Riding the rails in the late 19th century

Imagine a fireplace and live music on a passenger train….

First class car, with (presumably) a reed organ. Very decorous.

In many ways, life in the Civil War era must have been, quite simply, a grind. But compare these 1870 prints of a Pullman car to the dubious luxury of an automobile zooming along the ultra-boring interstate. Even the “immigrant coach” car (second pic) looks like more fun, though an un-upholstered bench would get old fast.

The bunks in “coach” remind me of an overnight trip I took in a second-class carriage in India. The bunks pulled down, and it did take some spryness to get into them and making them was a challenge–it was do-it-yourself all the way, and no privacy. Still, once you got snugged in, it was comfy, and people were quiet and considerate. (We won’t talk about the toilet facilities and how a guy was sleeping in there despite…. Never mind. At least he kindly left on request.)

The folks below look as if they’re enjoying themselves every bit as much, if not more, than their upper class fellow passengers.

"Immigrant" train coach. Doubtful that a woman in the first class car would nurse her baby in public.

Source for pictures

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Recycling, nineteenth-century style

Maintain and mend was the rule in America through the nineteenth century. Wealthy people passed down worn, damaged, or out-of-fashion clothes, furniture, and dishes to servants or charity; less well-off people fixed things. Even after objects could no longer be used for their original purposes still more uses were found for them.

Richmond Civil War prison

Castle Thunder prison in Richmond, 1865. No trash is visible though the street is not in good repair. Incidentally, note the granite slab crossings and the curb ramps to accommodate hand carts. (click for larger view)

The original “garbage men” were recyclers. Housekeepers knew they were coming up the alley by their cries, just as every child heard the water-melon man coming along.

Each collector generally specialized. In his delightful description of 1870s “cries of Richmond,” Charles M. Wallace, remembered the “soap-grease man.”

The only unmusical cry in the old days was that of the soap-grease man.  Cooks and thrifty housewives would save the  waste grease from the kitchen and sell it to him, when he would come to the back gate.  He paid for it with soap-laundry soap, unscented, unpressed, cut with a fine wire into cubical bars and chunks.  “Soap-grease!  Soap-grease!”

Bones as well as stove and fireplace ash also contributed to soap.

The “ragman” collected for papermills old cloth and scraps not used in the home for stuffing, rag rugs, quilts, and plain old rags. Bones made soap and glue, as well as knife handles, dice, fish hooks, sewing accoutrements, pipe tampers, spinning tops, combs, and any number of gadgets. The bone articles might be ornamented with carving as well as incised and inked designs; whales’ teeth, called whale ivory, and whale bone are not the only materials used for scrimshaw, nor are sailors the only ones practicing the art.

Corncobs, cornhusks, and newspaper got re-used as outhouse “toilet” paper (Harper’s Weekly no doubt being a favorite in the South for this purpose). Newspaper also furnished kindling, wrapping, and bedding: “Pillows stuffed with papers an inch square, are good for Summer,” wrote Catherine Esther Beecher, in her 1842 A Treatise on Domestic Economy. Washing up water went in the garden. Horse dung became manure; vegetable waste might also find its way to the garden (usually chopped and worked into the soil, rather than composted), or it might be fed to chickens and pigs, as were other table scraps.

Bottles were re-used; the redoubtable Ms Beecher suggests as a clothes cleaner: “Send a Junk-bottle to the butcher and have several gall-bladders emptied into it.” (And for heaven’s sake, do label it clearly.) She also recommends saving tea leaves to prevent raising dust when cleaning carpets: “use damp tea leaves, or wet Indian meal [corn meal], throwing it about, and rubbing it over with a broom.” (Hopefully, gall-bladder bile removes tea stains.)

All this is not to say that people in days of yore generated no garbage. Refuse found its way to landfills as urban planners filled in valleys. Dumps existed, usually in the low-lying and, hence, poor areas of town. However, re-use as well as the absence of cigarette filters and product-specific paper and plastic wrappers made streetscapes relatively trash free.

Sources: compost / bones / Charles Wallace’s street criers /  Catherine Esther Beecher’s Treatise / photo Collection of National Archives

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Camp Grant massacre of 1871

Camp Grant Arizona

Camp Grant, Arizona, a woeful collection of adobe huts and dusty cannons northeast of Tucson. 1870

On April 30, 1871, the Camp Grant massacre took place.

Tensions had been rising between the Apache Indians and American settlers. But the commander of Camp Grant, Lt. Royal Emerson Whitman, had recently negotiated peace with a group of Apaches. With the Apaches “pacified”, Whitman and the US Army became responsible for feeding and protecting them, and all boded well for an easing of tensions. But ongoing depredations, charged to the Camp Grant Indians endangered the fragile new status quote.

