Who cares what the so-called experts predict for the Orioles this season? The Ravens did okay last season, the O’s looked pretty great in spring training, William Nathaniel “Buck” Showalter III has our confidence, and spring is sprung. No so-called sports expert or weatherman or even Mark Reynolds is going to rain on our enjoyment of tomorrow’s home opener.
Speaking of experts and O’s Managers… this week we thought we’d take a look back at Paul Richards who managed the Orioles from 1955 to 1960. Richards played for years as an infielder in the minor leagues, until making his pro debut with the Brooklyn Dodgers. He finished out his playing days as a catcher with the New York Giants and Detroit Tigers. Richards came to manage in Baltimore after a short stint piloting the Chicago White Sox.
Richards is perhaps best remembered for his small ball style of play. At a time when the home run was the strategy for many a team’s success, he instead stressed pitching, defensive skills, and base stealing. His list of accomplishments includes: being the first manager since John McGraw to hold the position of field manager and general manager simultaneously, orchestrating a 17-player trade with the Yankees (the largest trade in baseball history)*, being named Manager of the Year in 1960, and most notably—in Baltimore—he’s known as the man who drafted Brooks Robinson. As if that weren’t enough to earn this city’s eternal gratitude, he was also known to wax poetic about the Oriole Way. Here’s some film from our vault of Paul Richards telling it like only Paul Richards could. (Joe Tropea)
“Play Ball with the Orioles” (1957), produced by Gunther Beer, 16mm transfer, MdHS. Edited by Joe Tropea.
Look up, Baltimore baseball fans! You’ve come a long way.
The origin of baseball in Baltimore is a ridiculously complicated affair. Scant photographic evidence remains and accounts in newspapers, which used nicknames for teams and players as often as they did proper names, leave behind a murky, hard-to-follow record.
By the 1870s there were already a handful of defunct Maryland base ball* clubs with names like the Excelsiors, the Marylands, the Pastimes, the Monumentals, etc. Keeping track of who they were, where they played, where they packed up and left town to play before coming back under another team name is a chore difficult for the most earnest of sporting historians. Add to this mess a game so loosely organized that it was impossible to even agree on a national champion until 1894. A little research on the subject yields a solid argument for keeping things simple, so here goes…
Meet your Lord Baltimores a.k.a. the Yellow Stockings a.k.a the Baltimore Canaries, so called for their bright yellow uniforms. These dandies wore thick silk shirts—instead of the usual flannel—emblazoned with the Calvert arms, wide white belts, and snazzy yellow and black argyle socks.
The year was 1872. Out of the ashes of Waverly’s Pastime Base Ball Club, which started fielding amateur players as early as 1861, came the Lord Baltimores. When the team played well, fans called them Lords. When they didn’t win, fans were more inclined to call them Canaries. They were the city’s first professional team under the auspices of the National Association of Professional Base Ball Players, but they were its second professional team overall.
The honor of being Baltimore’s first professional base ball club went to the Marylands who in the late 1860s defected to Fort Wayne, Indiana when wealthy businessmen there flashed some cash and convinced them to stay while the team was in town for a game. After a brief dalliance as the Fort Wayne Kekiongas, half the team returned home to Charm City to form the Lords. Not surprisingly the team was plagued from the start with rumors that they threw games.
In their three seasons of existence (1872-1874), the Lord Baltimores played their home games at Baltimore’s Newington Park, which was located between Baker and Gold Streets. There are no known photographs of the venue, though with the help of G.M. Hopkins’ Atlas and the Sachse Company’s “Bird’s Eye View…” we’re able to get some idea of when and where the park stood. Newington Park was located on Pennsylvania Avenue “extended” in West Baltimore.
The club’s most popular player, Lipman Emanuel “Lip” Pike (1845–1893),** was also the first Jewish major leaguer. Known as the “Iron Batter,” the left-handed batsman was a homerun king at a time when dingers were only an occasional treat. A noted speedster, Pike was no stranger to the inside-the-park homerun and had a reputation for racing any challenger for a cash prize. On August 16, 1873, he reportedly raced a horse named “Clarence” in a 100-yard sprint at Newington Park, and won by four yards with a time of 10 seconds flat, earning him a cash prize that would amount to about $5,000 today).*** While in Baltimore Lip Pike ran a cigar store on Holliday Street near Fayette. His financial prospects outlived his team’s.****
Finishing their first and second seasons in second and third place respectively, the future of the Lords club was looking bright. But the Panic of 1873 caught up with the team’s financiers. Funding dried up and the team they fielded in 1874 was a disgrace. They ended their final season 9-38, 31.5 games behind the first place Boston Red Stockings. (Joe Tropea)
* Prior to 1890, baseball was written “base ball.”
**Baseball Almanac, United Press International. October 9, 1986.
*** Joseph Siegman, Jewish Sports Legends: The International Jewish Sports Hall Of Fame, 2005.
**** Lip Pike played and managed teams up and down the East Coast after the Canaries went kaput. When his baseball days were over he ran a haberdashery that became a well-known hangout for baseball enthusiasts. In 1893, he died of a heart attack at age 48 and was buried in his native Brooklyn, N.Y.
James H. Bready, Baseball in Baltimore, The Johns Hopkins Press, 1998.
Paul Batesel, Players and Teams of the National Association, 1871-1875, McFarland, 2012.
Glimpses Into Baseball History blog, “Early Baltimore Baseball, Part 16,” http://baseballhistoryblog.com/2055/early-baltimore-baseball-part-16/
It’s hard to work at the Maryland Historical Society and not be familiar with the R.H. Eichner & Company color lithograph entitled “Go See the Whale at Tolchester, 1889.” An original of this iconic print lives in our library, and posters depicting it grace the halls of the Education Department and the offices on the building’s third floor. It is also prominently featured in Maryland in Prints, 1743-1900 by Laura Rice, a book we often reference when assisting researchers. It is one of our favorite prints.
Despite the print’s depiction of a large dead whale, it is surprisingly charming. The behemoth lies on the beach almost playfully, seemingly in his prime, and looking far from dead. Its jaw appears to have been braced open in a permanent smile, and on its tongue a table, a few chairs, and a Persian rug. Its beckoning smile draws in tourists, allowing them entrance for a small fee. Several well-dressed men and women are enjoying this quiet past-time, feasting in their very best clothes, as families surround the huge curiosity. It literally looks like a healthy whale just splashed up on the beach at Tolchester.
