Now Showing! President McKinley's Inauguration

This is the inauguration procession of the 25th President of the USA, William McKinley. This is the first sitting president to be filmed.

This clip was filmed on March 4, 1897 and follows the Procession down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C.

This clip, which is in the public domain, is from the Motion Picture Division of the U.S. National Archives and is made available by the good folks of the Internet Archive.

The Sad End of Miss Blanche Magruder

Her family was as old as Georgetown itself—even older than that.  Emily—or Emma--Magruder was the daughter of Nathanial Magruder, whose Scottish ancestor Alexander had immigrated to Maryland as early as 1652.  For generations, the name Magruder was synonymous with wealth, and Magruders had been among the first landowners in the City of Washington.

Emily Magruder was born in the mid-1840s and spent her entire life in same house at 1304 35^th Street, near N, and close to Holy Trinity Church.  One of the oldest houses in Georgetown, by the early 1920s it had grown so dilapidated that its paint was peeling and in places, its roof had begun to cave in.   Emma’s sole brother, Charles, and two of her sisters—Kate and Virginia—had died years earlier.  Nothing is known of her sister Blanche, who died in the 1930s.

Emily lived alone and had done so since the turn of the century.  Neighbors rarely saw her—she was considered an eccentric, and their opinion was only confirmed by the fact that the rare times when she left the house, she did not use the front door; instead, she climbed in and out of a front window.

Early in the 1920s, the city of Washington condemned the aging house and presumably warned Emily she would have to leave.  However, when demolition crews arrived to do their work, the aging spinster was so vocal in her resistance that the workers left and never returned. 

In early 1929, Emily made a decision that would later baffle authorities.  She simply picked up and left her house and belongings and moved into the District’s poorhouse. Officially named the Washington Home for the Aged and the Infirm, it was a located at the southernmost tip of Washington’s 8^th Ward, an area called Blue Plains.  The Home sat on over a hundred acres, comprising an infirmary, schools for both whites and blacks, a complex of cottages, and assorted other buildings that would one day become the notorious DC Village. 

It the time of its establishment, it was billed as a haven of fresh air and sunshine, where residents could farm and grow their own vegetables and have plenty of fresh milk from the cows that grazed there.  That, at least, was the story given to the public.  The truth was that the Board of Charities’ appropriations were so meager that the Infirmary amounted to little more than a Dickensian work farm.  Buildings were flimsy in design and material; furnishings were sparse; staff was insufficient to tend for a growing number of inmates.  As results, almost since its founding, the Home’s reputation had been blemished by reports of poor standards of living, abuse and worse.  By the 1940s, a shocked Eleanor Roosevelt would announce, “It is sad and horrible if we are going to let Blue Plains be our standard for the nation on the attitude to old age.”

By the summer of 1929, neighbors began to notice frequent comings and goings at the Magruder house and complained to police.  In August, the Washington Post reported that officers of the Seventh Precinct had arrested eleven individuals who had ransacked the house and stolen approximately $1,000 in cash.

As it turns out, that was only a fraction of the fortune Emily had hidden both in the house and its gardens.

When Precinct Detective Norman S. Nodkinson, accompanied by Officers William O’Connor and Charles C. Clay, entered the house, they were stunned to find it furnished with antiques and other curios, including large oil paintings copied after old Masters.  They discovered more than $600 in old currency and silver coins, hidden under stacks of papers, in books or in cracks in the rotting walls.  In addition, Emily had reportedly buried a strongbox containing a “small fortune” in a well in the back garden.  All in all, it was rumored, Emily secreted away approximately $40,000—money she made, it was said, through investments of her early savings.

Here is where the narrative begins to twist:  The story was first reported on August 16, 1929.  However, cemetery records show that Emily Magruder had been buried March 13, 1917, twelve years earlier.   The only Magruder sister still alive in 1929 would have been Blanche, who doesn’t show up as buried until 1934.

Could police and neighbors have been mistaken about the elderly Miss Magruder’s identity?   Could Blanche have simply assumed her sister’s identity so as to retain the house and investments? 

The plot began to thicken. 