Lt. Whitman’s attempts to mediate the tensions between settlers and Indians received little support from General George Stoneman, who had famously raided North Carolina and southern Virginia during the Civil War, and now commanded Arizona Territory. The settlers despised Stoneman for brushing problematic “Indian affairs” under the carpet and for recommending closure of several military bases. William Belknap, President Grant’s Secretary of War, was no doubt distracted by the lucrative business of impoverishing US soldiers through the sale of trading monopolies on the Western frontier.

A posse of American and Papago (O’odham) locals decided to take matters into their own hands.

On the morning of April 30, Lt. Whitman received warning that “a large party” had left Tuscon to raid the camp. By the time he arrived, “their camp was burning, and the ground strewn with their mutilated women and children.” Of the 144 Apaches killed, only 8 were men. Over two dozen captured children were sold into slavery in Mexico.

Lt. Whitman’s official report, a “fearful tale” of “women and children butchered,” was excerpted in the New York Times and other Eastern papers. Faced with public outrage, President Grant threatened to put the Arizona Territory under military rule unless the perpetrators were brought to justice.

A grand jury duly indicted a posse including “five white men and twenty Mexicans whose names we knew, and seventy-five Papagos by fictitious names.” (American Latinos are usually labeled Mexicans in the documents.)

In less than 20 minutes, every single man was acquitted. Territorial Governor Safford, whose adjutant general furnished “a wagonload of arms and ammunition for the Papago Indians” to carry out the massacre, kept on governing. A few other men involved were later elected to U.S. Congress. Lt. Whitman’s scathing report and his sympathy for the Indians earned him a court martial on charges of drunkenness, trumped up by Safford. (Whitman was acquitted, once he’d been out of the way long enough.)

Evidently satisfied that justice had been served, President Grant let the matter go.

Sources: Arizona’s Camp Grant Massacre, by Howard Sheldon / Grand jury – “The Camp Grant Massacre,” by Andrew H. Cargill. Arizona historical review 7, no 3 July 1936. Reprinted in Eyewitnesses to the Indian Wars, 1865-1890: The Struggle for Apacheria, by Peter Cozzens, pp. 63-67 / “The Camp Grant Massacre” extracted from Lt. Whitman’s official report dated May 17, 1871, and printed in the New York Times, July 19, 1871 (available in the NYT archives)

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19th Century streetscapes: Petersburg, Virginia

Petersburg courthouse Civil War

Streetscape of Petersburg, Virginia, looking at the courthouse, late spring 1865. Photographer unknown; collection of Library of Congress

An 1865 picture of Petersburg shows a delightful hodgepodge of paving and other details of a streetscape in a 19th century small American city. All was constructed with manual labor. In pre-Emancipation South, slaves often did the job, though this is not a given. Hired laborers, white and black, had a place in the urban economy.

Petersburg being a granite town, the street itself looks to be paved with packed grout, here not mortar but granite chips–the waste of granite quarries. A line of larger stone makes a “spine” down the middle of the street leading to the courthouse, and near the corners (at the crossing) the orderly laying of the stones makes a gutter. Drainage was as essential then as now, to prevent ice and water (and horse urine) from destroying the street and endangering two- and four-footed pedestrians.

A manhole is in the center of the street. Sewage in a land where indoor plumbing is more the exception than the rule? The necessity for waste water management was known long before flush toilets, and urban sewage systems took away human and industrial waste water–and dumped it in rivers–so that it would not taint wells.

Streets weren’t always paved, but sidewalks were a must. The left and right sidewalks are brick-paved in the usual herringbone pattern, as is the sidewalk within the courthouse gate. The right sidewalk looks muddy. The missing patches of brick on the left indicate that the bricks were probably unmortared. The front sidewalk is laid with what appear to be square granite paving stones, but (on the right) only up to the merchant’s door. Once you leave the tin shop and cross over to the wholesale shoe house it’s back to brick.

The crossing, made of granite slabs, and the ramped transition from sidewalk to street are not to accomodate the handicapped, but rather for handcarts and wheelbarrows. Granite curbing, seen here, endures in many cities including Richmond. More granite: the steps inside the courthouse gate and the retaining wall.

A single telegraph wire cuts the scene. No trash, not even cigarette butts, except maybe under one of the shutters. Note the sign: Tin Ware House–maybe Tinware House, rather than Tin Warehouse. I wonder what was in the barrels against the buildings and the retaining wall. Garbage? “Recycling”–for example, rags? At the right, folded shutters lay on the ground, ready to cover the windows at closing time. The picture dates from after the Federals took Petersburg, and it’s known that they shot at the statue of justice atop the courthouse; still, the missing windows are a puzzle in that the rest of the building is perfectly intact.

At the front corner of the Wholesale Shoe House, a blur indicates motion. Is that the “ghost” of a little girl sitting on the ground? Or it could just be a package with a covering blowing in the wind that blurs the trees in the background.