What kind of person would take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to sit in a dead whale’s mouth? Would this be an enjoyable experience? What would it have been like? The more we discussed the image the more questions we had. What was the truth of that summer day at Tolchester Beach? We began our journey into the belly of the beast…..
According to an article in the May 30, 1899 issue of the Baltimore American newspaper, a seventy-five ton (species unspecified) whale was captured off the coast of Cape Cod on June 5, 1888. The Egyptian Balm Company in Boston then embalmed the beast for the not-so-small sum of $3,000. When the process was complete, the whale, having dried out and shed some blubber, was down to fifty tons. Why would someone do that you might ask? Well, the gentle giant was to be a star attraction during the opening week of a new season at the Tolchester Beach resort on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. The whale was placed on a barge, the Thomas J. Campbell of Philadelphia, while it was prepped to sail to Tolchester. Though the resort was unveiling a wide assortment of new facilities for the 1889 season, the most important was a new iron steamship called the Tolchester, that would bring people to the resort from Pier 16 on Light Street in Baltimore twice a day throughout the season. The idea was to drum up some publicity for the new ferry service.
The presumably monumental task of embalming a whale creates some logistical problems. How does one go about preserving a creature that is large enough to accommodate lunch guests in its mouth? Does someone have to make like Jonah and travel inside its belly to hose it down? Do you hold it by the tail and dip it in a large tub? How many gallons of embalming fluid were used? How bad was the stench? It would seem that in the best case scenario, the final product would more closely resemble the Montauk Monster than the Great White Whale of our iconic print.
After conducting fairly exhaustive searches of Maryland newspapers we still weren’t able to uncover any evidence verifying that the event actually happened. The only items we turned up were a few articles mentioning that the whale was being prepped for the event. More proof was needed – a document or eyewitness account confirming the story, or even better, a photograph of someone inside the whale would be our (cough) white whale…
Luckily the Tolchester Beach Revisited Museum exists and when contacted, curator Mr. William Betts, kindly added some clues.. He was indeed quite familiar with this image as well as the article from the Baltimore American. He even offered a story of one visitor’s mother or grandmother who did see the whale – but again nothing but hearsay. Mr. Betts also sent us a clipping of an article from the Kent County News dated June 1, 1989, commemorating the 100th anniversary of the whale’s visit. But alas, no concrete evidence of people actually entering the whale’s mouth at Tolchester turned up. We remained unsatisfied.
Since options were running thin, there was only one place left to turn. We entered the unverifiable, out of context, anything goes, dark hole of a research machine, known as Google – and struck pay dirt. Apparently, embalmed whale curiosities, much like hanged elephants, were quite an attraction in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.. These dried monstrosities traveled across the country, attracting flocks of spectators while bringing in a modest fee. An online article called “Memory Dredges up a Whale of a Tale”, produced by the Onondoga Historical Association, references a whale that traveled to Seneca Falls, NY in 1891. The story sounded quite familiar. Like our Tolchester leviathan, it too was 65 feet in length and weighed 75 tons when it was caught near Cape Cod in 1888. The article goes even further, naming a Captain Nickerson as the man who landed the behemoth with a boom lance. Interestingly enough this article also contains the following line: “the poster claims the whale was so big twelve gentlemen sat in its mouth and enjoyed an oyster supper.” Is it a coincidence such similar copy was included in the poster referenced here and the R.H. Eichner & Co. lithograph of our investigation? More importantly, both of these were posters – anyone can draw a whale, right? The claim of people sitting inside the whale’s mouth was beginning to sound more and more like sensational advertising of the time.
Then we found some photos on this web site.
This wasn’t the exact evidence we were looking for, but it seemed to confirm our suspicions. Though the photograph shows a couple of people in the mouth of a whale, it definitely does not resemble the scene from our Tolchester print. The men certainly do not look like they could be enjoying an oyster dinner. One can see how this shriveled, crusty, sun-baked monstrosity would not make for a handsome print.
Though there is a lack of evidence about the whale at Tolchester, its existence isn’t really called into question. We aren’t calling the print completely fraudulent, just misleading. It is an advertisement – why would we expect the truth? The mythology of the event surely has developed a life of its own. The fact that the only remaining existing document is a misleading advertisement plays no small role in our collective cultural memory. Did men and women put on their finest clothes and gaily feast, while sitting on top of a whale’s putrid tongue on a hot summer day in Maryland? We doubt it. So until our loyal readers can point to evidence that proves otherwise (backed up by primary documents) we will continue to be quite skeptical about the truth of that June day at Tolchester Beach.
It should be noted that by June 9, 1889, less than one week after the whale was displayed as an attraction, it was quickly forgotten. Our fishy friend was soon replaced by cannonball catcher Charles P. Blatt. Known as “The Great, The Only,” Blatt drew large crowds as he caught 35 pound balls shot out of a cannon with his bare hands. **
“Fish, you are going to have to die anyway. Do you have to kill me too? – Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
(Debbie Harner and Eben Dennis)
*The authors were overwhelmed with all the possible titles for this post.
** Family members joined Blatt in Tolchester that summer. Their gig was to submerge themselves in a large tank of water…their record was four minutes. They should have invited the whale to join them…
“Excursions,” The Baltimore American, May 30, 1889
“The Improvements at Tolchester,” The Baltimore Sun, May 30, 1889
West Baltimore was once a densely packed, vibrant neighborhood full of theaters, local businesses, and industry. Drive down many of the streets today and you’re likely to see a vacant lot or a boarded up row house on nearly every other block. But even an empty field has a history. The tiny, off-kilter house pictured to the left is one of the oldest houses in West Baltimore. Or at least it was circa 1865 when the photograph was taken. Like many of Baltimore’s historic structures it has been lost to time and the march of progress. It is now the site of a vacant lot. Built in the mid-1700s, the two-story wood frame house was located at 930 West Baltimore Street, two doors west of Amity Street. The property is known as the Sulzebacher house. The name is most likely a corruption of Sulzbach; according to the Baltimore city directories, a currier named Peter Sulzbach occupied the residence for a few years in the 1840s.
