By Kittle Evenson, Reader Services

[If you have trouble seeing the small details in some of these images, hold Ctrl and press + to zoom in on your browser.]

Whether as an educational tool, a creative form of political commentary, or a crafty way of targeting a chosen audience, rebuses have been used for centuries. Dating back to 1540 and the work of calligrapher and engraver Palatino, rebuses harness text, numbers, and images of recognizable objects as phonograms and hieroglyphics to convey meaning. I tracked down four examples from the MHS collections, and was surprised by the difficulty and intricacies of their presentations.

Rebuses rely on two primary usages for images: either as hieroglyphics or phonograms. Using hieroglyphics, authors can convey straightforward words by simply replacing them with an image that shows their meaning, such as   replacing the word “ship”. To express more abstract words, creators juxtapose letters and drawings that could be used as phonograms. When combined, these sounds build words, such as  representing the word “cannot”. In linguistics this is actually called the “rebus principle”.

Both techniques can be seen in Benjamin Franklin’s “The Art of Making Money Plenty in every Man’s Pocket” (circa 1848), Matthew Darly’s satirical publications from the American Revolution entitled “Britannia to America” and “America to her mistaken mother” (both published in London in 1778), and an unattributed educational publication of Mother Goose in Hieroglyphics (1849).

“The Art of Making Money Plenty in every Man’s Pocket”

As I worked my way through these puzzles I began to recognize a specific vocabulary of images, a vocabulary that I was surprised to discover took some serious investigation to fully understand. Even with full-text translations to reference it took the help of several colleagues to track down the names for all of the images pictured.

“Britannia to America”

“America to her mistaken mother”

Rebuses speak specifically to the historical context in which they were created. They rely on commonly understood imagery to convey meaning, and as I compared the rebuses I was able to construct a set of common images, always used identically. Because the content of the individual excerpts is different: Franklin’s lectures on personal fiscal responsibility, Darly’s speak to the British fear of a strategic partnership between the colonists and France, and Mother Goose telling a children’s fairytale, the overlap is limited, but that which does exist exemplifies a historical context that makes its interpretation by 21st century minds difficult.

Some common sounds represented identically across these publications include

• (eye) = “i”
• (an individual toe) = “to”
• (yew tree)  = “u” (“you”)
• (awl) = “all”
• (bee) = “be” or “b”
• (ewer) = your

While some of these images are easily recognizable even today (the bee, or a human eye), others are no longer commonplace in most of our lives, such as an awl, or a ewer.

Changes over time in storage, weight, and measurements have also disassociated other commonly used pictures, such as a cask  , from traditionally related terms like “butt,” a British unit of measure.

Just like Franklin’s and Darly’s works, Mother Goose uses the ewer, awl, toe, and butt images to convey a story, but unlike the others Mother Goose includes an introductory note as to the importance of the use of images within the text itself. The unknown author of the Mother Goose rebus introduces the work with the words “When the doctor sends for physic for a nervous little chick, make a mistake, and go to the bookseller’s and buy Mother goose in Hieroglyphics; that’s what is wanted — a pretty book, written with pictures, as they wrote in Egypt a long while ago, when folks new something.” While Franklin uses the rebus structure to make sure readers are challenged to expend effort before obtaining answers, Mother Goose uses them as a teaching tool, bridging the gap between speech and textual understanding in children.

Mother Goose

To see an example of some unpublished rebuses, check out Susan Martin’s June 17, 2015 blog on Samuel W. Everett. Dating to the mid-19th century, Everett’s illustrations demonstrate that early Americans did not just consume these puzzles in printed form, but produced them for personal entertainment as well. If the rebuses in this   post strike your fancy, consider visiting our library to view them in person, or to explore any of our other collections in greater depth.

By Susan Martin, Collections Services

As a manuscript processor here at the MHS, I’ve had the opportunity to see a wide range of personal and family papers, but I particularly like to work with diaries. Not usually intended for a stranger’s eyes, many of them are highly revealing and deeply moving. MHS collections include diaries by men and women, young and old, rich and poor, kept throughout the centuries for a variety of reasons.

