering the patient’s temperature. In the popular Little House on the Prairie series by Laura Ingalls Wilder, for example, Mary Ingall’s lovely blonde hair was cropped during the throes of scarlet fever in a bid to save her life. (As an aside, JSTOR Daily points out, “Pediatric historian Beth A. Tarini believes the term was inaccurately used to describe viral meningoencephalitis in Mary Ingalls, whose disease rendered her completely blind.” The article is a fascinating read.)

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This late-19th Century teen may have had her hair shorn during a serious illness. Courtesy State Library and Archives of Florida.

Whenever a woman’s hair was cut for medical reasons, it was mourned by her family and friends as a brutal loss. Long and well-cared for tresses were considered a Victorian woman’s chiefest treasure. Writers of the age reflected the obsession in their literary works. “No other writers have lavished such attention on the physical properties of women’s hair: its length, texture, color, style, curliness. There is scarcely a female character in Victorian fiction whose hair is not described at least perfunctorily, and often the woman’s hair is described in incredible detail. The brown, neatly combed heads of virtuous governesses and industrious wives; the tangled, disorderly hair of the sexually and emotionally volatile women like Hetty Sorrel and Catherine Earnshaw; the artfully arranged curls of the girl-women like Dora Spenlow Copperfield and Isabella Linton are all familiar, even conventional elements in Victorian character description.” wrote Elizabeth G. Gitters in “The Power of Women’s Hair in the Victorian Imagination.” (PMLA Journal, October 1984).

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Lady Lilith by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The watercolor’s model, Rossetti’s mistress Fanny Cornforth, had thick golden-red hair that hung well below her waist.

In a culture that all-but worshiped long female hair, caring for it was a rigorous process. It was an an era before shampoo and available cleansing options often contained caustic or drying elements. Women instead brushed their hair to redistribute the natural oil whilst often adding in tonics or perfumes. The brushing regimen was done daily by some women, such as the singer Aline Vallandri, for upwards of a half hour. Mrs. Walker, who published a 400-page tome in 1840 titled Female Beauty, as Preserved and Improved by Regimen, Cleanliness and Dress, recommended the use of a soft brush for at least ten minutes, twice a day, after the hair had been combed and brushed with a hard brush to remove dandruff and dust, such as soot from coal burning fires.

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A Victorian advert for hair tonic shows a maid brushing her mistress’s tresses.
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Fanny in reality: Taken in the 1860s, this carte de visite is believed to show Fanny Cornforth from behind with her hair undone.

Other cleansing tricks written about in the 19th Century include the use of baking soda and vinegar, rum, and black tea, as well as egg yolks and rosemary as conditioning agents. Ladies could powder their hair and then brush it after the excess oil was absorbed—as descendants of these women do today with dry shampoo. Ω