And ten days later, it was revealed that it was indeed Blanche who had been living in the ancient manse on Thirty-fifth Street.  Her niece, Ms. Marie Clarke, had stepped forth and hired an attorney to represent Miss Magruder; plans were underway to remove her from the poor house at Blue Plains and place her in a private institution. 

Meanwhile, police continued to comb the house, which was reputed to still be listed under the ownership of Blanche’s father, Mr. Nathaniel Magruder, who had died many years before.  Neighbors gossiped that Nathaniel had left a rumored $40,000 in cash to the spinsters in cash—but police had so far recovered only about $4,000, stashed in the most incongruous of hiding places.  That, combined with the approximate $5,000 value of the house, would be enough to ensure that Blanche would be cared for until the end of her days. 

What happened to Blanche after that is not known.  And Emily, as it turns out, had indeed died in 1917—as an inmate at St. Elizabeth’s Mental Asylum. 

©Cecily Hilleary, 2010

Excerpt from The Workhouse, a poem by Alexander Brand. London: W. Robins & Co., Printers, 1819.

Call to Naval Historians: Who Was Captain William Chanler?

One evening in mid-June of 1892, a Georgetown police officer named Sullivan {likely, Thomas Sullivan) passed a forlorn little house on Valley Street—that is, present-day 32nd Street, between R and P. The house was back from the street; unruly trees and bushes nearly obscured it from the view of passersby. Sullivan had passed the house innumerable times on previous rounds, but tonight, he thought it looked more desolate than ever. Something was wrong.

He knocked on the door and called out. He heard a moan from inside, so he forced open the door. In the dim light inside, he found an elderly man sitting unconscious in a chair, where it turned out he had been sitting for two days.

Sullivan carefully lifted the man from the chair and carried him to a crude bed. He found a bottle of liquor and some water in a cupboard, with which he revived the old man.

Sullivan sent for Dr. Abraham Shekell, who lived just around the corner on 32nd Street. They learned the names and addresses of two relatives from Maryland—a Mrs. Franklin of Baltimore and an Edward Ghant (Gannt?) of Annapolis, who the papers reported to be a Maryland State’s Attorney. Chanler’s niece and nephew engaged outside help to look after the man. Finally, they decided that the crumbling house was not livable. So they sent their uncle to Garfield Hospital, a charitable institution erected only a few years before.

Presumably, Chanler lived out the rest of his days there. No records can be found of either his life or his death in Washington, in spite of a plethora of details provided by newspapers at the time:

According to those reports, Chanler was 86 years old and had lived like a hermit for years. At the break of the Civil War, he had been a senior “Captain” in the United States Navy—“outranking” even the famous Naval war hero, David Dixon Porter, and others. His heart was said to lie with the South, but because he couldn’t think of any way of honorably resigning from the Navy, he remained and distinguished himself by capturing “five of the first prizes taken from the Confederacy.”

At some point during the War, Chanler reportedly broke down and went South. He allegedly returned to Washington a broken man.

There are far too many William Chanlers/Chandlers in census and military records to ever be able to pinpoint the exact man found languishing in Georgetown.

Interestingly, a William Chandler served as Secretary of the Navy from 1882 to 1885; there is, however, no chance that our Georgetown hermit was this distinguished gentleman.

©Cecily Hilleary, 2010.

Sketch by Charles Deforest Gedney, courtesy, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

Who Was Lena Gray? Early African American Photographs

Just yesterday, I perused the University of Maryland's Baltimore Campus and came across several photos of African Americans from Washington, D.C. Among them are several portraits of a woman named Lena Gray. A black friend of mine recently bemoaned the fact that it's nearly impossible to research an African American family tree without hitting the brick wall of the 1860s--before which time, few records were kept.

I was intrigued by the photos I found yesterday--and found three photos, all taken of a Lena Gray.

The first (above) was taken by photographer William L. Spedden, also taken in Washington DC during the 1870s. It is captioned, "Lena Gray as a baby, Uncle William's daughter." The photo is so faded that I've had to brutally heighten the contrast in order to make out her face.

Next, another photograph of Lena (right), now looking to be about eight or nine years old. Captioned "Lena Grey, Uncle William's daughter, it was taken by A.H. Beck, at 1532 7th Street, NW.