The house is of typical design for a mid-eighteenth century home in Baltimore. The gable roof may point to the construction of the home in the 1760s or 1770s; by then “gambrel roofs had fallen out of favor and most frame houses were a full two stories in height, with gable roof, with or without dormers.”* The building’s obvious tilt was characteristic of structures “located on streets built to match a since-altered street grade.”** Visible on the second floor is a fire insurance seal. Also called a fire mark, these iron, copper, or lead emblems indicated that a specific insurance firm paid a volunteer fire department to protect it – Baltimore’s first paid fire department was established in 1859, but the fire seals often remained left on the buildings. The Sulzebacher house survived for over 150 years, no mean feat for a wood frame house from that period. Sometime before 1911 the house was razed – the structure is not visible on the 1911 edition of the Sanborn fire insurance atlas – and replaced by a three-story barber shop.
The house at 932 West Baltimore Street, the edge of which can be seen in the photograph, may have been even older. Built in the same period, it had a much larger frontage than its neighbor at 930. The original structure was razed just a few years prior to the Sulzebacher house to make way for a motion picture theater. Both 932 and 930 West Baltimore Street appear to have caught the eye of rival theater owners. At around the same time that James W. Bowers was pursuing the properties at 932, A. Freedman had similar designs on 930. Freedman apparently lost the contest, because the only theater that debuted was Bower’s Aladdin Theater, which opened its doors to the public near the end of 1909. Advertising itself as “West Baltimore’s finest motion picture house,” the Aladdin theater seated about 400 patrons.
Between 1910 and 1938 the theater changed both ownership and names a number of times. In 1917 J. Louis Rome purchased it and renamed it the New Aladdin. The following year it came under the control of C.E. Nolte and his partner, Baltimore-born movie mogul Frank Durkee, whose Durkee Enterprises owned or controlled a large number of the movies houses in Baltimore, including the Ritz, the Palace, the Arcade, and the Senator. In 1930 the theater became the New Queen. It was open for less than a year, perhaps closing from the effects of the Great Depression. Then from 1933 to 1938 it operated as the segregated Booker T. Theater. This was the last of the property’s run as a host for cinematic productions – in 1942 it was converted into a plant for the New Gold Bottling Company, a soft drink manufacturer.
The New Gold Bottling Company was founded in 1925 by Greek immigrant Dionicios Karavedas. The company went on to produce Sun Spot, a popular orange flavored soft drink, whose advertisements boasted that it was made with real orange juice. During the 1950s and 1960s, the beverage, which retailed for a nickel, could be found in neighborhood stores and confectionaries throughout the city. The riots of 1968, which hit West Baltimore particularly hard, led to a decline in business for the soft drink manufacturer. In an odd change of direction, Dionicios’s son Nicholas, who took over the company after his father retired in 1960, began producing a sugar detecting beverage alongside his sugar enhancing ones – in the 1970s, he was involved with developing a product known as GTTS (Glucose tolerance testing solution) that detected the presence of gestational diabetes in pregnant women. Through a new company, Custom Laboratories, Inc., Karavedas went on to become the “the largest supplier of glucose testing solutions in the country.”***
By the 1980s, the beverage companies were still producing their dissimilar drinks on West Baltimore Street. But the city had its own plans for the site. In the mid-1980s it began purchasing properties on both the 900 and 800 blocks of West Baltimore Street for a proposed redevelopment project.
By 1992 the Karavedas owned companies were the remaining holdouts. According to a Baltimore Sun article from that year, the beverage companies were “the last tenants on a block the city has been clearing for as-yet unspecified housing or commercial redevelopment use.”**** By 1998, they had relocated across the city to Highlandtown. Twenty years later the 900 block of West Baltimore street, now owned by the University of Maryland, still remains undeveloped, a field of grass surrounded by a mixture of boarded up row homes, storefronts, University of Maryland medical buildings, and vacant lots. (Damon Talbot)
*Hayward, Mary Ellen & Frank R. Shivers Jr., ed., The Architecture of Baltimore: An Illustrated History (Baltimore: JohnsHopkinsUniversity Press, 2004), p. 9.
**The Passano Files, Baltimore Street (928, West)
****”Boondoggle on Baltimore Street,” The Baltimore Sun, March 16, 1992.
Sources and further reading:
”Boondoggle on Baltimore Street,” The Baltimore Sun, March 16, 1992.
The Dielman-Hayward File, Karavadas, Dionicios
Hayward, Mary Ellen & Frank R. Shivers Jr., ed., The Architecture of Baltimore: An Illustrated History (Baltimore: JohnsHopkinsUniversity Press, 2004)
Headley, Jr, Robert Kirk, Exit: A History of the Movies in Baltimore (University Park, Md: Robert Kirk Headley, Jr., 1974)
Headley, Jr, Robert Kirk, Motion Picture Exhibition in Baltimore: An Illustrated History and Directory of Theaters, 1895-2004 (London: McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2006)
Jones, Carleton, Lost Baltimore Landmarks: A Portfolio of Vanished Buildings (Baltimore: Maclay & Associates., 1982)
Kelly, Jacques, “Nicholas D. Karavedas, beverage producer, dies,” The Baltimore Sun, October 19, 2010.
Life Magazine, December 24, 1965
The Passano Files, Baltimore Street (928, 930-932, West)
Hubert Latham was almost the first person to fly an airplane over the British Channel. If the French aviator and adventurer was discouraged when his first attempt came up short, he never showed it. As he bobbed in the waves waiting to be retrieved by a passing vessel, Latham casually smoked a cigarette in the cockpit of his wrecked Antoinette.* Adventure was his business, and keeping a cool head was a prerequisite in the daredevil profession. Although he failed to be the first to reach the White Cliffs of Dover his flight proved to be historic in another way. He had completed the world’s first landing of an aircraft in the sea.