Harriet Stillman Hayward, for example, was a young 19th-century woman who clearly kept her diary as an outlet for her loneliness. She was envious of her older sister Louisa’s many social engagements and, on 21 Feb. 1850, wrote in a confessional, emotional vein: “I wonder if people will ever care more for me than they do now […] I do not think that my highest aim in life is to have every one like me, but if I could feel that one person loved me […] I should not feel entirely forgotten. […] I must continue to bear in secret, while I appear outwardly indifferent […]”

Persis Seaver Bartlett’s diary documenting the decline and death of her son from consumption falls into this category, as well. Many devout people also used diaries to work out their feelings about God and salvation.

On the other end of the spectrum are those diaries that consist of an impersonal and unembellished account of daily activities. William Wharton began every morning with a detailed description of the weather, then noted the day’s errands and appointments—the dentist, the bank, etc. On fishing trips, he recorded the size of his catches. His diaries are almost uniformly mundane and unemotional, except for the entries he wrote at the time of his wife’s death.

Printed “line-a-day” diaries, with only a small space for each day and little room for introspection, lend themselves to this kind of strictly functional record-keeping. For example, the diaries of Jane Cummings:

Travel diaries were very popular and were kept by everyone from traveling salesmen to wealthy Bostonians on the traditional Grand Tour of Europe. My colleague Anna Clutterbuck-Cook has been following one woman’s travels in Egypt. Young Charles Phillips Huse only went as far as Essex County, Mass. on a trip with his grandfather, but he made a careful record of all their adventures, illustrated with photographs pasted onto the pages. Of course, Boston artist Sarah Gooll Putnam set the standard for illustrated diaries with her elaborate sketches and watercolors.

The diary of Eliza Cheever Davis, a personal favorite of mine, is a travel diary, but also a kind of literary exercise. Davis had fun with descriptions and built suspense into otherwise ordinary anecdotes. Her entry from 9 June 1811 sounds like something out of a Gothic novel: “Behold me then in a large room or rather Hall, the Chimney boarded up, on one side a small door which I ventured to unlock which led into a dark gloomy place in which there was not light enough for me to discover what it contained, but it looked very full of wonders […]”

Obviously most diaries were not meant to be seen by anyone but the writer (though very public figures, like John Quincy Adams, certainly knew their words would be read in later days). But some people did write directly to friends or family members in diary entries. Eliza Davis used this device, but the most striking example I’ve come across is the 1864 diary of Lillian Freeman Clarke, who frequently addressed her intimate friend Emily Russell and wished her a tender “good night” at the bottom of each page:

Some diaries are unfortunately unattributed. Some are shared, with contributions by more than one person, perhaps a husband and wife. The fascinating papers of John Wells Farley consist primarily of typescript pages of diary entries dictated by Farley to his secretary, who couldn’t resist adding the occasional quip or correction.

Diaries at the MHS are cataloged by year, so researchers interested in a particular historical event can get a cross section of opinion. We also use subject headings to group diaries by the types of people writing them, for example: “Students—Diaries,” “Politicians—Diaries,” and “Farmers—Diaries.” We hope you’ll visit our Reading Room and take a look!

By Shelby Wolfe, Reader Services

In a collection rich in manuscript material like that at the MHS, it’s easy to fixate on centuries-old handwriting, whether for admiration of delicate script or frustration at illegible penmanship. I’ve overheard a fair balance of researchers lamenting the eyestrain caused by hours of squinting at spidery letterforms, and those who voice their appreciation for such intricate, time-consuming writing and the character it gives to the writer. Penmanship has an element of individuality, even when students were taught the importance of identical script or the “science” of manually forming words on a page through instruction books like Penmanship Explained, or, The Principles of Writing Reduced to an Exact Science by S.A. Potter.

Today, many of us rely on electronic means of forming words, efficiently typed out and spell-checked. Instead of putting pen to page, we often put fingertips to keyboard. I sometimes wonder if we would be able to decipher difficult handwriting more easily if we spent more time writing by hand as well. Though, if all writers had followed Potter’s exact science of penmanship, maybe we would have no trouble at all!

In an effort to learn more about the history of penmanship, I decided to see what resources I could find in the MHS collection. In the online catalog ABIGAIL I found a variety of results for penmanship instruction books and advertisements, broadsides for ink powder and writing instruments, and a few personal copy books in family manuscript collections. One manuscript item (manuscript fittingly meaning “hand” and “to write”) that I found particularly interesting was Tristram Little’s copy book. Tristram Little of Newburyport, Maine was born in December 1784, making him fifteen years of age at the time of this book’s use beginning in early 1800.