Photograph collection of Library of Congress. For a super close-up view, go to Shorpy, click on the photo

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Cemetery Sunday: the Confederate dead

confederate dead

Confederate section, Oakwood Cemetery, Richmond

In Oakwood Cemetery, Richmond, Virginia, most of the Confederate dead, known and unknown, moulder in graves marked only by numbered blocks of granite. That doesn’t mean they’re lost. The National Park Service, as my father remarked recently, is “God” when it comes to locating CW soldiers, and is the first place to turn for locating CW graves. My friend Ben Cleary, a former NPS ranger, located for me the grave of Abner Stokes Haire, a Confederate soldier whose death made way for my own ancestor (story here). When I went to find the grave, by chance I met F. Lee Hart, III, of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. He helped me find the stone and described the arrangement of the three men buried around it. Abner Stokes Haire’s grave is numbered 17; he lies to the right of the marker as you face it.

Confederate dead

Marker for the grave of Abner Stokes Haire, 38th NC Infantry Regiment, Company B; he lies to the right of the number 17

Haire died at Moore Hospital in Richmond. The hospital site, at  25th and Main, is now a vacant lot. Ben referred to it as a “North Carolina” hospital, because they brought many NC soldiers there. The battlefield where Haire sustained his mortal wounds was about 10 miles away. How sad! Maybe poor Haire and many other boys would have lived to see their families again, had they not been forced to endure the long, rough wagon journey.

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Harvesting the Quinine

Quinine harvest on Idjwi Island, Democratic Republic of Congo.

The cinchona tree from which quinine, for malaria treatment, is harvested is native to Peru. However, the Dutch and British exported seeds and trees to their colonies, including Java and Africa. In a Facebook comment on the Leaves of Grass post Malaria in the 19th Century, Noma Petroff described visiting a small quinine plantation on Idjwi Island, in the middle of Congo’s Lake Kivu. I thought her experience was worth posting, since the process she describes could have taken place in the nineteenth century–or earlier.

Getting the bark is a surprisingly peaceful process. Women come out and pound the bark off the branches (the “trees” are more like large shrubs, no more than 15 feet high), while the children play nearby. As you approach the site, you hear the sound of the children playing, while women chatter as they work. The backdrop to the whole thing is a very quiet “drumming” as the bark is beaten off the branches.

The beautiful branches remaining are actually “waste” so that the workers receive free firewood, in addition to their pay. I took one of the beautiful Quinine sticks to use for a walking stick for the next couple weeks. I wanted to bring it home with me, but my son said I would not get it through customs.

Working Villages International kindly shared their photo; the quinine harvest is not a WVI project.

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Malaria in 19th century

Civil War medicine

The bottle indicates that the pharmacy that dispensed the quinine was in Petersburg, Virginia. photo via U of Va.

“The Richmond Times of October 18, 1864 reported that the Manchester [Virginia] town bell would be rung three times a day to remind people to take their quinine.”

Malaria remains a critical health issue, with about half of the world’s population at risk, according to the World Health Organization. The disease is no longer endemic in the United States but in the nineteenth century it was. Eminent sufferers include Abraham Lincoln, U.S. Grant, and Jefferson Davis.

The parasite that causes  “ague” was not identified until 1880, and the mosquito’s role in transmission was not demonstrated until 1897. A Civil War era Scientific American article stated, “There is no doubt…that malaria is some mysterious poison in the atmosphere….” Blaming “miasma” has a grain of truth; mosquitos are more likely to be doing business at night, and in swampy, damp regions.

Quinine’s efficacy, at least, was long-known. In 1805, Dr. Washington Watts of Manchester, Virginia, treated James Scott with “papers of bark” (quinine derived from the bark of the Peruvian cinchona tree). Scott might have spared himself the expense (for which he was later sued). A physician was not needed to procure quinine. Laurence Bataille, in August 1827, ordered the medicine himself: Gentlemen, Mrs. Battaile has had an attack of the ague & fever – You will oblige me by sending by the bearer a phial of Quinine. Though formulations abounded, the bark could be eaten simply, “by placing it directly on the tongue, as, though bitter, it is a clean bitter, not unpleasant to most people.”

Arsenic was considered an effective, but unfortunately deadly treatment. Less effective but more pleasant remedies were on offer. In May 1862, the Richmond Times-Dispatch scoffingly quoted a letter written by a soldier in “McClellan’s army” and published in “the Northern papers”: “Whiskey rations are now served out to the soldiers morning and evening, to counteract the influences of the malaria.” Other regiments in the Army of the Potomac fared better. Scientific American reported that, whilst in the “malarious” region of the James River, men who took quinine daily during August, September and October “showed a remarkable exemption from disease.”