Fate worked against him once again in July, 1909, when gusty conditions delayed his next Channel crossing attempt. Latham and his crew went to sleep in the wee hours of July 25, 1909 at their camp near Sangatte, France, hoping to try and make history the next morning. Little did they know that rival aviator Louis Bleriot (1872-1936) and his team had been closely monitoring the weather as well as the activity at Latham’s camp. Around 2 am, Bleriot’s crew found a break in the wind, and decided it was now or never. They hastily prepared their man and ship (bearing his namesake The Bleriot XI) for takeoff, and at daybreak Bleriot took flight.** Thirty-six minutes and thirty seconds later Bleriot made a hard landing above the White Cliffs near Dover Castle in England and received the £1,000 purse. He became the first man to fly over the Channel, and Latham was left sharing a forgotten corner of history with Buzz Aldrin and Antonio Salieri as just another famous almost.***But, a daredevil doesn’t live for accolades alone, so Latham’s story did not end there. Air shows and aerial competitions were becoming more and more popular across Europe and America. Lots of prize money, advertising opportunity for Antoinette engine, and risk remained to satisfy the adventurer’s hunger. The field of aviation was still in its infancy, so plenty of records remained to be set. Latham throttled his plane high into the air and set altitude records in Reims, France, and in Mourmelon-le-Grand. According to legend, he became the first to fly an airplane backwards, when against better judgement, he flew into a gale during a competition in Blackpool, England in 1909. The next year he became the first person to hunt wild fowl from an airplane while at a competition in Los Angeles.
In 1910, a variety of record setting opportunities presented themselves, including an extremely enticing (not to mention lucrative) offer in Baltimore. To coincide with the airshow in nearby Halethorpe, the A.S. Abell Company, owners of The Baltimore Sun, offered a $5,000 prize for any aviator who would “give all the people of [Baltimore] an opportunity to witness the most remarkable scientific triumph of the present age.” The chosen aviator would dazzle the crowds by flying high above the city. If this feat was accomplished, according to a November 2 Sun article, Baltimore would be “[the] first city serving as the setting for a charted aerial voyage over [its] housetops.” A November 23 article further described the event as “[the] first time a bird-man has traversed the air over a course laid out for him beforehand, with turns and curves and changes in direction, so that the entire population can see the exhibition.” Later, the clarification was added concerning the type of flight—it was the first “heavier than air machine” to fly over a large American city. Besides the scientific breakthroughs of the time, it was also a remarkable age for advertising. The opportunity for the Sun to educate and entertain the public, while at the same time promoting their paper, made the $5,000 purse seem rather small under the circumstances.
Though these superlative statements are obviously a bit vague, they certainly raise some questions. The significance of the event in terms of potential danger and shared communal experience cannot be overlooked. A crash over water or into an open field was one thing, but an engine failure or crash over a large population center meant certain death. At the same time, more than a half million Baltimoreans would be able to witness the flight—the air show would come to them without travel or the cost of a ticket. For most spectators, this would be their first look at an airplane; they would share this collective glimpse into the future.
Even though Latham had a history of crash landings (and wrecked in two of his next three flights), the reward outweighed the risk and he accepted. The advertising opportunity for the Antoinette engine, the prize money, recognition, and of course, the thrill of the flight were all too much for the daredevil to pass up. In addition, a $500 reward would be tacked on by Ross Revillon Winans (1850-1912) if Latham would complete one small side mission.
Ross R. Winans was grandson to the Baltimore railroad pioneer, mechanic, inventor, and benefactor, Ross Winans (1796-1877). Unlike his grandfather, Ross R. Winans was more gentleman of leisure. He lived much of his luxurious life in a French chateau far away from his home town.**** Tragedy struck Ross R. Winans in 1907 when his wife Mary, son William, and daughter Beatrice, all died in the span of six months. He and his son, Thomas, arranged to accompany the bodies on a cargo ship from Europe and make a permanent return to Baltimore. At the last minute, Thomas disembarked and disappeared with a Spanish dancer; the father-son relationship was never salvaged. Ross R. returned to his hometown a recluse. He was rarely seen or heard from until 1910 when he placed a letter to the Sun offering Latham an additional $500 to alter his flight path so that he would circumnavigate his house at 1217 St. Paul Street. Winans was bed-ridden and didn’t appear to have much time left in life. He would only have the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the monoplane if Latham plotted a course low over the skyline on the rear, or east-facing, side of his house, where he could look out the window from his bed. Latham graciously accepted the prize money, and agreed to loop around 1217 St. Paul as part of the exhibition.
So at 12:16:45 pm on November 7, 1910, Latham and his fifty-horsepower Antoinette took off from Halethorpe and began his plotted path over the city. Bells rang out across the city as workers were released from Wise Brothers, R.M. Sutton & Co., Torsch packing, and other businesses and industries, for a long lunch to watch the exhibition. People converged to the rooftops of The Sun Building, the B& O building , the Courthouse, and the balcony around the City-Hall dome. Even patients at Johns Hopkins pressed their faces to the window in anticipation of the low swoop-by promised by the bird-man.***** Latham flew over Fort McHenry, northwest to the American building on Baltimore Street, back east to Patterson Park, north to North Avenue, west to Eutaw Place, back east to Mount Royal Ave before turning northeast to circle Druid Hill Park, south to St. Paul street where he maneuvered into view of Winans’ bedroom window- circling the property, and southwest to the Sun Building before heading back to Halethorpe. Twenty-five miles and forty-two minutes later Hubert Latham landed safely back at Halethorpe. Latham sat in the cockpit with the propellor running while he smoked a cigarette, before finally being hauled by mechanics into the hangar. With flair for dramatic, Latham said, “Not a word until I have eaten lunch,” to the throngs of reporters anxiously waiting to speak to the hero.
Latham and his flight were fondly remembered in Baltimore for many years. According to a Sun article from June 4, 1911, bellboys, chambermaids, and clerks working at the Belvedere refused to spend the autographed $1 tips that he passed out to all the help during a tour of the building. To many Baltimoreans, the historic flight held a place in their memory on par with the sinking of the Titanic and the Great Baltimore Fire of 1904. They would never forget where they were when Latham made his historic flight over the city.
Latham continued to fly, participating in air shows in San Francisco, Los Angeles, and in Europe before resuming his world travels. Having studied indigenous cultures in Indochina and Abyssinia (Ethiopia), hunted game in Somaliland (Somalia), and travelled throughout East Asia, it was not surprising when he returned to his wanderlust habits in late 1911. It came as tragic news to Baltimoreans and the French people alike when they learned he had been gored to death by a water buffalo while hunting in the French Congo, though vague reports of a more suspicious death circulated. (Eben Dennis)
The impetus for this post was the photograph below, which was recently donated to our library by the Ross County Historical Society in Ohio after it was deemed outside the scope of their collection. In cataloging this new acquisition we are given the chance to highlight both an interesting side note of Baltimore history, while at the same time showing the cooperation that often exists behind the scenes in libraries as they not only actively collect items within the scope of their mission, but seek homes for orphaned items which are more suited elsewhere.Footnotes
*The Antoinette engine was originally developed by Léon Levavasseur whom supplied Latham with engines during his stint as a speedboat racer. Later, after Latham was inspired by performances by Wilbur Wright (who was trying to sell an engine of his own) he sought out a company that would train him as a pilot to promote their product. In the meantime, Levavasseur had formally established the Antoinette Company (based off the precursor engine from the speedboats) and happily obliged Latham’s request. He quickly mastered the engine and became the company’s top pilot.