Copy books often provided written lines and blank spaces for a student to copy the text. In the case of Little’s book, there are no printed lines to copy, which indicates he must have copied from a separate volume. On one delicately lettered leaf, Little has copied from a cover or title page, “Round Text Copies, Written for the Use of Schools and Academys by D. S…Engraved by J. Ellis.” Perhaps this is from Bowles’s elegant set of round hand copies, round text copies and comprised in a set. Performed for the use of schools & Academies by D. Smith, written by I. Trinder of Northampton, or a similar copy book circulated by this publisher.

Some penmanship books are literally by-the-book, with lines written directly from a published original. Others are strewn with more personal touches. The pages of Tristram Little’s penmanship practice book mostly contain repeated lines of proverbial advice. Some are of general instruction, “Beware of idleness & sloth”, “Quarrel not at play,” and some loftier lines: “Rouze up your Genius & exalt your mind” and “Honor attends virtuous actions.” Tristram’s personal touches include original poems, one an illustrated epitaph titled “On the death of General Washington,” complete with tombstone frame. He notes on the top of the page, “He died…December 15^th 1799” – which is actually one day off, the correct date being December 14.

The poem reads:

Ah! while we gather round your urn,

Joins your blest bands great Wasington [sic],

Hark to that knell, a NATION sighs,

Waft his PURE SPIRIT to the skies.

Newbury Port

The bells were then tolling.

On a previous page, Little recorded an ode to the “glorious George Wasington [sic],” asking, “What mortal praise can equal thy great claim?” Clearly, Little had a great regard for George Washington’s reputation. This common copy book offers an insight into the mind of a teenager growing up in America’s early years, looking up to his nation’s leader and lamenting his loss. Other pages include lists of personal names and cities (Newburyport and Philadelphia). Little’s embellished pages, glorifying poems, and ornate illustrations add another level of character to his already unique handwriting, as we might consider it today.

By Kimberly Arleth, Reader Services

Growing up in a small Midwestern town in rural Minnesota, I had what some might say was a quintessential upbringing — complete with a horse farm! This, however, was a long time ago. Moving to the Twin Cities to attend college, and more recently Boston three months ago, I thought I left whatever rural nature I had in me behind for ‘bigger and better’ things. Yet, being in the ‘big city’ makes me nostalgic for my country childhood.

As I began to explore the extensive collections at the MHS, I found myself drawn to a number of items related to cities and working horses in the nineteenth century – particularly the ‘Horse Railroads’. This material intrigued me having worked with horses for the first thirteen years of my life and the romantic notions of a city filled with horse drawn carriages and trolley cars. Mentioning this to one of my coworkers, the joke became that after last winter’s transit halt,  it might not be a bad idea to return to these simpler roots. I wonder though, would New England snowstorms really be any easier to weather if the city ran on hooves rather than rails?

Cover of Rules and regulations for the government of horse railroads, 1865. Boston (Mass.). Board of Aldermen.

A 1865 pamphlet, “Rules and Regulations for the Government of Horse Railroads”, helped to shed some light on this question. It was declared, by an act of the legislature in 1864, that regulations on horse railroads were needed to address “the interest and convenience of the public.” Any instance of noncompliance with the rules would result in a penalty of “not more than five hundred dollars for each offence.” Today this would be a maximum fine of seven thousand dollars per offence, not a small sum at all!  

Much of the language in the rules and regulations pertain to maximum speeds allowed (five miles per hour in Boston proper, seven miles per hour outside of these city limits, and a walking gait when taking corners), and all the restrictions around when stopping of the horse railroad car is allowed and for how long. Most restrictions prohibited the stopping of the car for longer than one minute between “six o’clock in the forenoon and eight o’clock in the afternoon” (6:00 AM to 8:00 PM.) and then only at a station or designated stop. The only exceptions which allow for unscheduled stopping, repeated throughout the small four page document, are “unless detained by obstacles in the track or to avoid collision.”

Map showing horse rail roads and the surface steam roads with 104 stations in and around Boston…1878.

(A 1876 version of this map is available online at the Norman B. Leventhal Map Center at the Boston Public Library.)

Yet, it was the regulations of Section 11 and 12 that proved to be the most valuable when thinking about surviving a winter with horse railroads. Section 11 spoke to the removal of snow, [] stating that if depths were sufficient “no plough shall be allowed to pass over” unless permission was granted by the Superintendent of Streets. In this case alternative methods could be employed by the railroads, in the form of sleighs, to transport citizens until rail tracks were again accessible and normal transit methods could resume.