Astonishingly, there is one more photograph of Lena (below), this time taken by "Miller" in Minneapolis during the 1890s, and it bears Lena's signature. She now appears to be in her early 20s.



I have tried to locate Lena Gray in the standard internet genealogical sources, but haven't been successful. Would any of my readers be able to help? Perhaps out there are Gray descendants who would appreciate the photos.

A Film Trip Down the C&O from Cumberland to DC

Your blog host, being to some degree technologically-challenged, hasn't yet figured a way to embed this amazing series of digitized films onto this posting. So she will have to do it the old-fashioned way, inviting readers to visit the following link for an amazing, three-part film by the Thomas A. Edison Manufacturing Company. Down the Old Potomac follows a week-long journey by canal barge from Maryland to Washington--featuring scenes of the locks in operation; a mile-long, hand-dug tunnel which was built in 1840; coal barges plying the canal; Maryland farming country; Harper's Ferry; and Great Falls.

Follow this link, scroll to the bottom of the page and enjoy a trip through time:

http://www.travelfilmarchive.com/results.php?filmmaker_id=7



http://www.travelfilmarchive.com/results.php?filmmaker_id=7

Whatever Became of Little Reddy the Brave?

Nineteenth Century New York had its Forty Thieves gang, which operated in the Five Points area of Manhattan. So too did Washington.

The only trouble with researching the Forty Thieves is that the group was so fluid that it may have been more than one, spread out over the city and operating until 1923, when the last of the gang was “captured.”

One such named gang surfaced in Georgetown. Its members were both black and white, and sufficiently organized that they carried membership cards and, by the mid-nineties, wore silver badges. Each took an oath of eternal loyalty to each other and the group. And by all indications, they were astonishingly young.

In January of 1883, Georgetown’s Forty Thieves appeared in court, charged with a variety of petty offenses:

• Collectively, Charles Bannon, George Dayton, Lemuel Finnecome, Joseph Jenkins, William Johnson, Alexander Walker and Thomas Wynne were convicted of stealing a keg of beer from the wagon of one John O. Guethler, for which they were give a one month jail sentence;

• Bannon, Dayton, Jenkins and Walker received an additional one-month sentence for having stolen five bottles of beer from a wagon belonging to Charles C. Bryan.

• Jefferson got a third month for having stolen brooms from a shop owned by William Keifer.

• Walker and Finnecome were also given extra sentencing for stealing a batch of cakes from one Henry Ruppert’s wagon. In this instance, Walker had threatened the baker with a gun.

Nine years later, we find four gang members in court charged with stealing jewelry, stationery and “Florida water,” for which they were given a lecture and a warning.

By 1895, we find the Forty Thieves headed by a young man named Bernard Dyer—or “Reddy the Brave”—known by Georgetown’s constabulary as “the worst boy in the crowd.” Bernard claimed he wasn’t sure of his exact age, but police estimated him to be only ten years old. His hair, said the Post, was as red “as they hair which has done so much to make Mrs. Leslie Carter a ‘famous actress.’”

Under Bernard’s leadership, the gang was said to be responsible for nearly every crime committed in the Georgetown precinct in several months—robbing stores and “smoking cigarettes.”

According to the Post, he lived with his mother in the 32nd block of O Street in Georgetown—that is until Detective Frank Burrows arrested him for robbing Clinton’s Jewelry Store on M Street.

Confronted with the evidence of this and several other robberies, young Bernard gave in: “Ise guilty, judge, an’ der ain’t no use of tryin’ ter bluff yer.” He was sentenced to Reform School and “took his punishment with a smile,” grateful he hadn’t been given a worse sentence.

Who Bernard was and what became of him isn't known. There is no record of him in the Georgetown census--and he appears to have vanished into Washington history.

Announcing the First Quondam Washington Readers' Challenge: Who Was This Mysterious Georgetown Trio?

Can any of my readers help identify the trio and/or the house described in this wonderfully-romantic article from the Washington Post (April 29, 1888, pg. 9.)? Could its be the Sims House on M Street, here pictured?