**Latham and his crew tried to get up quickly after Bleriot, hoping to pass him, but by the time they were ready the weather had turned for the worse once again.
***Latham made a second attempt to cross the British Channel and failed once again, this time coming up just a few miles short after his Antoinette suffered from engine failure.
****A large chunk of his inheritance came from a Winans Locomotive contract that his father and grandfather made with the Czar of Russia to equip the new Moscow – St. Petersburg line in 1842.
*****Evidently Latham’s flight, which fluctuated in up to 3,000 feet, reached its lowest point of 400 feet near the hospital, where the patients claimed to be able to see his face.
“Hubert Latham’s Tips Sacred.” Baltimore Sun, June 4, 1911.
“Latham sees Mr. Winans:…….Looks for Landing in River, Carroll or Patterson Parks or Open Ground.” Baltimore Sun, November 5, 1910.
“Hubert Latham the Man, Daredevil of the Air….” Baltimore Sun, November 8, 1910.
“Latham Hunts Ducks in Airship.” New York Times, December 23, 1910.
“Latham in Antoinette Wreck: Frenchman has Remarkable Escape from Death at Frisco.” Baltimore Sun, January 11, 1911.
“Flying Over Baltimore: Latham’s Remarkable Feat as it Appeared to a Texas Newspaper.” Baltimore Sun, November 23, 1910.
Pioneer Chartered Trip: Aerial Voyage of Latham….” Baltimore Sun, November 2, 1910.
“Mr. Ross Winans Offers $500: Sick in His Home, He wants to See the Great Flight.” Baltimore Sun, November 1, 1910.
“Ross R. Winans Dead.” Baltimore Sun, April 26, 1912
Dielman-Hayward File, Maryland Historical Society
Howard Cruett Wilcox/Halethorpe Air Meet Collection, 1910, PP139, Maryland Historical Society
Jesse L. Cassard Scrapbook, 1883-1946, MS 223, Maryland Historical Society
Forgotten aviator: Hubert Latham by Barbara Walsh http://www.hubertlatham.com/
The Paul Henderson Photograph Collection contains over 6,000 photographs of mostly unidentified African Americans from ca. 1935-1965. When the Paul Henderson: Baltimore’s Civil Rights Era in Photographs, ca. 1940-1960 exhibition opened in 2012, several people from the media asked why it was important for MdHS to identify the people Henderson photographed in and around Baltimore. If you’ve ever looked through a family album and asked yourself, Who is that with so and so? or thought, I wish this person was around to ask who or where this was taken, you can sympathize with an archive’s desire to identify people and places in a historical record like a photograph. Library professionals have an obligation to the materials housed in their repository and to tell their stories to the fullest degree possible. Though most librarians are quite knowledgeable about the collections they serve, it is nearly impossible to be an expert on all the wide ranging topics covered in their holdings. For this reason librarians often function as facilitators, bringing their collections to the communities they document.
Most of the more famous individuals Henderson photographed (Lillie May Carroll Jackson, Paul Robeson, Governor Theodore McKeldin, Bayard Rustin, Senator Verda Welcome, to list but a few) have already been identified. Now MdHS is focused on putting names to the faces and places that aren’t so familiar.
To start the process of collecting names of people and places, underbelly will feature some of Henderson’s photos and we invite you to look, share, and comment. For this edition of the Henderson Who or Where? series, we present two curious photographs that were shot in September and October of 1948.* They were labeled “Group of ladies” and “Taking a picture.” Looking closely at the two photographs, you can see a wide range of ethnic backgrounds and almost everyone who is pictured is female. Click to enlarge the photographs.
If you think you know who is featured in the photographs or where the photographs were taken, please respond via the Henderson Collection Survey. If you have questions, please feel free to email email@example.com. To view more of Henderson’s work (including many more unidentified photos), learn about the exhibition, and to view Henderson videos, please visit the Paul Henderson Photographs Blog. All 6,000+ of Henderson’s negatives as available as public reference photographs through the MdHS Library. Please email firstname.lastname@example.org for more information. (Jennifer A. Ferretti)
Jennifer A. Ferretti is a MLIS candidate at Pratt Institute in New York City. She is the former Curator of Photographs & Digitization Coordinator at MdHS and curated the Paul Henderson exhibition which is ongoing. She continues to volunteer for MdHS and maintains the Paul Henderson Photographs Blog. Follow her on Twitter @jennydigiSILS.
*There have been discrepancies with the dates provided by the original repository of the collection (Baltimore City Life Museum). Read more about how MdHS came to house the collection on the Henderson Photographs blog.
Ever wonder about Hoes Heights? The hidden and oft-overlooked north Baltimore neighborhood of Hoes Heights bears the name of Grandison Hoe, a freed slave in Antebellum Baltimore who once owned and operated a farm on the location. Nestled between its more renowned neighbors—Hampden to the south and Roland Park to the north— this neighborhood remained entirely African-American until the last few decades. Hoes Heights, bound by Cold Spring Lane to the north, 41st Street to the south, Falls Road to the west and Evans Chapel Road to the east, became part of Baltimore City under the 1918 Annexation Act. It is an architecturally diverse community consisting of 19th century stick style houses, turn of the century single-family homes, and brick rowhouses. Many are probably familiar with this neighborhood’s most prominent feature—the 148 foot tall water tower located on Roland Avenue near the intersection of University Parkway.
The earliest reference to the Hoe property is found in an 1857 map of Hampden and its surrounding regions by J. Morris Wampler (seen to the left). The property’s boundaries terminated to the north at what is now Roland Heights Avenue and to the west along the crest of the hill that descends to Falls Road. In the 1860 census of Baltimore County, Grandison is listed as being 40 years of age with property worth $3,600 and an estate worth $200—a modest house on valuable land. Also listed as residents of the farm are his 38-year-old wife Lucy, their five children, and a man named Augustus Green. All are identified as farmers.