Similarly, Section 12 discusses the use of any salt, brine or pickle or any other material employed in the melting of snow and ice would only be allowed after receiving a permit from the city. Such permits would only be given if such use would not be detrimental to vehicles crossing the tracks and rails.

Highland Street Railroad Tickets. [No Date]

These restrictions make me imagine that if such a winter as the one last year were to have occurred during these times, the breakdown in public transit would have been far worse. While the Rules and Regulations document spoke little to the care of the working animals, the necessity of keeping the horses in working condition alone would have extended delays in transportation and confined citizens as city and transit officials worked to clear the streets.

So as we approach another winter season, and my first in Boston, a joke about returning to horse powered public transit may seem like a good idea, but I hesitate to think that the ability to combat the snowstorms of nature would be any easier won.

These are just a few samples of the material at MHS about transportation and horse railroads. If you are interested in further exploration of our collections, please visit the library or contact us for further information.

By Dan Hinchen, Reader Services

Like many other people these days, one of my hobbies outside of work is brewing beer at home. It’s a good way to spend an afternoon and the results, if not immediate, are usually very satisfying. As I type this, there are 3 gallons of Holiday Cheer Ale in a glass carboy on my counter, bubbling-away during the primary fermentation stage. It will take a few weeks until I get my final product, so patience is a necessity. But, since I’ve gotten myself into a good rotation the last couple of months, I have plenty of other styles on standby for when I get thirsty.

Even though I started brewing about two and a half years ago, I have not yet been brave enough to do a lot of experimentation with my recipes. Instead, I rely heavily on a list of house recipes created by the folks at my local brewing supply store in Cambridge. These recipes provide step-by-step instructions (which I have down-pat, at this point), specific types and amounts of grains, malt extracts, and hops that go into a given brew, and a few types of yeast that they suggest for the best results. So far, these recipes have not failed me.

On a few different occasions I have searched our online catalog, ABIGAIL, to see what the MHS holds in relation to beer and brewing. Sadly, there is not much, most of it coming in the form of old printed treatises on beer. A few weeks ago, though, I struck gold! While preparing a display of manuscripts for a visiting college class working on food history, I brought out an item that is listed in our catalog as an “Anonymous Recipe Book, ca.1800.” Upon opening the folder, I found staring at me a small manuscript page with the simple heading “To brew Beer.”

“Take 3 pints of malt, a double handful of Hops, as much of bran or shorts, boil these in ten gallons of soft water for two hours, then strain it, and when cold, add half a pint of molasses a half pint of yest and work it well. To colour it add a handfull of roasted barley whilst it is boiling. The yest of this beer put in a bottle with water & kept in a cool place, will serve to make bread.”

Also included on the page is a recipe for Spruce Beer:

“Take half a pint of Spruce. Boil it two hours in five gallons of soft water, a quart of molasses. When cold work in a large tea cup full of god thick yest, let it work 24 hours & then bottle it off. It will be pleasant Beer without the spruce.”

As I mentioned above, with modern recipes I have grown accustomed to seeing very specific amounts (usually in ounces, to one decimal place) and varieties of grains/malts and hops to create a certain type of brew. I feel like these somewhat vague descriptions (3 pints of malt; a double handful of hops) made more sense 200 years ago because the pickings were probably slim and brewers were using what was grown nearby. In the 18^th century, a brewer did not have to agonize over whether to use Northern Brewer hops or Fuggles; the myriad options simply were not there.

Still, I think that maybe in the near future I will overcome my reliance on the modern recipe and give this piece of brewing history a try at home.  

By Brendan Kieran, Reader Services

The MHS is home to a rich variety of family papers. These collections of diaries, correspondence, and other materials provide windows into the way people thought about each other and the world around them. I decided to utilize these resources to explore the ways New Englanders thought about mental illness a century ago. Searches in ABIGAIL led me to the David Richards Family Papers. David Richards (1850- ca. 1927) was a farmer and businessperson who lived in Sherborn, Massachusetts. His wife, Esther (Etta) Coffin Loring Richards struggled with mental illness for a number of years, and a good deal of correspondence among the family members relates to her condition. The personal nature of many of these papers leads to interesting accounts of the way one family understood and responded to mental illness, but the papers also offer insights regarding family dynamics and attitudes surrounding treatment in the early 20^th-century.