See more, on harvesting quinine.

p 37, Old Manchester, by Benjamin B. Weisiger III | Scientific American CW era malaria | 1862 RTD | Oct 1865 Scientific American | photo via University of Virginia

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Cemetery Sunday: The California Brigade

Philadelphia Regiment Civil War

23 / MICH'L DEVLIN / CAL.

While visiting Glendale National Cemetery at Malvern Hill, I was surprised to see several markers with “CAL.” as the state of the soldiers. “These poor guys died a long way from home,” I said to my companion. True, but not as I thought. The men were not from California, but from Philadelphia.

“Early in May, 1861, a number of citizens of the Pacific coast…decided that California ought to be represented in the Army of the Union upon the Atlantic slope, and to that end urged Edward D. Baker, then United States Senator from Oregon, to form a regiment in the East to the credit of that distant State….”

Baker, a Mexico War veteran, left politics and the West to go fight back East. He recruited the “California Brigade” from his childhood city of Philadelphia. After Colonel Baker died at Ball’s Bluff, four of the “California Regiments”–the 2d, 3d, 4th, 5th–were counted into Pennsylvania’s quota, and thus became known as the Philadelphia Brigade. “The Philadelphia Brigade was unique in the history of the Civil War as the only organization of its kind coming from a single city of the North.”

Source: Gary Lash, Calfornia State Military Museum

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Reading Lee

Reading the Man: A Portrait of Robert E. Lee Through His Private Letters, by Elizabeth Brown Pryor.

Pryor searched Lee’s letters to find (to quote her epigram, by Stephen Vincent Benet)

That solitary gentleness and strength
Hidden behind the deadly oratory
Of twenty thousand Lee Memorial days…


What came through for me, in Pryor’s portrait, was a man rigid, passionate, strong-willed and fiercely determined to win, a man who locked the devotion and lives of his daughters to himself (none of them married, though they surely could have had their pick of any man in Virginia and beyond), prizing self-control, but occasionally losing it when balked, and most of all a man firmly of his time and place.

Pryor’s explication of Lee’s milieu, whose families veered from eccentric to outright dysfunctional, is masterful, both in content and technique. Structurally, she intersperses into a more traditional chronological treatment topics including religion; relations between slaves and slaveholders; the three wars that defined Lee: the War of 1812, in which his father was a hero, the Mexican War, in which Lee first saw action, and the Civil War, in which Lee went from being considered a headquarters lightweight to the commander of the CSA’s bodies and hearts; and Reconstruction.

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The general’s coach dog

Rufus Ingalls’ Dalmatian was a favorite and favored companion of the general, and accompanied him whether he traveled by saddle horse or by buggy.

Rufus Ingalls City Point

Rufus Ingalls' coach dog. Collection of the Library of Congress

Rufus Ingalls, a classmate of US Grant at West Point, worked his way efficiently up to rank of Brigadier General. At City Point, “Grant placed him in charge of supply with responsibility for all armies operating against Petersburg and Richmond.” (NPS)  One of Grant’s secrets of success was his clear understanding of the value of logistics, and Ingalls made City Point a masterpiece of logistics, with a huge supply depot and one of the busiest wharves in the world. While Mr & Mrs General Grant and son occupied a pokey little cabin there, General Ingalls and his entourage got the main plantation house, Appomattox Manor.

Ingalls’ entourage included his Dalmatian coach dog. A favorite and favored companion, the dog accompanied the general whether he traveled by saddle horse or by buggy. One photograph even features him solo, proudly posed on the steps of the big house. (I picture the general steadying and posing the dog, crooning to its vanity, then darting back as the photographer takes the shot.) Another photo (to come in a later post) shows him as part of the family.

Rufus Ingalls City Point

Rufus Ingalls with his animal friends at City Point. (photo cropped) Collection of the Library of Congress

Of the breed, the  American Kennel Club says: ”There is no end of proof, centuries old, among history that shows the Dalmatian…plying his trade as follower and guardian of the horse-drawn vehicle.” The dog would clear a path for the horses, guarding against impertinent dogs and urchins. As the familiar firefighters’ mascot, he acted as an alarm for the speeding engine. “His affinity for horses remains a basic instinct to this day and it is fascinating indeed to watch an adolescent fall in behind a horse and cart in perfect position or trot just beside the shoulder of a horse upon his initial introduction, as if he had been doing it all his life, which, of course, his ancestors have! He is physically fitted for road work; speed and endurance blended perfectly in his make-up. His gait has beauty of motion and swiftness and he has the strength, vitality and fortitude to keep going gaily until journey’s end.”

Rufus Ingalls City Point dog

Rufus Ingalls at City Point, coach dog at the ready (photo cropped) Collection of the Library of Congress

Library of Congress photos: dog / dog & horse / dog & buggy

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