The history of Hoes Heights prior to 1857 is somewhat murky. Who deeded Grandison Hoe, a freed slave, this coveted piece of land? Eliza Hoe, who may have been a sister or close relative of Grandison, shows up in the 1870 census as a housekeeper for a branch of the Fendall family in Bolton Hill. This same family also owned property adjacent to Hoes Heights, which was once part of Charles Ridgley’s massive North Baltimore estate. This Hoe-Fendall connection could possibly explain how Grandison ended up with the land.
Hiram Woods (1826-1901), a local sugar refining magnate who owned land north of Cold Spring Lane, so desired Hoe’s Hill (as it was then known) that he offered several times to buy the land and resettle the Hoes in Cross Keys, a small African-American village just to the north. Woods even offered to relocate the family burial ground. The Hoes rejected the offer. (Woods’s parcel later became part of Roland Park.)
As the Hoe family grew older the need for more living quarters arose. Grandison’s two sons, William and Richard, built their own houses adjacent to their father’s. Relatives, possibly from Charles County, moved to the Hoe farm and built homes. As the 20th century approached, the occupants of Hoes Heights began shifting from farm to domestic work, earning their livings in Roland Park and other exclusive neighborhoods. The harsh circumstances of the Great Depression forced the Hoes to sell portions of their land in order to pay delinquent tax bills. As a result, several blocks of small brick rowhouses were built on 43rd Street, 42nd Street, Evans Chapel and Providence Road during the 1930s and 1940s. Around 70 houses were built with most sold to African-American veterans returning from World War II.
By 1876, Grandison Hoe was most likely deceased—the 1877 Atlas of Baltimore and its Environs, Vol. 1 by G. M. Hopkins shows the name Lucy Hoe on the parcel. The map also depicts a P. Solvine as the property owner of a small piece of land above Roland Heights Avenue terminating at Cold Spring Lane. The Solvine parcel (now part of Hoes Heights) eventually came to be known as Heathbrook. A mid-1970s census report states that Heathbrook was 100 percent white, while Hoes Heights was 100 percent African-American. Historically the two communities have maintained close ties—the Heathbrook Community Organization has worked closely with the Hoes Heights Improvement Association, but the two have remained separate entities.*
Today, Hoes Heights continues to feel more like a rural village than a city neighborhood. The amicable neighbors and tranquil setting gives the impression of simpler times and a real connection between past and present is evident. (Bryson Dudley)
Hoes Heights: A Neighborhood Plan (Hampden Pratt library vertical file)
1860 BaltimoreCounty census (Towsontown courthouse)
Sanborn Fire Insurance Maps
Baltimore Evening Sun May 8, 1934
Baltimore‘s Two Cross Keys villages by Jim Holechek
Baltimore Deco by S. Cucchiella
While rummaging through our Valentine’s Day card collection in a search for long forgotten declarations of love and fidelity, an interesting style of valentine came to light. Among the lacy, pastel-toned confections, we discovered a group of amusing but mean-spirited notes, known as vinegar valentines.
Jokesters during the Victorian era sent these less-than-loving valentines to those they felt needed a reminder of their faults. The nasty notes lampooned every sin from drunkenness and sloth to gossip-mongering and husband hunting. They were generally sent anonymously and caused quite an uproar because of their foul content. The New York Times called purchasers of these valentines “hydra-headed monster[s] who gloat over distorted effigies of human nature and cruel cutting things in rhyme.” Postmasters were known to toss the offensive cards. One postal worker mirthfully recounted several fights that took place in his post office after unsuspecting patrons opened their mail on Valentine’s Day only to discover an unkind note. He described one such scuffle between two women in which the ladies “abandon themselves to an embrace which results in a terrible disarrangement of bonnets, eye-glasses, and other feminine toggery, to say nothing of the utter destruction of the three comic Valentines, two chignons, one blue cotton umbrella, and various other articles now not remembered….”
Incidents like this only added to their condemnation. Moralists railed against the uneducated, unwashed masses who purchased such disgusting valentines, when in truth they had pervaded all levels of society. People of all social classes reported both sending and receiving them. It was also widely believed a vinegar valentine caused New Yorker Margaret Craig to take a fatal dose of laudanum after receiving one from a supposed admirer. The veracity of this tragic story was never proven, but it spawned similar rumors and further outraged the anti-vinegar valentine coalition.
Despite the backlash (or maybe because of it), they were quite popular. As one detractor, a “Colonel” Eidolon, so eloquently put it, “comic, indecent, and caricaturing Valentines fly like hail from a wintry sky.” They made up about half the valentine market during their heyday. Their cheap cost and standardized postage allowed upper and lower class pranksters alike to ruin someone’s day.
So, if you just got dumped, blown off, or just plain hate Valentine’s Day, check out these gems from the collection and maybe get a little inspiration for a vinegar valentine to send to a foe of your own. Click the image to enlarge. (Lara Westwood)
Last month we solved a longstanding photograph mystery that we never expected to solve, that is until we rolled up our sleeves and actually tried. Modern digitization technology, more precisely the ability to zoom deep into a photo or negative to see details previously unavailable to the naked eye, coupled with searchable newspaper databases make solving these puzzles much easier today. But this time out, we have a longstanding photo mystery that we can’t solve on our own. Having exhausted every resource we could muster, from searching historic newspaper databases to asking historians and journalists (we even tried asking federal archival investigators who visited us during the Landau theft case), we still can’t say with any degree of certainty what’s going on in the disturbing photo above. Yet its imagery evokes such strong feelings, conjuring up images of Jim Crow, the Klan, and lynching, we can’t give up trying to understand it—so we turn to crowd sourcing.
Immediately several questions come to mind: What is happening to this man? Why are the men wearing masks? Are they police officers? Are they a jury? Stare a little longer and other questions arise: What year would this be? Why are two of the men seen above not wearing masks? Why does the African-American man seem so calm?