In The Mad Among Us: A History of the Care of America’s Mentally Ill, historian Gerald N. Grob writes that the late 19^th– and early 20^th-centuries constituted a period of challenges to and changes within the psychiatric profession. There were calls for an increasingly-scientific approach to psychiatric medicine, as well as a shift toward psychopathic hospitals rather than “traditional” mental hospitals. These new hospitals emphasized research and cared for a variety of so-called deviant individuals rather than simply long-term, chronically-ill people. However, according to John R. Sutton, rates of institutionalization remained high even with attempts at reform, in part due to new developments in the creation and management of deviance in the United States. Etta Loring Richards’ institutionalization takes place within this context. According to “A Very General Sketch of Mrs. R from the Summer of 1907 to Spring of 1916,” written by David Richards ca. 19 July 1916, Etta felt around the summer of 1907 that she could not trust anyone, and that she was not “having the medical attention she needed.” Etta was taken to Arlington Heights Sanatorium, then later to Adams Nervine. At Arlington Heights, she was diagnosed by a Dr. Ring (three Dr. Rings, two of whom are said to be affiliated with “Ring’s Sanatarium” in Arlington Heights, are mentioned on page 395 of this 1910 Medical Directory of Boston), who said of her condition: “There is nothing the matter with the woman physically, its simply Hypochondria.” After six months at Adams Nervine, Etta returned home. However, her mental health concerns reappeared in later years.

Throughout these papers, Etta and David reflect on Etta’s illness; these writings present possibilities for analysis of family and gender dynamics in their time and place. In a 2 December 1907 letter from David Richards to Mr. Batchelder, the family’s lawyer, David quotes Etta and her pleas for treatment, writing “‘If Mr. Batchelder were here he would say that you ought to take me [and] you say that you always do what Mr. Batchelder says,’” as well as “‘I did wrong in not going, but I am doing wrong all the time.’” Later, in an undated letter from about January 1908, Etta writes that she is sleeping well, but is having trouble eating, and often stays in bed feeling fatigued. She also notes that she is hurt and upset that David wanted to “keep money away from me,” as he thought she would “spend it all on Quack [doctors].” I certainly feel Etta’s pain when reading these letters.

In addition to Etta’s frustration regarding David’s apparent indifference and skepticism toward her treatment, I got a sense of the loneliness Etta felt when her husband failed to give her the attention she sought while she was institutionalized. In a 1 June 1908 letter, Etta writes:

Why do you [–] how can you forsake me so [–] Dr. Fuller [told] me you had never inquired for me through him. He said Dr. Stevens had not inquired for me since he was here [–] the 28 of March so you have not heard of my condition for two months. God in heaven knows I could never leave you in such a suffering condition [-] and never inquire for you – directly or indirectly – for two long months[.] Oh how it hurt me[.]

Etta’s writings about her husband suggest that, in her mind, he was not there for her or interested in her well-being. This raises questions about the ways women were supposed to be taken care of by their husbands during this period. Was David’s behavior normal, with Etta expressing frustration at the roles of men during this period, or was David failing to fulfill a role that was expected of him? A closer look at David’s own writings may shed some light on these questions, as well as raise some additional ones.

David’s blend of indifference toward and control over Etta’s treatment and conditions are noticeable in his own writings, as well. In his “General Sketch,” he writes about his “indifference to my wife’s sufferings.” This supposed indifference is not just observable in hindsight; David writes that “some dear friends insisted Nervine plan my plan [sic], trying to make out my wife [insane?] to get control of her property.” This assertion may or may not have been entirely accurate, but the idea does seem to have some basis in his actions, as a similar fear seems to be on Etta’s mind when she laments his unwillingness to give her any money. David admits in his account that, when Etta wanted to go to an Asylum in 1914, he “laughed at her fears, would not listen to her story of desperation.” This apparent trivialization of Etta’s concerns regarding her health is frustrating to read; however, David’s attitudes present possibilities for analysis of patriarchy within early 20^th-century families as well as gendered responses to mental illness within families of this period.

This brief exploration certainly does not tell the whole story of the Richards family, nor does it provide an authoritative account of mental illness and family in the early 20th-century. Numerous other correspondents and subjects exist in these papers, including other family members, as well as Etta’s friends and doctors. The David Richards Family Papers are available for viewing at the MHS, so feel free to stop in for a visit if you would like to explore them on your own.