A STATELY OLD MANSION
---
ITS STRANGE OCCUPANTS AND THE STORIES TOLD ABOUT THEM


Toward the upper part of Bridge Street, near the newly-finished bridge, stands a stately mansion of a long past style, from which the stucco has peeled away in places, leaving a staring surface of greenish-looking brickwork. The upper part of the house—the Taylor Mansion as it is called—is always closed from the front. Heavy blinds effectively shut out the light and the solid oaken doors are seldom opened.

A mysterious looking and non-talkative Negress is the only attendant, and by many of the conservative inhabitants of Georgetown, is considered the only occupant. There are other inmates, however, whose peculiar habits and mysterious ways have ever been a source of wonder to the average citizen of the burg across the creek.

Their names, it has been said, are Weston, but whence they came, how long they have lived in Georgetown, or who they are, no one seems to know. They are three in number. First, there is an ancient looking and sedate appearing gentleman, who looks as though he had just stepped from the pages of Cervantes. His pure white hair is fashioned in silvery curls about his head, and adorns a face of patrician outline that, though weak in character, is strengthened somewhat by a firm aquiline nose. The air of courtly grace that is suggested by every movement strikes on in harsh contrast to the quaint-looking garb he wears. One could better imagine him in the doublet and hose of a courtier. The other members of the household are equally striking. The daughter, wherever and whenever seen, is not easily forgotten. Attired always in a manner to attract attention by the oddity of her style, she is rendered even more striking by the voluminous mass of thick hanging curls that fall about her head and upon her shoulders. In winter she dresses invariably in white, flimsy material and in summer in furs. These two, the father and daughter, are often seen upon the streets of Georgetown, but their habits are so exclusive that few of the inhabitants have ever spoken to them. Their accent is decidedly foreign and has given rise to many strange rumors about their origin.

As they walk the streets, one may hear the passers by exclaim, “There goes the Countess,” or “There is the Spanish exile,” these remarks being occasioned by the stories in vogue concerning them.

THESE STORIES ARE MANY AND CONFLICTING

One is that the old gentleman once held a proud position among the nobles of Spain, but receiving a slight from the king, he organized a force of insurgents and was about to proceed against his ruler when the plot was discovered, and barely escaping with his life, he fled to America. Another is that the daughter was at one time a woman of such remarkable beauty that in Italy, the land of her birth, she was famed far and wide. The stories of her beauty coming to the ears of a noble high in power, he contrived to meet her and at once he became wildly enamoured of her charms. His regard was reciprocated, but upon learning that his daughter’s suitor was already married, the distracted father, taking his wife and daughter, left his sunny clime, resolved to spend the rest of his days in an alien country. The inside of the house has been seen by but a few Georgetownians besides the attendant, the circumstances being as romantic as the rest of this history.

One evening late in June, four Georgetown youths returning from a fishing expedition to the Great Falls happened to be going along Bridge Street past the Taylor Mansion when the sound of music from the balcony of the house attracted their attention. Just below this balcony is a handsome flower garden, and the soft perfume of the many flowering plants was borne upon the air. Seated in the balcony mentioned was the daughter arrayed in a pure white garment of aesthetic Greek cut, while her fingers strayed softly over the strings of a guitar or mandolin. A soft soprano voice was raised in a song of superb tenderness. As she finished, a hush fell upon the young men.

“Spanish, isn’t it?” said one.

“No, Italian,” said another.

No one really knew, and no one knows yet.

“I am going to see inside of that place,” said one of the party, and as he made the remark, there was a slight noise, and on looking up the balcony was found vacant.

A few minutes later, the party crept over the railing and by a dint of considerable exertion, climbed upon the balcony. A light shone out through the crevices, and on looking through into the room beyond a strange sight met their eyes. Seated in a large throne chair, with rich purple hangings, was an elderly woman, one whose broad white clustering ringlets fell in such rich profusion, but whose eyes had a vacant unmeaning stare.

At her feet sat the daughter, still playing on the same soft instrument, while the old patrician sat near her with his head buried in his hands.

The light of a shaded lamp cast a shadow upon the sad scene, which so surprised the adventurous youths that they cautiously withdrew, and it was long before they would speak of their strange adventure.