Here’s what we do know
This photo is labeled “Detective room, Police Department.” However, in the archival world, you quickly learn not to take random descriptions as gospel. It’s part of the Hughes Collection*, one of our largest collections of photographs. James F. Hughes, whose first appearance as a commercial photographer in the City Directory was in 1877, founded the company. He owned the company until his widow sold it to an employee, James W. Scott, in 1903. The Hughes Company primarily did work for Baltimore area businesses, corporations, governmental agencies, and occasionally private individuals.
MdHS’s records indicate that this photo was taken sometime around 1910. Several pieces of evidence corroborate this date. From the lighting fixtures to the suits and hats the men are wearing, this appears to be the early twentieth century, pre-WWI. Additionally, the original medium for the image is an 8 x 10 inch glass plate negative. Glass negatives preceded film negatives. They first appeared in the mid-nineteenth century, but went the way of the dinosaur in the early twentieth century as less fragile celluloid film was introduced. The one item that could answer the “when” question is just a bit too out of focus to help: a newspaper left on a table and opened to an advertisement page:
Given the approximate date of the photograph, we can safely assume that James Scott, or someone who worked for him after he took over the Hughes Company, took the picture. We know that the company commonly did work for the City of Baltimore. What we don’t know is why a Hughes photographer was at this location on this particular day. There’s also the matter that this room looks far more like a courtroom than a police detective room. Was the photographer there to take promotional pictures for the police department or court system? The shot seems somewhat staged, as if the men were assembled quickly for the shot. Note that three of them are not wearing masks, two on the left and one on the right in a doorway. Anonymity was not crucial for all of the men in the picture. There are fifteen men wearing the very distinctive masks. Could this be a jury with three alternates? Are they witnesses? A staged demonstration might also explain the calm look of the man on the riser. It’s also worth noting that he’s a fairly handsome man and zooming in closeup reveals no sweat on his brow. Additionally he appears to be wearing a wedding ring. What does any of this mean?
One final clue to point out: If this is a detective room or a court room, how do we explain the object behind the head of the man to the right of the man on the riser? What little we can read of it says, WM. J. C. DULANY CO. PUBLISHERS. Is it a calendar or broadside? The photo vexes us at every turn.
One prominent local historian** suggested that this image represents an initiation ritual for the first black detective of the Baltimore City police force. This seemed a reasonable guess, except that the date range of the collection is 1910-1926. Considering that glass negatives were not used much after the nineteen-teens and that we had never heard of an African-American detective in segregated Baltimore this early, we were left wondering.
The theory was quickly taken down by a veteran journalist who visits the library frequently. “There were no black officers on the force until 1937. Violet Hill Whyte was the first one,” said our source. “African-Americans weren’t even put into uniform until 1943,” he added. The first African-American men hired by the Baltimore Police arrived in 1938. They were Walter T. Eubanks Jr., Harry S. Scott, Milton Gardner, and J. Hiram Butler Jr. These men were not allowed to wear police uniforms for another five years. Even if this were a photo from as late as 1926, which is highly unlikely, it predates the arrival of African-Americans on the force by twelve years.
Left with more questions than answers, we turn to you, our readers. What do you think?
Please share this, leave comments, or send us an e-mail. (Joe Tropea)
While writing a previous post that looked at the debate over the oldest house in Baltimore, a coworker introduced me to another longstanding Baltimore debate. After reading the post, my coworker gently chided me for the use of “Fell’s Point” rather than the correct “Fells Point.” Not being a native Marylander, I was unfamiliar with the argument over the little mark of punctuation, or the fact that its use, or absence, can elicit such strong feelings. Just within the last dozen or so years, the debate has been addressed in the pages of The Baltimore Sun, City Paper, and Baltimore Magazine, with various theories proposed. A 1999 City Paper article, for instance, states that Fells Point is spelled without an apostrophe, because it’s not a mark of ownership, but rather “the plural of ‘Fell,’ presumably in honor of the two brothers.” (The two brothers being English Quakers Edward and William Fell) The reaction got me curious, so I decided to do a little digging of my own, to see if a brief history of the apostrophe could be charted.
In 1730, English carpenter William Fell arrived in Maryland and purchased a plot of land overlooking the Northwest branch of the Patapsco River. The small 100-acre tract, called Copus’s Harbor, soon became known as Fell’s Prospect. The success of his younger brother Edward, who settled in Maryland a few years earlier and set up a successful store on the east side of Jones Falls, convinced William to make the trip across the Atlantic. Both William and Edward figured prominently in Baltimore’s early history – in 1732, Edward and a group of settlers founded a town they called Jones’s or Jones Town, after David Jones who first settled the area around Jones Falls in 1661.
When William died in 1746, he left his settlement and business interests to his son Edward, who in 1763, laid out the town that bears his family’s name. Needing residents and revenue for his new venture, Edward placed an advertisement in the January 14, 1762 issue of the Maryland Gazette newspaper notifying those who had submitted their names for the right to purchase lots in his new town that their “Lea[s]es are now ready to be filled up…” In what is probably one of the earliest printed references to the Point, the land is described as being near “Baltimore-Town, Maryland, on a Point known by the Name of Fell’s-Point.” (Note the liberal use of the hyphen, a common stylistic choice in the period.) Four years later, Edward’s wife Ann placed another ad in the Gazette, this time threatening legal action against new residents of the town for unpaid debts. The ad retains the apostrophe but dispenses with the hyphen.
The Maryland Gazette, the state’s first newspaper, set a precedent that most other newspapers from the period followed. Early papers published from the Point continued to use the apostrophe, including the Fell’s Point News-letter and Mercantile Advertiser (1835), and The Courier and Inquirer (1836). The neighborhood’s first newspaper, the Fell’s-Point Telegraphe (1795), retained Edward Fell’s original use of the hyphen as well.
The Baltimore Sun, founded in 1837, also utilized the possessive apostrophe until changing course early in the twentieth century. A keyword search through the Enoch Pratt Library’s online database of The Baltimore Sun from 1837 to 1985 reveals the usage of “Fell’s Point” almost exclusively throughout the 1800s. (Fells’ – the plural possessive form of Fell – can also be found on occasion.) It appears that sometime in the early decades of the twentieth century, the paper made a decision to switch to “Fells,” although “Fell’s Point” can still be found in articles as late as 1985.