By Susan Martin, Collections Services

Today marks the 97th anniversary of the Armistice of Compiègne and the official end of World War I. You may be celebrating Armistice Day, Veterans Day, or Remembrance Day, depending on where you live.

The MHS holds the papers of many soldiers, aid workers, and other men and women caught up in the Great War. Among them is an entertaining collection of 43 letters from Alton Abraham Lawrence of New Bedford, Mass. to his friend Albert Stedman Murdy. Lawrence served in England and France as a private in the 658th Aero Squadron and 1108th Aero Replacement Squadron of the American Expeditionary Forces. In a letter dated 13 Nov. 1918, he described the armistice celebrations in Paris:

“In my letter of a week ago today I told you that the war would be over soon. It sure is and I’m not a bit sorry either. The terms embodied in the armistice were stiff enough to bury all the German Junkers. In a couple of weeks the Germans will be in the power of the armies who represent democracy.

“’Now let’s go,’ is the cry over here. All the boys in the A.E.F. are raving about going home. Can you blame us? I know you can’t. Unless they will send me to do guard duty in Germany I want to come home tout de suite. If they will send me there I’m game for another year overseas. I[t] sure would be fine for me to hike down the main drag in Berlin.[…]

“When the glad news in regard to signing the armistice was heralded I was in camp. The anti aircraft batteries in Paris put up a fake barrage in honor of the occasion. The noise could be heard for miles around.

“Yesterday I was in Paris and sure did have a great time. All the boys in the surrounding camps were on pass until reveille this morning. The people are wild and sure are celebrating. They are making no effort to conceal their elation.

“From the Louvre up the Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe the mobs command the roads and walks. The Tulleries [sic] is always filled with people whose cheeks are flushed with ardor. In some instances the men are carrying women on their shoulders. The gangs are apt to do most anything.

“I was near the Madeliene [sic] when I got cornered by a gang of larkers. The[y] formed a ring around the rose bush (some rose bush). Believe me they can yell viva l’America. The troops had a loud time. Honest to goodness I never celebrated so in my life before. I ate, drank and yelled until I was almost gag[g]ed. Oh what a head next morning. France has less wine and co[g]nac than she had a week ago.”

Lawrence had enlisted just over a year before, on 28 Oct. 1917. Now he was 22 years old and anxious to get back to the life he’d left behind. His return would be delayed for over five months, but he kept his spirits up and continued to write regular letters to Murdy, reminiscing about old times and speculating on his post-war plans. For one thing, he resolved to continue his interrupted education under Prof. Harry C. Bentley at the brand-new Bentley School of Accounting and Finance (now Bentley University in Waltham, Mass.).

I was particularly impressed by Lawrence’s appreciation for those personal relationships that had carried him through his wartime service. His friendship with Murdy had apparently been somewhat new or distant at the beginning of their separation, but their correspondence brought them closer. Lawrence anticipated a warmer friendship with him:

“When we get together again we will meet with a fondness that we have never felt before. One could hardly say that you and I have been together very much socially. The tone of your letters gives me the confidence to make this assertion. I guess that I am not far from being correct this time, am I Albert? I used to regard you as a damned good fellow and you know that old kid.”

Lawrence had also developed a new perspective on his father:

“He sure is a good old scout and I have often been very sorry that I did not chum around with him more when I was a little fellow. But the Dad was always a pretty tired man when he came home from work. My father has had to work for everything he has and this took up most of his time. There is another time coming to us and we should be able to get together then.”

Of course, it wasn’t just the high-minded things that Lawrence missed. He also looked forward to cruising in his car (“the old EMF”) around Boston and New Bedford, where he was sure he and Murdy would find “plenty of Janes.” Along the top of the 13 Nov. 1918 letter shown above, his first to Murdy after the armistice, Lawrence wrote excitedly: “Shine up the EMF.”

Lawrence’s cheerful and slangy letters are definitely worth a read. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to learn much about his life after the war. Census records show that he returned to New Bedford and married a woman named Ruth, with whom he had two daughters, Lillian and Hannah. He died in 1942 at the age of 45.

By Kittle Evenson, Reader Services

I was all set to do a spooky Halloween post for this installment of the Beehive, but while looking for a broadside advertising a Boston magician, my eye snagged on the word Immortal in the title on a proximal folder. With magic on the mind, who wouldn’t be intrigued?

The document in the folder was “Death of the Immortal Dahlgren,” a poem by M.S.N. memorializing the death of a man described as a “Chieftain of Glory!” the “Hercules of Liberty!” whose “bold heart died to be free / Warm’d by its out-gushing flood.”

M.S.N.’s “Death of the Immortal Dahlgren”

Published in 1864 it seemed clear that this poem described a Civil War soldier, but who was The Immortal Dahlgren?

Halloween and magicians forgotten, I went on the hunt for this mysterious man.

Working backwards, I searched our online catalog ABIGAIL for the M.S.N. poem and found its item record (including Dahlgren’s first name – Ulric), and through that, two other poems and a memorial sermon of the same theme.

Chas. Henry Brock’s “Ulric Dahlgren”

B.B. French’s “Lines suggested by the death of one of the bravest men this war has brought into the service — Colonel Ulric Dahlgren”

B. Sunderland’s “In memoriam: Colonel Ulric Dahlgren”

Sunderland’s memorial sermon includes copies  of the three poems I had already found, with the addition of one by H.T. Tuckerman. 

H.T. Tuckerman’s “Ulric Dahlgren”

All the poems describe, in florid prose, Dahlgren’s heroic battle actions, with Tuckerman’s also alluding to Dahlgren’s Swedish heritage and injuries he sustained earlier in his short career. 

The picture they paint is emotionally clear, if somewhat lacking in facts. Rev. Sunderland’s sermon helpfully fills in many of the gaps, beginning as it does at birth and expounding Dahlgren’s 22 years over 100 pages. Interestingly, the published copy also includes a letter from Congressman Schuyler Colfax and others requesting Sunderland to publish his oration. The letter reads, in part,

Dear [Rev. Byron Sunderland, D.D.]: We respectfully request that you will furnish for publication a copy of the eloquent and patriotic discourse on the life and death of Col. Dahlgren . . . We wish to see the noble daring and heroic devotion to the cause of his country, which characterized the brief but brilliant career of this young soldier, held up before the youth of our country that they may be stimulated to an honorable emulation of his virtues, and, if need be, to a similar sacrifice of their lives 

Not only is Colfax and company hoping to exemplify Dahlgren’s sacrifice for the Union army, but “to honor his memory” in hopes that it “will add to the reproach and shame of all [their] enemies and all who sympathize with them” 

The sermon itself draws the listener (or reader) through the life of a young man whose nature was shaped by “domestic, scholastic, and Christian influences,” and whose father’s military example inculcated in him the belief that “if [he dies], what death more glorious than the death of men fighting for their country?” 

Colonel Ulrich Dahlgren

Highly educated, Dahlgren began his career as a lawyer in his uncle’s practice before following in his father’s military footsteps in 1862. Wounded in July of 1863, Dahlgren lost his right foot but returned to active duty, a newly promoted Colonel, in November of that same year. In late February of 1864, he joined General Kilpatrick’s offensive to free Union soldiers held at the Confederate prison Belle Isle near Richmond, VA. The mission was a failure, and in the early hours of March 2, 1864, just a few miles outside of Richmond, Col. Dahlgren and 500 of his men were ambushed by Confederate forces. Of the fated encounter Sunderland writes

Among the bodies that rolled down together in the dust and darkness, were Ulric Dahlgren and his high-mettled horse, all pierced and shattered with the leaden hail that made them both one heap of swift mortality.

This quiet death, indistinguishable from the thousands of others that occurred around it was publicly honored by the Union leaders as the exemplary sacrifice of a selfless officer. Military and political leaders alike had a vested interest in inspiring commitment and sacrifice in the nation’s youth, and a fierce support on the part of their families. They wove a narrative of Ulric Dahlgren that supported this conviction: a young man from a prominent military family who rose rapidly through the official ranks and gave for his county what Abraham Lincoln called in the Gettysburg Address, “the last full measure of devotion.”

The Massachusetts Historical Society holds a wealth of manuscript materials pertaining to the American Civil War, including firsthand accounts, military records, and photographs. Many collections and items have been digitized for projects associated with the 150th anniversary of the War, and still others are available for viewing on-site at the MHS library. Researchers interested in the Ulric Dahlgren memorials or any of our other collections are encouraged to stop by during any of our open hours.