Within decades of the founding of the community, however, references to the Point that omit the apostrophe could be found scattered through manuscripts and government documents. In 1773, Fell’s Point was incorporated, along with Jones’s Town and Baltimore Town, forming the City of Baltimore. Three years later, the first census of what was now the neighborhood of Fell’s Point was taken. The apostrophe is eliminated. Members of the Fell family were also not overly concerned with using the possessive when referring to their own town; a June 29, 1769 land indenture for the sale of “Lot 90” in “Fells Point” to a Robert Harrison of Dorchester County is signed by Ann Fell. Edward consistently omits the mark in a record of his business transactions from the period.
The preferred usage of early historians of Maryland and Baltimore was “Fell’s Point.” One of the earliest histories of the city, Thomas Griffith’s Annals of Baltimore, published in 1824, doesn’t reference either “Fells” or “Fell’s” Point, but “Fell’s Prospect” does appear within its pages. Historian Thomas Scharf, in his History of Baltimore City and County, published in 1881, the standard reference work on Baltimore through the mid-twentieth century and still one of the best sources on the history of early Baltimore, uses “Fell’s Point” throughout. By the twentieth century though, the balance had tipped and today both forms can be found in equal measure in scholarship on the city.
Although newspaper publishers and historians remained generally loyal to Edward Fell’s original use of the possessive apostrophe through the nineteenth century, cartographers have omitted it from their work from almost the beginning. In 1792, Frenchman and self-styled geographer A.P. Folie produced the first printed map of Baltimore – and employed the apostrophe. Most subsequent nineteenth century maps however, including Fielding Lucas Jr.’s, Plan of the City of Baltimore, drafted under the direction of the state legislature of Maryland and the mayor and city council of Baltimore in 1822, omit the apostrophe. An identically titled map produced in 1882 by Englishman Thomas Poppleton and commissioned by the city, uses the same designation. The Poppleton map remained the standard reference map for Baltimore until the publication of the Bromley Atlas in 1896. Today, the ubiquitous Google maps has replaced its printed predecessors as the leading geographical resource, and it too omits the apostrophe.
An appeal to the federal government to provide resolution to the debate is no help, as the government began eliminating the possessive use of the apostrophe for geographic names on most maps and signs in 1890. The following is the official stance of the U.S. Board on Geographic Names, the organization charged with overseeing U.S. naming conventions:
“Since its inception in 1890, the U.S. Board on Geographic Names has discouraged the use of the possessive form—the genitive apostrophe and the “s”. The possessive form using an “s” is allowed, but the apostrophe is almost always removed. The Board’s archives contain no indication of the reason for this policy…Myths attempting to explain the policy include the idea that the apostrophe looks too much like a rock in water when printed on a map, and is therefore a hazard, or that in the days of “stick–up type” for maps, the apostrophe would become lost and create confusion. The probable explanation is that the Board does not want to show possession for natural features because, ‘ownership of a feature is not in and of itself a reason to name a feature or change its name.’”
As of 2013 only five natural features have official license to use the possessive apostrophe. These include Martha’s Vineyard, granted permission in 1933 after an extensive local campaign, and Clark’s Mountain in Oregon, which received the blessing of the Board in 2002 to “correspond with the personal references of Lewis and Clark.” The federal disregard for the apostrophe applies only to geographic names. According to Board’s website,
“[a]lthough the legal authority of the Board includes all named entities except Federal Buildings, certain categories—broadly determined to be “administrative”—are best left to the organization that administers them. Examples include schools, churches, cemeteries, hospitals, airports, shopping centers, etc. The Board promulgates the names, but leaves issues such as the use of the genitive or possessive apostrophe to the data owners.”
Other administrative branches of the U.S. government have followed suit. In 1969, “Fells Point” was added to the National Register of Historic Places, the U.S. government’s official list of the nation’s historic sites worthy of preservation, becoming the first area in Maryland recognized as such. Although you’ll find subject entries on the Library of Congress’s list of authority headings for both “Harper’s Ferry” and “Harpers Ferry” as well as “Pike’s Peak” and “Pikes Peak,” you won’t find reference to “Fell’s Point.” If you’re going to cite a source according to Library of Congress standards then “Fells Point” is the proper designation.
Today, “Fells Point” is by far the most common and popular usage. Most modern newspapers, including the Gazette: The Fells Point Newspaper (now defunct), City Paper, and The Baltimore Sun, use it. The Baltimore City government also endorses “Fells.” For Google, the ultimate arbiter of popularity in the internet era, it is no contest—a Google search for “Fells Point” generates some 2.5 million hits; “Fell’s Point”, on the other hand, produces a meager 300,000. Although vastly outnumbered, there are still a few groups that continue to carry the banner for the apostrophe including The Society for the Preservation of Federal Hill and Fell’s Point and the Fell’s Point Residents’ Association. In 2009, Baltimore Magazine joined the minority, switching its allegiance from “Fells” to Fell’s.”
Although “Fell’s Point,” the grammatically correct and first choice of founder Edward Fell will probably continue to be used, it may eventually disappear. With the U.S. government, the Baltimore City government, and most importantly, the Google juggernaut, all aligned against “Fell’s Point,” its future looks bleak. And while people have been omitting the possessive apostrophe for hundreds of years, the internet has greatly accelerated the practice. In recent years the debate over the increasing decline of the apostrophe has become a major issue in Great Britain, with some cities removing the offending mark from street signs. In 2001, some concerned folk even established an Apostrophe Protection Society. When British book seller Waterstone’s, dropped the apostrophe from its name in January of 2012, the chairman explained that “it was a matter of simplifying the name to suit its digital presence.” At this rate, we may see the apostrophe go the way of other rarely seen punctuation marks like the hedera or the snark. Perhaps the possessive apostrophe will be just one more thing our Intel-equipped descendants will mock us for. (Damon Talbot)
Sources and Further Reading:
Francis, G. Gardner, Fell’s Point bicentennial jubilee. 1730-1930. Two hundredth anniversary (Baltimore: The Weant press, 1930)
Greene, Susan Ellery, Baltimore: An Illustrated History (Woodland Hills California: Windsor Publications, 1980)
Papenfuse, Edward C. and Joseph M. Coale III, The Hammond-Harwood House Atlas of Historical Maps of Maryland, 1608-1908 (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982)
Scharf, Col. J. Thomas, The Chronicles of Baltimore, (Baltimore: Turnbull Brothers, 1874)
Scharf, J. Thomas, History of Baltimore City and County (Baltimore: Regional Publishing Company, 1971)